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Dr<r*n  by  A  VifivuV, 


T.wed  bv   1  K.  Welch. 


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THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


Or 


COLERIDGE,  SHELLEY,  AND  KEATS; 


COMPLETE  IN  ONE  VOLUME. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

CRISSY  &  MARKLEY,  No.  4,  MINOR  STREET. 

184  6. 


Printed  by  T.  K.  &  P.  G.  Collins. 


amrmoir  of  S^tmucl  STaMlor  ^olcvttrur^ 


No  writer  of  the  age  was  more  the  theme  of 
panegyric  by  his  friends,  and  of  censure  by  his 
enemies,  tlian  Coleridge.  It  has  been  the  custom  of 
the  former  to  injure  him  by  extravagant  praise,  and 
of  the  latter  to  pour  upon  his  head  much  unmerited 
abuse.  Coleridge  has  left  so  much  undone  which 
his  talents  and  genius  would  have  enabled  him  to 
eft'ect,  and  has  done  on  the  whole  so  little,  that  he 
has  given  his  foes  apparent  foundation  for  some 
of  their  vituperation.  His  natural  character,  how- 
ever, was  indolent ;  he  was  far  more  ambitious 
of  excelling  in  conversation,  and  of  pouring  out 
his  wild  philosophical  theories  —  of  discoursing 
about 

Fix'd  fate,  free-will,  foreknowledge  absolute — 

the  mysteries  of  Kant,  and  the  dreams  of  meta- 
physical vanity,  than  "  in  building  the  lofty 
rhyme."  His  poems,  however,  which  have  been 
recently  collected,  form  several  volumes ; — and  the 
beauty  of  some  of  his  pieces  so  amply  redeems 
the  extravagance  of  others,  that  there  can  be  but 
one  regret  respecting  him,  namely,  that  he  should 
have  preferred  the  shortlived  perishing  applause 
bestowed  upon  his  conversation,  to  the  lasting 
renown  attending  successful  poetical  efforts.  Not 
but  that  Coleridge  may  lay  claim  to  the  praise  due 
to  a  successful  worship  of  the  muses ;  for  as  long 
as  the  English  language  endures,  his  "  Genevieve" 
and  "  Ancient  Mariner"  will  be  read :  but  he  has 
been  content  to  do  far  less  than  his  abilities  clearly 
demonstrate  him  able  to  effect. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  was  born  at  Ottery 
Saint  Mary,  a  town  of  Devonshire,  in  1773.  His 
father,  the  Rev.  John  Coleridge,  was  vicar  there, 
having  been  previously  a  schoolmaster  at  South 
Molton.  He  is  said  to  have  been  a  person  of  con- 
siderable learning,  and  to  have  published  several 
essays  in  fugitive  publications.  He  assisted  Dr. 
Kcnnicot  in  collating  his  manuscripts  for  a 
Hebrew  bible,  and,  among  other  things,  wrote 
a  dissertation  on  the  "  Aoyos"  He  was  also 
the  author  of  an  excellent  Latin  grammar.  He 
died  in  1782,  at  the  age  of  sixty-two,  much 
regretted,  leaving  a  considerable  family,  of 
which  nearly  all  the  members  are  since  de- 
ceased. 

Coleridge  was  educated  at  Christ's  Hospital- 
school,  London.  The  smallness  of  his  father's 
living  and  large  family  rendered  the  strictest 
economy  necessary.  At  this  excellent  seminary 
he  was  soon  discovered  to  be  a  boy  of  talent,  ec- 
centric but  acute.  According  to  his  own  state- 
ment, the  master,  the  Rev.  J.  Bowycr,  was  a  severe 


disciplinarian  afler  tiic  inane  practice  of  Engli.-^h 
grammar-school  modes,  but  was  fond  of  cncoiir- 
aging  genius,  even  in  the  lads  he  flagellated  most  * 
unmercifully.  He  taught  with  assiduity,  and  di- 
rected the  taste  of  youth  to  the  beauties  of  the 
better  classical  authors,  and  to  comparisons  of  one 
with  another.  "  He  habituated  me,"  says  Cole 
ridge,  "  to  compare  Lucretius,  Terence,  and  above 
all  the  chaste  poems  of  Catullus,  not  only  with  the 
Roman  poets  of  the  so  called  silver  and  brazen 
ages,  but  with  even  those  of  the  Augustan  era ; 
and,  on  grounds  of  plain  sense  and  universal  logic, 
to  see  and  assert  the  superiority  of  the  former,  in 
the  truth  and  nativeness  both  of  their  thoughts  and 
diction.  At  the  same  time  that  we  were  studying 
the  Greek  tragic  poets,  he  made  us  read  Shak- 
speare  and  ]\Iilton  as  lessons ;  and  they  were  the 
lessons  too  which  required  most  time  and  trouble 
to  bring  up,  so  as  to  escape  his  censure.  I  learned 
from  him  that  poetry,  even  that  of  the  loftiest,  and  * 
seemingly  that  of  the  wildest  odes,  had  a  logic  of 
its  own,  as  severe  as  that  of  science,  and  more 
difficult;  because  more  subtle  and  complex,  and 
dependent  on  more  and  more  fugitive  causes.  In 
our  English  compositions  (at  least  for  the  last 
three  years  of  our  school  education)  he  showed  no 
mercy  to  phrase,  image,  or  metaphor,  unsupported 
by  a  sound  sense,  or  where  the  same  sense  might 
have  been  conveyed  with  equal  force  and  dignity 
in  plainer  words.  Lute,  harp,  and  lyre,  muse, 
muses,  and  inspirations — Pegasus,  Parnassus  and 
Hippocrene,  were  all  an  abomination  to  him.  In 
fancy,  I  can  almost  hear  him  now  exclaiming — 
'  Harp  !  harp  I  lyre  !  pen  and  ink,  boj',  you  mean  I 
muse,  boy,  muse !  your  nurse's  daughter,  you 
mean  !  Pierian  spring  !  O  ay  I  the  cloister  pmnp, 
I  suppose.'  "  In  his  "  Literary  Life,"  Coleridge 
has  gone  into  the  conduct  of  his  master  at  great 
length ;  and,  compared  to  the  majority  of  peda 
gogues  who  ruled  in  grammar-schools  at  that  time, 
he  seems  to  have  been  a  singular  and  most  honor- 
able exception  among  them.  He  sent  his  pupils  to 
the  university  excellent  Greek  and  Latin  scholars, 
with  some  knowledge  of  Hebrew,  and  a  consider- 
able insight  into  the  construction  and  beauties  of 
their  vernacular  language  and  its  most  distin- 
guished writers — a  rare  addition  to  their  classical 
acquirements  in  such  foundations. 

It  was  owing  to  a  present  made  to  Coleridge  of 
Bowles'  sonnets  by  a  school-fellow  (the  late  Dr. 
Middleton)  while  a  boy  of  17,  that  he  was  drawn 
away  from  theological  controversy  and  wild  meta- 
physics to  the  charms  of  poetry.  He  transcribed 
these  sonnets  no  less  than  forty  times  in  eighteen 

5 


VI 


MEMOIR  OF  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


months,  in  order  to  make  presents  of  them  to  his 
friends ;  and  about  tlie  same  period  he  wrote  his 
Ode  to  Chatterton.  "Nothing  else,"  hs  says, 
"  pleased  me  ;  liistory  and  particular  facts  lost  all 
Lnterest  in  my  mind."  Poetry  had  become  in- 
sipid ;  all  his  ideas  were  directed  to  his  favorite 
theological  subjects  and  mysticisms,  until  Bowles' 
sonnets,  and  an  acquaintance  with  a  very  agreeable 
family,  recalled  him  to  more  pleasant  paths,  com- 
bined witli  perhaps  far  more  of  rational  pursuits. 

When  eighteen  years  of  age,  Coleridge  removed 
to  Jesus  College,  Cambridge.  It  does  not  appear 
that  he  obtained  or  even  struggled  for  academic 
honors.  From  excess  of  animal  spirits,  he  was 
rather  a  noisy  youth,  whose  general  conduct  was 
better  than  that  of  many  of  his  fellow-collegians, 
and  as  good  as  most :  his  follies  were  more  remark- 
able only  as  being  those  of  a  more  remarkable 
personage ;  find  if  he  could  be  accused  of  a  vice,  it 
must  be  sought  for  in  the  little  attention  he  was 
inchned  to  pay  to  the  dictates  of  sobriety.  It  is 
known  that  he  assisted  a  friend  in  composing  an 
essay  on  English  poetry  while  at  that  University  ; 
that  he  was  not  unmindful  of  the  muses  himself 
while  there  ;  and  that  he  regretted  the  loss  of  the 
leisure  and  quiet  he  had  found  within  its  precincts. 

In  the  month  of  November,  1793,  while  laboring 
under  a  paroxysm  of  despair,  brought  on  by  the 
combined  effects  of  pecmiiary  difficulties  and  love 
of  a  young  lady,  sister  of  a  school-fellow,  he  set 
off  for  London  with  a  party  of  collegians,  and 
passed  a  short  time  there  in  joyous  conviviality 
On  his  return  to  Cambridge,  he  remained  but  a 
few  days,  and  then  abandoned  it  for  ever.  He 
again  directed  his  steps  towards  the  metropolis, 
and  there,  after  indulging  somewhat  freely  in  the 
pleasures  of  the  bottle,  and  wandering  about  the 
various  streets  and  squares  in  a  state  of  mind 
nearly  approaching  to  frenzy,  he  finished  by  enlist 
ing  in  the  15th  dragoons,  imder  the  name  of  Clum- 
berbacht.  Here  he  continued  some  time,  the 
wonder  of  his  comrades,  and  a  subject  of  mystery 
and  curiosity  to  his  officers.  While  engaged  in 
watching  a  sick  comrade,  which  he  did  night  and 
day,  he  is  said  to  have  got  involved  in  a  dispute 
with  the  regimental  surgeon ;  but  the  disciple  of 
Esculapius  had  no  chance  with  tlie  follower  of 
tlie  muses  ;  he  was  astounded  and  put  to  flight  by 
Die  profound  erudition  and  astonishing  eloquence 
of  his  antagonist.  His  friends  at  length  found 
him  out,  and  procured  his  discharge. 

In  1794,  Coleridge  ])ublished  a  small  volume  of 
poems,  which  were  much  praised  by  the  critics  of 
the  time,  though  it  appears  they  aboimded  in  ob- 
scurities and  epithets  too  common  with  young 
writers.  He  also  published,  in  the  same  year, 
•while  residing  at  Bristol,  "  The  Fall  of  Robes- 
pierre, an  Historic  Drama,"  which  displayed  con- 
siderable talent.  It  was  written  in  conjunction 
with  Southey ;  and  what  is   remarkable  in  this 


composition  is,  that  they  began  it  at  7  o'clock  one 
evening,  finished  it  tlie  next  day  by  12  o'clock 
noon,  and  the  day  after,  it  was  printed  and  pub- 
lislied.  The  language  is  vigorous,  and  the  speeclius 
are  well  put  together  and  correctly  versified. — 
Coleridge  also,  in  the  winter  of  that  year,  delivered 
a  course  of  lectures  on  the  French  revolution,  aj 
Bristol. 

On  leaving  the  University,  Coleridge  was  fu- 
of  enthusiasm  in  tlie  cause  of  freedom,  and  pccu 
pied  with  the  idea  of  the  regeneration  of  mankind 
He  found  ardent  coadjutors  in  the  same  enthusi 
astic  undertaking  in  Robert  LoveU    and  Roben 
Southey,  the  present  courtly  lainreate.  This  youth 
ful  triumvirate  proposed  schemes  for  regenerating 
the  world,  even  before  tlieir  educations  were  com- 
pleted ;  and  dreamed  of  happy  lives  in  aboriginal 
forests,  republics  on  the  Mississippi,  and  a  newly- 
dreamed  philanthropy.     In  order  to  carry  their 
ideas  into  effect  they  began  operations  at  Bristol, 
and  were  received  with  considerable  applause  by 
several  inhabitants  of  that  commercial  city,  which, 
however  remarkable  for  traffic,  has  been  frequently 
styled  the  Bceotia  of  the  west  of  England.     Here, 
in  1795,  Coleridge  published  two  pamphlets,  one 
called  "  Consciones  ad  Populum,  or  addresses  to 
the  people  ;"  the  other,  "  A  protest  against  certain 
bills   (then    pending)    for    suppressing    seditious 
meetings." 

The  cliarm  of  tlie  political  regeneration  of  na 
tions,  though  thus  warped  for  a  moment,  was  not 
broken.  Coleridge,  Lovell  and  Southey,  finding 
the  old  world  would  not  be  reformed  after  theii 
mode,  determined  to  try  and  found  a  new  one,  iis 
which  all  was  to  be  liberty  and  happiness.  The 
deep  woods  of  America  were  to  be  the  site  of  this 
new  golden  region.  There  all  the  evils  of  Eu- 
ropean society  were  to  be  remedied,  property  was 
to  be  in  common,  and  every  man  a  legislator.  Tlie 
name  of  "  Fantisocracy"  was  bestowed  upon  the 
favored  scheme,  wliile  yet  it  existed  only  in  imagi- 
nation.  Unborn  ages  of  human  happiness  present- 
ed tliemsclves  before  the  triad  of  philosophicai 
founders  of  Utopian  empires,  while  they  were 
dreaming  of  human  perfectibility : — a  harmless 
dream  at  least,  and  an  aspiration  after  better  things 
than  life's  realities,  which  is  the  best  that  can  be 
said  for  it.  In  the  midst  of  these  plans  of  vast 
import,  the  three  philosophers  fell  in  love  with 
three  sisters  of  Bristol,  named  Fricker  (one  of 
them,  afterwards  Mrs.  Lovell,  an  actress  of  the 
Bristol  theatre,  another  a  mantua-maker,  and  the 
third  kept  a  day-school),  and  all  their  visions  of 
immortal  freedom  faded  into  thin  air.  They  mar' 
ried,  and  occupied  themselves  witli  tlie  increase 
of  the  corrupt  race  of  the  old  world,  instead  of 
peopling  the  new.  Thus,  unhappily  for  America 
and  mankind,  failed  the  scheme  of  the  Pantisoc- 
racy,  on  which  at  one  time  so  much  of  human 
happiness  and  poUtical  regeneration  was  by  its 

6 


MEMOIR  OF  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


Vll 


founders  believed  to  depend.  None  have  revived 
tlie  phantasy  since ;  but  Coleridg-e  lias  lived  to 
sober  down  his  early  extravagant  views  of  political 
freedom  into  something;  like  a  disavowal  of  having 
held  tlicni ;  but  he  has  never  changed  into  a  foe 
of  Uie  generous  principles  of  human  freedom, 
which  lie  ever  espoused;  while  Soutliey  has  be- 
come the  enemy  of  political  and  religious  freedom, 
the  supjwrter  and  advocate  of  arbitrary  measures 
in  ciiurch  and  state,  and  the  vituperator  of  all  who 
support  the  recorded  principles  of  his  early  years. 

About  this  time,  and  with  tlie  same  object, 
namely,  to  spread  the  principles  of  true  liberty, 
Coleridge  began  a  weekly  paper  called  "The 
Watchman,"  which  only  reached  its  ninth  num- 
ber, though  the  editor  set  out  on  his  travels  to  pro- 
cure subscribers  among  tlie  friends  of  the  doc- 
trines he  espoused,  and  visited  Birmingham, 
Manchester,  Derby,  Nottingham,  and  Sheffield, 
for  the  purpose.  The  failure  of  this  paper  was  a 
severe  mortification  to  tlie  projector.  No  ground 
was  gained  on  the  score  of  liberty,  though  about 
the  same  time  his  self-love  was  flattered  by  the 
success  of  a  volume  of  poems,  which  he  repub- 
lished, with  some  communications  from  his  friends 
Lamb  and  Lloyd., 

Coleridge  married  Miss  Sarah  Frickcr  in  the 
autmnn  of  1795,  and  in  the  following  year  his 
eldest  son.  Hartley,  was  born.  Two  more  sons, 
Berkley  and  Dcrwent,  were  the  fruits  of  this  union. 
In  17!)  7,  he  resided  at  Nether  Stowey,  a  village 
near  Bridgewater,  in  Somersetshire,  and  wrote 
there  in  the  spring,  at  the  desire  of  Sheridan,  a 
(Tagcdy,  which  was,  in  1813,  brought  out  under 
the  title  of  "  Remorse :"  the  name  it  originally 
bore  was  Osorio.  There  were  some  circumstances 
in  this  business  that  led  to  a  suspicion  of  Sheridan's 
not  having  acted  with  any  great  regard  to  truth 
or  feeling.  During  his  residence  here,  Coleridge 
was  in  the  habit  of  preaching  every  Sunday  at  the 
Unitarian  Chapel  in  Taunton,  and  was  greatly 
respected  by  the  better  class  of  his  neighbors.  He 
enjoyed  the  friendship  of  Wordsworth,  who  lived 
at  Allfoxden,  about  two  miles  from  Stowey,  and 
was  occasionally  visited  by  Charles  Lamb,  John 
Thelwall,  and  other  congenial  spirits.  "  The 
Brook,"  a  poem  that  he  planned  about  this  period, 
was  never  completed. 

Coleridge  had  married  before  he  possessed  the 
means  of  supporting  a  family,  and  he  depended 
nrincipally  for  subsistence,  at  Stowey,  upon  his 
utcrary  labors,  the  remuneration  for  which  coukl 
be  but  scanty.  At  length,  in  17D8,  the  kind  patron- 
age of  the  late  Thomas  Wedgwood,  Esq.,  wlio 
granted  him  a  pension  of  100/.  a-year,  enabled 
him  to  plan  a  visit  to  Germany;  to  which  country 
he  proceeded  with  Wordsworth,  and  studied  the 
language  at  Ratzeburg,  and  then  went  to  Gottin- 
gen.    He  there  attended  the  lectures  of  Blumen- 


bach  on  natural  history  and  jihysiolog}^,  and  the 
lectures  of  Eiclihorn  on  the  New  Testament ;  and 
from  professor  Tyehven  ho  learned  the  Gothic 
grammar.  He  read  the  Minnesinger  and  the 
verses  of  Hans  Sachs,  the  Nuremberg  cobbler,  but 
his  time  was  principally  devoted  to  literature  and 
philosophy.  At  the  end  of  his  "  Biographia  Liter 
aria,"  Coleridge  has  pubhshed  some  letters,  which 
relate  to  his  sojourn  in  Germany.  He  sailed,  Sep- 
tember IGth,  1798,  and  on  the  19th  landed  at  Ham- 
burgh. It  was  on  the  20th  of  the  same  month 
that  he  says  he  was  introduced  to  the  brotJicr  of 
the  great  poet  Klopstock,  to  professor  Ebeling, 
and  ultimately  to  the  poet  himself.  He  had  an 
impression  of  awe  on  his  spirits  when  he  set  out 
to  visit  the  German  Milton,  whose  humble  house 
stood  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  I'rom  the  city  gate. 
He  was  much  disappointed  in  the  countenance  of 
Klopstock,  which  was  inexpressive,  and  without 
peculiarity  in  any  of  the  features.  Klopstock  was 
hvely  and  courteous;  talked  of  Milton  and  Glover, 
and  preferred  the  verse  of  the  latter  to  the  former, 
— a  very  curious  mistake,  but  natural  enough  in  a 
foreigner.  He  spoke  with  indignation  of  tlic  Eng- 
lish translations  of  his  Messiah.  He  said  his  first 
ode  was  fifty  years  older  than  his  last,  and  hoped 
Coleridge  would  revenge  him  on  Englishmen  by 
translating  his  Messiah. 

On  his  return  from  Germany,  Coleridge  went  to 
reside  at  Keswick,  in  Cumberland.  He  had  made 
a  great  addition  to  his  stock  of  knowledge,  and  he 
seems  to  have  spared  no  pains  to  store  up  what 
was  either  useful  or  speculative.  He  had  become 
master  of  most  of  the  early  German  writers,  or 
rather  of  the  state  of  early  German  literature.  He 
dived  deeply  into  the  mystical  stream  of  Teutonic 
philosophy.  There  the  predilections  of  his  earlier 
years  no  doubt  came  upon  him  in  aid  of  his 
researches  into  a  labyrinth  which  no  human  clue 
will  ever  unravel ;  or  which .  were  one  found  ca- 
pable of  so  doing,  would  reveal  a  mighty  nothing. 
Long,  he  says,  while  meditating  in  England,  had 
his  heart  been  with  Paul  and  John,  and  jiis  head 
with  Spinoza.  He  then  became  convinced  of  the 
doctrine  of  St.  Paul,  and  from  an  anti  trinifarian 
became  a  believer  in  the  Trinity,  and  in  Chris- 
tianity as  commonly  received  ;  or,  to  use  his  own 
word,  found  a  "  re-conversion."  Yet,  for  all  his 
arguments  on  the  subject,  he  liad  better  have 
retained  his  early  creed,  and  saved  tlie  time  wasted 
in  travelling  back  to  exactly  the  same  point  where 
he  set  out,  for  he  finds  that  faith  necessary  at  last 
which  he  had  been  taught,  in  his  church,  was 
necessary  at  his  first  outset  in  life.  His  argimients, 
pro  and  con,  not  being  of  use  to  any  of  the  com 
munitj',  and  the  exclusive  property  of  their  owner, 
he  had  only  to  look  back  upon  his  laborious  trifling, 
as  Grotius  did  upon  his  owm  toils,  when  death  was 
upon  him.      Metaphysirs  are   most   unprofitable 


VIU 


MEMOIR  OF  SAMTIEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


tilings ;  as  political  economists  say,  their  labors 
arc  ol'  the  most  "  unproducL''e  class"  in  the  com- 
munity of  thinkers. 

The  next  step  of  our  poet  in  a  hfe  which  seems 
to  have  had  no  settled  object,  but  to  have  been 
steered  compasslcss  along,  was  to  undertake  the 
political  and  literary  departments  of  the  Morning 
Post  newspaper,  and  in  the  duties  of  this  situation 
he  was  engaged  in  the  spring  of  1802.  No  man 
was  less  fitted  for  a  popular  writer ;  and,  in  com- 
mon with  his  early  connexions,  Coleridge  seems 
to  have  had  no  fixed  political  principles  that  the 
public  could  understand,  though  he  perhaps  was 
able  to  reconcile  in  his  own  bosom  all  that  others 
might  imagine  contradictory,  and  no  doubt  he  did 
so  conscientiously.  His  style  and  manner  of 
writing,  the  learning  and  depth  of  his  disquisitions 
for  ever  came  into  play,  and  rendered  liim  imin- 
telligible,  or,  what  is  equally  fatal,  unreadable  to 
the  mass.  It  was  singular,  too,  that  he  disclosed 
in  his  biograpliy  so  strongl}'  his  unsettled  political 
principles,  which  showed  that  he  had  not  studied 
politics  as  he  had  stucUed  poetry,  Kant,  and  the- 
ology The  public  of  each  party  looks  upon  a 
political  writer  as  a  sort  of  champion  round  whom 
it  rallies,  and  feels  it  impossible  to  follow  the 
changeable  leader,  or  applaud  the  addresses  of  him 
who  is  inconsistent  or  wavering  in  principles :  it 
will  not  back  out  any  but  the  firm  miflinching 
partisan.  In  trutli,  what  an  ill  compliment  do 
men  pay  to  their  own  judgment,  when  they  run 
counter  to,  and  shift  about  from  points  they  have 
declared  in  indelible  ink  are  founded  on  truth  and 
reason  irrefutable  and  eternal !  They  must  either 
have  been  superficial  smatterers  in  what  they  first 
promulgated,  and  have  appeared  prematurely  in 
print,  or  they  must  be  tinctured  with  something 
like  the  hue  of  uncrimsoned  apostasy.  The  mem- 
bers of  what  is  called  the  "  Lake  School"  have 
been  more  or  less  strongly  marked  with  this  re- 
pi'ehensible  change  of  political  creed,  but  Coleridge 
the  least  of  them.  In  truth  he  got  nothing  by  any 
change  he  ventured  upon,  and,  what  is  more,  he 
expected  nothing ;  the  world  is  therefore  bound  to 
say  of  him  what  cannot  be  said  of  his  friends,  if  it 
be  true,  that  it  believes  most  cordially  in  his  sin- 
cerity— and  that  his  obliquity  in  politics  was 
caused  by  his  superficial  knowledge  of  them,  and 
nis  devotion  of  his  high  mental  powers  to  different 
questions.  Notwithstanding  tliis,  those  who  will 
not  make  a  candid  allowance  for  him,  have  ex- 
pressed wonder  how  the  autlior  of  the  "  Consciones 
ad  Popaluni"  and  the  "  Watchman,"  the  friend 
of  freedom,  and  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Pantis- 
ocrac}',  could  afterwards  regard  the  drivelling  and 
cliicanery  of  the  pettifogging  minister,  Perceval, 
as  glorious  in  British  political  history,  and  he 
tmnsclf  is  the  "  best  and  wisest"  of  ministers ! 
Although  Coleridge  avowed  his  belief  that  he 
was   not  calculated  for  a  popular  writer,  he  en- 


deavored to  show  that  his  own  writings  in  the 
Morning  Post  were  greatly  influential  on  the  pub- 
lic mind.  Coleridge  himself  confessed  that  his 
Morning  Post  essays,  though  written  in  defence 
or  furtherance  of  the  measures  of  the  government, 
added  nothing  to  his  fortune  or  reputation.  How 
should  they  have  been  effective,  when  their  writer, 
who  not  long  before  addressed  the  people,  and 
echoed  from  his  compositions  the  principles  of  free- 
dom and  tlie  rights  of  the  people,  now  wrote  with 
scorn  of  "mob-sycophants,"  and  of  the  "half-wit- 
ted vulgar?"  It  is  a  consolation  to  know  that  our 
author  himself  lamented  the  waste  of  his  manhood 
and  intellect  in  this  way.  What  might  he  not 
have  given  to  the  world  that  is  enduring  and  ad- 
mirable, in  the  room  of  these  misplaced  political 
lucubrations  I  Who  that  has  read  his  better  works 
will  not  subscribe  to  this  truth  ? 

His  translation  of  Schiller's  Wallenstein  may  be 
denominated  a  free  one,  and  is  finely  executed 
It  is  impossible  to  give  in  the  English  language  a 
more  effective  idea  of  the  work  of  the  great  Ger- 
man dramatist.  This  version  was  made  from  a 
copy  which  the  author  himself  afterwards  revised 
and  altered,  and  the  translator  subsequently  re- 
published his  version  in  a  more  correct  form,  with 
the  additional  passages  and  alterations  of  Schiller. 
This  translation  will  long  remain  as  the  most 
effective  which  has  been  achieved  of  the  works 
of  the  German  dramatists  in  the  British  tongue. 

The  censure  which  has  been  cast  upon  our  poet 
for  not  writing  more  which  is  worthy  of  his  repu- 
tation, has  been  met  by  his  enumeration  of  what 
he    has   done    in   all   ways    and   times ;    and,    in 
truth,   he  wrote    a  vast   deal   which   passed    un- 
noticed,  upon  fleeting  politics,  and  in  newspaper 
columns,   literary    as   well    as    political.     To   the 
world  these  last  go  for  nothing,  though  the  author 
calculated  the  thougiit  and  labor  they  cost  him  at 
full  value.     He  conceded  something,  however,  to 
the  prevailing  idea  respecting  him,  when  he  said, 
"  On  my  own  accomit,  I  may  perhaps  have  had 
sufficient  reason  to  lament  my  deficiency  in  self- 
control,  and  the  neglect  of  concentrating  my  pow- 
ers to  the  realization  of  some  permanent  work.  But 
to  verse,  rather  than  to  prose,  if  to  either,  belongs 
'  the  voice  of  mourning,'  for 
Keen  pangs  of  love  awakening  as  a  babe 
Turbulent,  with  an  outcry  in  the  heart, 
And  fears  self-will'd  that  shunn'd  the  eye  of  hope, 
And  hope  that  scarce  could  know  itself  from  fear; 
Sense  of  past  youth,  and  manhood  come  in  vain, 
And  genius  given  and  knowledge  won  in  vain. 
And  all  which  I  had  cull'd  in  wood-walks  wild, 
And  all  which  patient  toil  had  renr'd,  and  all 
Commune  with  thee  had  open'd  out — but  flowers 
Strew'd  on  my  corpse,  and  borne  upon  my  bier, 
In  the  same  coffin,  for  the  self-same  grave! 

S.  T.  C." 

In  another  part  of  his  works,  Coleridge  says, 
speaking  of  what  in  poetry  he  had  wriuen,  "  as  to 
myself,  I  have  pubhshed  ao  little,  anu  tliat  little 


MEMOIR  OF  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


IX 


of  so  little  importance,  as  to  make  it  almost  ludi- 
crous to  mention  my  name  at  all."  It  is  evident, 
therefore,  tliat  a  sense  of  what  he  might  have  done 
for  fame,  and  of  the  little  he  had  done,  was  felt 
by  tlie  poet ;  and  yet,  the  little  he  did  produce  has 
among  it  gems  of  the  purest  lustre,  the  brilhancy 
of  wliich  time  will  not  deaden  mitil  the  universal 
voice  of  nature  be  heard  no  longer,  and  poetry 
perish  beneath  tlie  dull  load  of  life's  hackneyed 
realities. 

The  poem  of  "  Christabel,"  Coleridge  says,  was 
composed  in  consequence  of  an  agreement  with 
Mr.  Wordswortli,  that  they  sliould  mutually  pro- 
duce specimens  of  poetry  which  should  contain 
"  the  power  of  exciting  the  sympathy  of  the  reader, 
by  a  faitliful  adherence  to  the  truth  of  nature,  and 
the  power  of  giving  the  interest  of  novelty  by 
the  modifying  colors  of  imagination.  The  sudden 
charm,  which  accidents  of  light  and  shade,  which 
moon-light  or  sun-set  diffused  over  a  known  and 
familiar  landscape,  appeared  to  represent  the  prac- 
ticability of  combining  both."  Further  he  ob- 
serves on  this  thought,  "that  a  series  of  poems 
might  be  composed  of  two  sorts.  In  the  one,  the 
incidents  and  agents  were  to  be,  in  part  at  least, 
supernatural ;  and  the  excellence  to  be  aimed  at 
was  to  consist  in  the  interesting  of  the  affections 
by  the  dramatic  truth  of  such  emotions  as  would 
naturally  accompany  such  situations,  supposing 
them  real,  etc.  For  the  second  class,  subjects 
were  to  be  chosen  from  ordinary  life."  Thus,  it 
appears,  originated  the  poems  of  the  "  Ancient 
Mariner,"  and  "Christabel,"  by  Coleridge,  and 
the  "  Lyrical  Ballads"  of  Wordsworth. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  Englisli  writer  living  who 
understood  better  than  Coleridge  the  elements  of 
poetry,  and  the  way  in  which  they  may  be  best 
combuied  to  produce  certain  impressions.  His 
definitions  of  the  merits  and  differences  in  style 
and  poetic  genius,  between  the  earliest  and  latest 
writers  of  his  countr}',  are  superior  to  those  which 
any  one  else  has  it  in  his  power  to  make ;  for,  in 
truth,  he  long  and  deeply  meditated  upon  them, 
and  no  one  can  be  dissatisfied  by  the  reasons  he 
gives,  and  the  examples  he  furnishes,  to  bear  out 
his  theories  and  opinions.  These  things  he  did 
as  well  or  better  in  conversation  than  in  writing. 
His  conversational  powers  were  indeed  unrivalled, 
and  it  is  to  be  feared  that  to  excel  in  these,  he 
sacrificed  what  was  more  durable ;  and  tliat  he 
resigned,  for  the  pleasure  of  gratifying  an  attentive 
listening  circle,  and  pleasing  thereby  his  self-love 
by  its  applause,  much  that  would  have  delighted 
the  woHd.  His  flow  of  words,  delivery,  and  va- 
riety of  information  were  so  great,  and  he  found 
it  so  captivating  to  enchain  liis  auditors  to  the  car 
of  his  triumphant  eloquence,  that  he  sacrificed  to 
tliis  gratification  what  might  have  sufficed  to 
confer  upon  him  a  celebrity  a  thousand  times 
more  to  be  coveted  by  a  spirit  akin  to  his  own. 


It  is  equally  creditable  to  the  taste  and  judgment 
of  Coleridge,  tliat  he  was  one  of  tlie  first  to  point 
out,  with  teinjier  and  sound  reasoning,  tlie  fallacy 
of  a  great  portion  of  Wordsworth's  jxictic  theory 
namcl}',  that  which  relates  to  low  life.  Words- 
worth contended  that  a  proper  jxjetic  diction  is  a 
language  taken  from  the  mouths  of  men  in  gene- 
ral, in  their  natural  conversation  under  the  influ- 
ence of  natural  feelings.  Coleridge  wisely  asserted, 
that  philosophers  are  the  authors  of  the  best  parts 
of  language,  not  clowns ;  and  that  Milton's  lan- 
guage is  more  that  of  real  life  than  the  language 
of  a  cottager.  This  subject  lie  has  most  ably 
treated  in  chapter  17  of  his  Biugraphia  Lileraria. 

Two  years  after  he  had  abandoned  the  Morning 
Post,  he  set  off  for  Malta,  where  he  most  unex- 
pectedly arrived  on  a  visit  to  his  friend  Dr.  Stodart, 
then  king's  advocate  in  that  island,  and  was  m- 
troduced  by  him  to  the  Governor,  Sir  Alexander 
Ball,  who  appointed  him  his  secretary.  He  re- 
mained in  the  island  fulfilling  the  duties  of  his 
situation,  for  which  he  seems  «to  have  been  but 
indifferently  qualified,  a  very  short  period.  One 
advantage,  however,  he  derived  from  his  officia] 
employ  :  that  of  the  pension  granted  by  Govern- 
ment to  ttiose  who  have  served  in  similar  situa- 
tions. On  his  way  home  he  visited  Italy ;  entered 
Rome,  and  examined  its  host  of  ancient  and  mod- 
ern curiosities,  and  added  fresh  matter  for  thought 
to  his  rapidly  accumulating  store  of  ideas.  Of 
this  visit  he  gives  several  anecdotes ;  among  them 
one  respecting  the  horns  of  Moses  on  Michael 
Angelo's  celebrated  statue  of  that  lawgiver,  in 
tended  to  elucidate  the  character  of  Frenchmen 
Coleridge  was  all  his  life  a  hater  of  France  and 
Frenchmen,  arising  from  his  belief  in  their  being 
completely  destitute  of  moral  or  poetical  feeling. 
A  Prussian,  who  was  with  him  while  looking  upon 
the  statue,  observed  that  a  Frenchman  was  the  only 
animal,  "  in  the  human  shape,  that  by  no  possi- 
bility can  lift  itself  up  to  religion  or  poetry."  A 
foolish  and  untrue  remark  on  the  countrymen  of 
Fenelon  and  Pascal,  of  Rlassillon  and  Corneille 
Just  tiien,  however,  two  French  officers  of  rank 
happened  to  enter  the  church,  and  the  Goth  from 
the  Elbe  remarked  that,  the  first  things  they  would 
notice  would  be  the  "horns  and  beard"  (upon  which 
the  Prussian  and  Coleridge  had  just  been  rearing 
theories  and  quoting  history),  and  that  the  associ- 
ations the  Frenchmen  would  connect  with  them 
"  would  be  those  of  a  he-goat  and  a  cuckold."  It 
happened  tliat  the  Prus-Goth  was  right :  the  offi 
ccrs  did  pass  some  such  joke  upon  the  figure. 
Hence,  by  inference,  would  the  poet  have  his 
readers  deduce  the  character  of  a  people,  whose 
literature,  science,  and  civilization  are  perhaps 
only  not  the  very  first  in  the  world. 

Another  instance  of  his  fixed  and  absurd  dislike 
of  ever}'  thing  French,  occurred  during  the  de. 
livery  of  a  course  of  Lectures  on  Poetry,  at  tha 

9 


MEMOIR  OF  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


Royal  Institution,  in  the  spring  of  1808  ;  in  one 
of  which  he  astonished  his  auditory  by  thanking 
his  Maker,  in  the  most  serious  manner,  for  so  or- 
dering events,  that  he  was  totally  ignorant  of  a 
single  word  of  "  that  frightful  jargon,  the  French 
language  !"  And  yet,  notwithstanding  this  public 
avowal  of  his  entire  ignorance  of  the  language, 
Mr.  Coleridge  is  said  to  have  been  in  the  habit, 
while  conversing  with  his  friends,  of  expressing 
the  utmost  contempt  for  the  literature  of  that 
country ! 

In  the  years  1809-10,  Mr.  Coleridge  issued 
from  Grasmere  a  weekly  essay,  stamped  to  be 
sent  by  the  general  post,  called  "  The  Friend." 
This  paper  lasted  for  twenty-seven  numbers,  and 
was  then  abruptly  discontinued ;  but  the  papers 
have  since  been  collected  and  enlarged  in  three 
small  volumes. 

In  the  year  1812,  Mr.  Coleridge,  being  in  Lon- 
don, edited,  and  contributed  several  very  interest- 
ing articles  to,  Mr.  Southey's  "  Omniana,"  in  two 
small  volumes.  In  the  year  1816,  appeared  the 
Biographical  Sketches  of  his  Literary  Life  and 
Opinions,  and  his  newspaper  Poems  re-collected 
under  the  title  of  "  Sibylline  Leaves." 

About  this  time  he  wrote  the  prospectus  of 
"  The  Encyclopaedia  Metropolitana,"  still  in  the 
course  of  publication,  and  was  intended  to  be  its 
editor ;  but  this  final  mistake  was  early  discovered 
and  rectified. 

In  the  year  1816  likewise  was  published  by 
Mr.  Murray,  at  the  recommendation  of  Lord  By- 
ron, who  had  generously  befriended  the  brother 
(or  rather  the  father)  poet,  the  wondrous  ballad 
tale  of  "  Christabel."  The  author  tells  us  in  his 
preface  that  the  first  part  of  it  was  written  in  his 
great  poetic  year,  1797,  at  Stowey ;  the  second 
part,  after  his  return  from  Germany,  in  1800,  at 
Keswick  :  the  conclusion  yet  remains  to  be  writ- 
ten I  The  poet  says,  indeed,  in  this  preface,  "As 
in  my  very  first  conception  of  the  tale,  I  had  the 
whole  present  to  my  mind,  I  trust  that  I  shall  yet 
be  able  to  embody  in  verse  the  three  parts  yet  to 
come  "  We  do  not  pretend  to  contradict  a  poet's 
dreams;  but  we  believe  that  Mr.  Coleridge  never 
communicated  to  mortal  man,  woman,  or  child, 
how  this  story  of  witchcraft  was  to  end.  The 
poem  is,  perhaps,  more  interesting  as  a  fragment. 
For  sixteen  years  ■we  remember  it  used  to  be  re- 
cited and  transcribed  by  admiring  disciples,  till 
at  length  it  was  printed,  and  at  least  half  the 
charm  of  the  poet  was  broken  by  the  counterspell 
of  that  rival  magician,  Faust.  In  1818  was  pub- 
lished the  drama  of  Zapolya.  In  1825,  "Aids 
to  Reflection,  in  tlie  Formation  of  a  Manly  Char- 
acter, on  the   several  grounds  of  Prudence,  Mo- 


rality and  Religion  ;  illustrated  by  select  passages 
from  our  older  Divines,  especially  from  Arch- 
bishop Leighton."  This  is  for  the  most  part  a 
compilation  of  extracts  from  the  works  of  the 
Archbishop. 

To  conclude  the  catalogue  of  Mr.  Coleridge's 
works,  in  1830  was  issued  a  small  volume  "On 
the  Constitution  of  the  Church  and  State,  accord- 
ing to  the  idea  of  each,  with  Aids  towards  a  right 
Judgment  on  the  late  Catholic  Bill." 

In  the  year  1828,  the  whole  of  his  poetical 
works,  including  the  dramas  of  Wallenstein 
(which  had  been  long  out  of  print).  Remorse,  and 
Zapolya,  were  collected  in  three  elegant  volumes 
by  Mr.  Pickering. 

The  latter  years  of  Mr.  Coleridge's  life  were 
made  easy  by  a  domestication  with  his  friend  Mr. 
Gillman,  the  surgeon  of  Highgate  Grove,  and  for 
some  years,  the  poet  deservedly  received  an  an- 
nuity from  his  Majesty  of  £100  per  annum,  as 
an  Academician  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Litera- 
ture. But  these  few  most  lionorable  pensions  to 
worn-out  veterans  in  literature  were  discontinued 
by  the  late  ministry.  Mr.  Coleridge  contributed 
one  or  two  erudite  papers  to  the  transactions  of 
this  Society.  In  the  summer  of  1828,  Mr.  Cole- 
ridge  made  the  tour  of  Holland,  Flanders,  and  up 
the  Rhine  as  far  as  Bergen.  For  some  years  be- 
fore his  death,  he  was  afflicted  with  great  bodily 
pjiin ;  and  was  on  one  occasion  heard  to  say,  that 
for  thirteen  months  he  had  from  this  cause  walked 
up  and  down  his  chamber  seventeen  hours  each 
day.  He  died  on  the  25th  of  July,  1834,  having 
previously  written  the  following  epitaph  for  him- 
self: 

"Stop,  Christian  passer-by!  stop,  child  of  God  ! 
And  read  with  eeiitle  breast.     Beneath  this  sod 
A  pncl  lies,  or  that  which  once  seem'd  lie  — 
Oh,  lift  a  thought  in  prayer  for  S.  T.  C. ! 
That  he,  who,  many  a  year,  with  toil  of  breath, 
Found  death  in  life,  may  here  find  life  in  death! 
Mercy  for  praise  —  to  be  forgiven  for  fame, 
He   ask'd   and  hoped  through  Christ.    Do  thou  the 
same." 

This  is  perfection  —  worthy  of  the  author  of 
the  best  essay  on  epitaphs  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. He  was  buried  in  Highgate  Church.  He 
has  left  three  children,  namely,  Hartley,  Derwent, 
and  Sara.  The  first  has  published  a  volume  of 
poems,  of  wliich  it  is  enough  to  say  that  they  are 
worthy  of  Mr.  Wordsworth's  verses  addressed  to 
him  at  "  six  years  old."  The  second  son  is  in 
holy  orders,  and  is  married  and  settled  in  the 
west  of  England  ;  and  the  poet's  daughter  is 
united  to  her  learned  and  lively  cousin,  Mr.  Henry 
Nelson  Coleridge,  the  author  of  "  Six  Months  in 
the  West  Indies."  This  young  lady  had  the  good 
10 


MEMOIR  OF  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


XI 


fortune  to  be  educated  in  the  noble  library  on  the 
banks  of  the  Cumberland  Greta,  where  slie  as- 
sisted her  accoiiiplislied  uncle  in  translating  from 
the  old  French  the  history  of  the  Chevalier  Bay- 
ard, and  from  the  Latin  the  account  of  the  Abi- 
pones,  or  Equestrian  Indians  of  South  America, 
bj'  the  Jesuit  Martin  Dobrizhofter  ;  both  of  which 
works  were  published  by  Mr.  Murray. 

"  But  of  liis  native  speech,  because  well  nigh 
Disuse  in  him  forgetfulness  had  wrought, 
In  Latin  he  composed  his  history, 
A  garrulous  but  a  lively  tale,  and  fraught 
With  matter  of  delight  and  food  for  thought; 
And  if  he  could,  in  Merlin's  glass,  have  seen 
By  whom  liis  tomes  to  speak  our  tongue  were  taught, 
Tlie  old  man  would  have  been  as  pleased  (I  ween) 
As  when    he  won    the   ear   of  that   great   empress 
queen." 

Sol'they's  Tale  of  Paraguay. 


The  following  brief  sketches  of  Coleridge^s  char- 
acter are  selected  from  among  the  numerous 
notices  which  appeared  in  various  reviews  and 
periodicals  at  the  time  of  his  decease. 

"  As  a  great  poet,  and  a  still  greater  philoso- 
pher, the  world  has  hardly  yet  done  justice  to  tlie 
genius  of  Coleridge.  It  was  in  truth  of  an  order 
not  to  be  appreciated  in  a  brief  space.  A  far 
longer  life  than  that  of  Coleridge  shall  not  suffice 
to  bring  to  maturity  the  harvest  of  a  renown  like 
his.  The  ripening  of  his  mind,  with  all  its  golden 
fruitage,  is  but  the  seed-time  of  his  glory.  The 
close  and  consummation  of  his  labors  (grievous 
to  those  that  knew  him,  and  even  to  those  that 
knew  him  not,)  is  the  mere  commencement  of 
his  eternity  of  fame.  As  a  poet,  Coleridge  was 
unquestionably  great ;  as  a  moralist,  a  theologian, 
and  a  philosoplier,  of  the  very  highest  class,  he 
was  utterly  vnapproachahle.  And  here,  gentle 
reader,  let  me  be  plainly  understood  as  speaking 
not  merely  of  the  present,  but  the  past.  Nay, 
more.  Seeing  that  the  earth  herself  is  now  past 
her  prime,  and  gives  various  indications  of  her 
beginning  to  'grow  grey  in  years,'  it  would,  per- 
haps,  savour  more  of  probability  than  presump- 
tion, if  I  were  likewise  to  include  the  future.  It 
is  thus  that,  looking  both  to  what  is,  and  to  what 
has  been,  we  seem  to  feel  it,  like  a  truth  intuitive, 
tiiat  we  shall  never  hiive  another  Shukspeare  in 
the  drama,  nor  a  second  Milton  in  the  regions  of 
sublimer  song.  As  a  poet,  Coleiidge  has  done 
enough  to  show  how  much  more  he  might  and 
could  have  done,  if  he  had  so  thought  fit.  It  was 
truly  said  of  him,  by  an  excellent  critic  and  ac- 
coinplished  judge,  'Let  the  dullest  clod  that  ever 
vegetated,  provided  only  he  be  alive  and  hears,  be 
shut  up  in  a  room  with  Coleridge,  or  in  a  wood, 


and  subjected  for  a  few  minutes  to  the  ethereal 
influence  of  that  wonderful  man's  monologue,  and 
he  will  begin  to  believe  himself  a  poet.  The  bar- 
ren wilderness  may  not  blossom  like  the  rose;  but 
it  will  seem,  or  rather  feel  to  do  so,  under  the  lus- 
tre of  an  imagination  exhaustlcss  as  the  sun.' 

"  At  the  house  of.  the  attached  friend,  under 
whose  roof  this  illustrious  man  spent  the  latter 
years  of  his  life,  it  was  the  custom  to  have  a  con- 
versazione every  Thursday  evening.  Here  Cole- 
ridge  was  the  centre  and  admiration  of  the  circle 
that  gathered  round  him.  He  could  not  be  other- 
wise than  aware  of  the  intellectual  homage  of 
which  he  was  the  object ;  yet  there  he  sate,  talk- 
ing and  looking  all  sweet  and  simple  and  divine 
things,  the  very  personification  of  meekness  and 
humility.  Now  he  spoke  of  passing  occurrences, 
or  of  surrounding  objects, — the  flowers  on  the  ta- 
ble, or  the  dog  on  the  hearth ;  and  enlarged  in 
most  familiar  wise  on  the  beauty  of  the  one,  the 
attachment,  the  almost  moral  nature  of  the  other, 
and  the  wonders  that  were  involved  in  each.  And 
now,  soaring  upward  with  amazing  majesty,  into 
those  sublimer  regions  in  which  his  soul  de- 
lighted, and  abstracting  himself  from  the  things 
of  time  and  sense,  the  strength  of  his  wing  soon 
carried  him  out  of  sight.  And  here,  even  in  these 
his  eagle  flights,  although  the  eye  in  gazing  after 
him  was  dazzled  and  blinded,  yet  ever  and  anon 
a  sunbeam  would  make  its  way  through  the  loop- 
holes of  the  mind,  giving  it  to  discern  that  beau- 
tiful amalgamation  of  heart  and  spirit,  that  could 
equally  raise  him  above  his  fellow-men,  or  bring 
him  down  again  to  the  softest  level  of  humanity. 
'  It  is  easy,'  says  the  critic  before  alluded  to, — 'it 
is  easy  to  talk — not  very  difficult  to  speechify — 
hard  to  speak  ;  but  to  '  discourse'  is -a  gift  rarely 
bestowed  by  Heaven  on  mortal  man.  Coleridge 
has  it  in  perfection.  While  he  is  discoursing,  the 
world  loses  all  its  common-places,  and  you  and 
your  wife  imagine  yourselves  Adam  and  Eve, 
listening  to  the  affable  archangel  Raphael  in  the 
garden  of  Eden.  You  would  no  more  dream  of 
wishing  him  to  be  mute  for  awhile,  than  you 
would  a  river,  that  'imposes  silence  with  a  stilly 
sound.'  Whether  you  understand  two  consecu- 
tive sentences,  we  shall  not  stop  too  curiously  to 
enquire ;  but  you  do  something  better — you  feel 
the  whole,  just  like  any  other  divine  music.  And 
'tis  your  own  fault  if  you  do  not  "  a  wiser  and  a 
better  man  arise  to-morrow's  morn."  '  " 

The  Metropolitan. 

An  elaborate  and  admirable  critique  on  Cole- 
ridge's "  Poetical  Works,"  in  "  The  Quarterly 
Review,  No.  CIII.,"  written  just  before  his  death, 
opens  as  follows : 

2  II 


Xll 


MEMOIR  OF  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


"  Idolized  by  many,  and  used  without  scruple 
by  more,  the  poet  of  '  Christabel'  and  the  '  An- 
cient Mariner'  is  but  little  truly  known  in  that 
common  literary  world,  whicli,  without  the  pre- 
rogative of  conferring  fame  hereafter,  can  most 
surely  give  or  prevent  popularity  for  the  present. 
In  that  circle  he  commonly  passes  for  a  man  of 
wenius  who  has  written  some  very  beautiful 
verses,  but  whose  original  powers,  whatever  they 
were,  have  been  long  since  lost  or  confounded  in 
the  pursuit  of  metaphysic  dreams.  We  ourselves 
venture  to  think  very  differently  of  Mr.  Coleridge, 
both  as  a  poet  and  a  philosopher,  although  we  are 
well  enough  aware  that  nothing  which  we  can 
say  will,  as  matters  now  stand,  much  advance  his 
chance  of  becoming  a  fashionable  author.  In- 
deed, as  we  rather  believe,  we  should  earn  small 
thanks  from  him  for  our  happiest  exertions  in 
such  a  cause ;  for  certainly,  of  all  the  men  of  let- 
ters whom  it  has  been  our  fortune  to  know,  we 
never  met  any  one  who  was  so  utterly  regardless 
of  the  reputation  of  the  mere  author  as  Mr.  Cole- 
ridge— one  so  lavish  and  indiscriminate  in  the 
exhibition  of  his  own  intellectual  wealth  before 
any  and  every  person,  no  matter  who — one  so 
reckless  who  might  reap  where  he  had  most  pro- 
digally sown  and  watered.  '  God  knows,' — as  we 
once  heard  him  exclaim  upon  the  subject  of  his 
unpublished  system  of  philosophy, — 'God  knows, 
I  have  no  author's  vanity  about  it.  I  should  be 
absolutely  glad  if  I  could  hear  that  the  thing  had 
been  done  before  me.'  It  is  somewhere  told  of 
Virgil,  that  he  took  more  pleasure  in  the  good 
verses  of  Varius  and  Horace  than  in  his  own. 
We  would  not  answer  for  that ;  but  the  story  has 
always  occurred  to  us,  when  we  have  seen  Mr. 
Coleridge  criticising  and  amending  the  work  of  a 
contemporary  author  with  much  more  zeal  and 
hilarity  than  we  ever  perceived  him  to  display 
about  any  thing  of  his  own.  Perhaps  our  readers 
may  have  heard  repeated  a  saying  of  Mr.  Words- 
worth, that  many  men  of  this  age  had  done  won- 
derful things,  as  Davy,  Scott,  Cuvier,  &c. ;  but 
that  Coleridge  w^as  the  only  wonderful  ?nan  he 
ever  knew.  Something,  of  course,  must  be  al- 
lowed in  this  as  in  all  other  such  cases  of  anti- 
ftiesis ;  but  we  believe  the  fact  really  to  be,  that 
the  greater  part  of  those  who  have  occasionally 


visited  Mr.  Coleridge  have  left  him  with  a  feeling 
akin  to  the  judgment  indicated  in  the  above  re- 
mark. They  admire  the  man  more  than  his 
works,  or  they  forget  the  works  in  the  absorbing 
impression  made  by  the  living  author.  And  no 
wonder.  Those  who  remember  him  in  his  more 
vigorous  days  can  bear  witness  to  the  peculiarity 
and  transcendent  power  of  his  conversational  elo- 
quence. It  was  unlike  any  thing  that  could  be 
heard  elsewhere ;  the  kind  was  different,  the  de- 
gree was  different ;  the  manner  was  different. 
The  boundless  range  of  scientific  knowledge,  the 
brilliancy  and  exquisite  nicety  of  illustration,  the 
deep  and  ready  reasoning,  the  strangeness  and 
immensity  of  bookish  lore,  were  not  all ;  the  dra- 
matic story,  the  joke,  the  pun,  the  festivity,  must 
be  added ;  and  with  these  the  clerical-looking 
dress,  the  thick  waving  silver  hair,  the  youthful- 
colored  cheek,  the  indefinable  mouth  and  lips,  the 
quick  yet  steady  and  penetrating  greenish-grey 
eye,  the  slow  and  continuous  enunciation,  and  the 
everlasting  music  of  his  tones, — all  went  to  make 
up  the  image  and  to  constitute  the  living  presence 
of  the  man." 

In  a  note  at  the  conclusion  of  the  number  of 
"The  Quarterly  Review"  from  which  the  pre- 
ceding passage  has  been  taken,  Mr.  Coleridge's 
decease  is  thus  mentioned  : 

"  It  is  with  deep  regret  that  we  announce  the 
death  of  Mr.  Coleridge.  When  the  foregoing  ar- 
ticle on  his  poetry  was  printed,  he  was  weak  in 
body,  but  exhibited  no  obvious  symptoms  of  so 
near  a  dissolution.  The  fatal  change  was  sudden 
and  decisive  ;  and  six  days  before  his  death  he 
knew,  assuredly,  that  his  hour  was  come.  His 
few  worldly  affairs  had  been  long  settled ;  and, 
after  many  tedious  adieus,  he  expressed  a  wish 
that  he  might  be  as  little  interrupted  as  possible. 
His  sufferings  were  severe  and  constant  till  within 
thirty-six  hours  of  his  end;  but  they  had  no 
power  to  affect  the  deep  tranquillity  of  his  mind, 
or  the  wonted  sweetness  of  his  address.  His 
prayer  from  the  beginning  was,  that  God  would 
not  withdraw  his  Spirit;  and  that  by  the  way  in 
which  he  would  bear  the  last  struggle,  he  might 
be  able  to  evince  the  sincerity  of  his  faith  in 
Christ.     If  ever  man  did  so,  Coleridge  did." 


12 


THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


13 


Content!^* 


MEMOIR  OP  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

JUVENILE  POEMS 

Genevieve 

Sonnet,  to  the  Autumnal  Moon 

Time,  Real  and  Imaginary,  an  Allegory  .  . 

INIonody  on  the  death  of  Chatterton   .... 

Songs  of  the  Pixies 

The  Raven,  a  Christmas  Tale,  told  by  a 
School-boy  to  his  little  Brothers  and  Sisters 

Absence :  a  Farewell  Ode  on  quitting  School 
for  Jesus  College,  Cambridge 

Lines  on  an  Autumnal  Evening 

The  Rose 

The  Kiss 

To  a  Young  Ass — its  Mother  being  tethered 
near  it 

Domestic  Peace 

The  Sigh 

Epitaph  on  an  Infant 

Lines  written  at  the  King's  Arms,  Ross    .  . 

Lines  to  a  beautiful  Spring  in  a  Village  .  . 

Lines  on  a  Friend,  who  died  of  a  frenzy  fe- 
ver induced  by  calumnious  reports    .  .  . 

To  a  Young  Lady,  with  a  Poem  on  the  French 
Revolution 

Sonnet.  "  My  heart  has  thanked  thee,  Bowles ! 

for  those  soft  strains" 

• "  As  late  I  lay  in  slumber's  shadowy 


Page 


vale" 


"Though  roused  by  that  dark  vizir, 

Riot  rude" 

• "  When  British  Freedom  for  a  hap- 


pier land" 

• "  It  was  some  spirit,  Sheridan !  that 


breathed' 
"  O  what  a  loud  and  fearful  shriek 


was  there" 

"  As  w"hen  faroffthe  warbled  strains 


are  heard"  

"  Thou  gentle  look,  that  didst  my 

soul  beguile" 

■ "  Pale  roamer  through  tlie  night ! 


thou  poor  forlorn ! 

Sweet  Mercy !  how  my  very  heart 


has  bled' 
"  Thou  bleedest,  my  poor  heart !  and 

thy  distress" 

To  the  Author  of  the 


Robbers" 


Lines  composed  while  climbing  the  left  as- 
cent of  Brockley  Coomb,  Somersetshire, 
May,  1795 

Lines,  in  the  manner  of  Spenser 

imitated  from  Ossian 

The  Complaint  of  Ninathoma 

Lines,  imitated  from  the  Welsh 

to  an  infant 

in  answer  to  a  Letter  from  Bristol .  . 

to  a  Friend,  in  answer  to  a  melancholy 

Letter 


Pa.se 
Religious  Musings ;  a  Desultory  Poem  .  .  13 
The  Destiny  of  Nations;  a  Vision 17 

SIBYLLINE  LEAVES  :— 

I.    POEMS  OCCASIOPfED  BY  POLITICAL  EVEXTS,  OR 
FEELIXGS  CONNECTED  WITH  THEM. 

Ode  to  the  Departing  Year 21 

France  ;  an  Ode 23 

Fears  in  Solitude;  written  in  April,  1798, 

during  the  alarm  of  an  Invasion 24 

Fire,  Famine,  and  Slaughter;  a  War  Eclogue  26 
Recantation — illustrated  in  the  Story  of  the 

Mad  Ox 27 

n.    LOVE  POEMS. 

Introduction  to  the  tale  of  the  Dark  Ladie  28 
Lewti,  or  the  Circassian  Love  Chaunt  ...  29 
The  Picture,  or  the  Lover's  Resolution  .  .  30 
The  Night  Scene;  a  Dramatic  Fragment  .  31 
To  an  Unfortunate  Woman,  whom  the  Au- 
thor had  knowTi  in  the  days  of  her  inno- 
cence    32 

To  an  Unfortunate  Woman  at  the  Theatre  33 

Lines,  composed  in  a  Concert-room ib 

The  Keepsake ib 

To  a  Lady,  with  Falconer's  "  Shipwreck"  .  34 
To  a  Young  Lady,  on  her  Recovery  from  a 

Fever ib 

Something  childish,  but  very  natural — writ- 
ten in  Germany ib. 

Home-sick — written  in  Germany ib. 

Answer  to  a  Child's  Question ib. 

The  Visionary  Hope ...  35 

The  Happy  Husband  ;  a  Fragment ib 

RecollectiorLs  of  Love ib. 

On  Revisiting  the  Sea-shore  after  long  ab- 
sence    ib. 

The  Composition  of  a  Kiss 36 

III.    MEDITATIVE  POEMS. 

Hymn  before  Sun-rise,  in  the  Vale  of  Cha- 
mouny {6. 

Lines  written  in  the  Album  at  Elbingerode, 
in  the  Hartz  Forest 37 

On  observing  a  Blossom  on  the  1st  of  Feb- 
ruary, 1796    .  .« ib. 

The  Eolian  Harp — composed  at  Clevedon, 
Somersetshire ib. 

Reflections  on  having  left  a  Place  of  Retire- 
ment   38 

To  the  Rev.  Geo.  Coleridge  of  Ottery  St. 
Mary,  Devon — with  some  Poems   ....    39 

Inscription  for  a  Fountain  on  a  Heath  ...    ib. 

A  Tombless  Epitaph 39 

This  Lime-tree  Bovver  my  Prison 40 

To  a  Friend,  who  had  declared  his  intention 
of  writing  no  more  Poetry ib. 

To  a  Gentleman — composed  on  the  night 
after  his   Recitation  of  a  Poem  on  the 
Growth  of*an  Individual  Mind    ...     .41 
15 


XVI 


CONTENTS. 


The  Nightingale  ;  a  Conversation  Poem .  .  42 

Frost  at  Midnight 43 

To  a  Friend,  together  with  an  unfinished 

Poem ^■ 

The  Hour  when  we  shall  meet  again  ...  44 

Lines  to  Joseph  Cottle ib- 

IV.    ODES  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  Three  Graves ;  a  Fragment  of  a  Sex- 
ton's Tale if>- 

Dejection;  an  Ode 48 

Ode  to  Georgiana,  Duchess  of  Devonshire     49 

Ode  to  Tranquillity 50 

To  a  Young  Friend,  on  his  proposing  to  do- 
mesticate with  the  Author ib- 

Lines  to  W.  L.  Esq.,  while  he  sang  to  Pur- 
cell's  Music •  •    51 

Addressed  to  a  Young  Man  of  Fortune, 
who  abandoned  himself  to  an  indolent 

and  causeless  Melancholy ih- 

Soiuiet  to  the  River  Otter ib- 

composed  on  a  Journey  homeward ; 

the  Author  having  received  intelligence 
of  the  Birth  of  a  Son,  Sept.  20,  1796  .  .     ib. 
Sonnet — To  a  Friend,  who  asked  how  I  felt 
when  the  Nurse  first  presented  my  In- 
fant to  me 

The  Virgin's  Cradle  Hymn 

On  the  Christening  of  a  Friend's  Child  .  . 

Epitaph  on  an  Infant 

Melancholy  ;  a  Fragment 

Tell's  Birth-place — imitated  from  Stolberg 

A  Christmas  Carol 

Human  Life,  on  the  Denial  of  Immortality 
The    Visit    of    the   Gods — imitated    from 

Schiller 

Elegy — imitated    from    Akenside's   blank 

verse  Inscriptions 

Kubla  Khan  ;  or  a  Vision  in  a  Dream  .  .  • 
The  Pains  of  Sleep 

Appendix. 

Apologetic  Preface  to  "  Fire,  Famine,  and 

Slaughter 

THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 

CHRISTABEL 

REMORSE  ;  a  Tragedy,  in  Five  Acts 

ZAPOLYA ;  a  Christmas  Tale. 

Part  I.  the   prelude,  entitled  "  the 
usurper's  fortune" 


96 


Part   II.   the   sEauEL,   entitled  "  the 
usurper's  fate" 102 

THE  PICCOLOMINI,  OR  THE  FIRST  PART 
OF  WALLENSTEIN  ;  a  Drama,  trans- 
lated from  the  German  of  Schiller   .  .     121 

THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN ;  a  Tra- 
gedy, in  Five  Acts 168 

THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE ;  an  Historic 

Drama 203 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  :— 

PROSE  IN  RHYME  ;   OR  EPIGRAMS,  MORALITIES, 
AND  THINGS  WITHOUT  A  NAME. 

Love 212 

Duty  surviving  Self-love,  the  only  Sure 
Friend  of  Declining  Life  ;  a  Soliloquy  .213 

Phantom  or  Fact  ?  a  Dialogue  in  Verse  .  .    ib. 

Work  without  Hope ib. 

Youth  and  Age ib. 

A  Day-dream 214 

To  a  Lady,  offended  by  a  sportive  observa- 
tion that  women  have  no  souls    ....       ib. 

"  I  have  heard  of  reasons  manifold"  ....    ib. 

Lines  suggested  by  the  Last  Words  of  Be- 
rengarius ib. 

The  Devil's  Thoughts ib. 

Constancy  to  an  Ideal  Object 215 

The  Suicide's  Argument,  and  Nature's  An- 
swer   ib 

Tlie  Blossoming  of  the  Solitary  Date-tree ; 
a  Lament 216 

Fancy  in  Nubibus,  or  the  Poet  in  the 
Clouds ib 

The  Two  Founts ;  Stanzas  addressed  to  a 
Lady  on  her  recovery,  with  unblemished 
looks,  from  a  severe  attack  of  pain  .      .    ib. 

What  is  Life? 217 

The  Exchange ib. 

Sonnet,  composed  by  the  Sea-side,  October, 
1817 ib. 

Epigrams ib. 

The  Wanderings  of  Cain 218 

Allegoric  Vision 220 

The  Improvisatore,  or  "  John  Anderson,  my 
jo,  John" 222 

The  Garden  of  Boccaccio 224 

16 


THE 

POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 


.3swmm  m 


Sitljcnile  JJoetnsssi* 


PREFACE. 


Compositions  resembling  those  here  collected  are 
not  unfrequenlly  condemned  for  their  querulous 
Egotism.  But  Egotism  is  to  be  condemned  then  only 
when  it  offends  against  time  and  place,  as  in  a  His- 
tory or  an  Epic  Poem.  To  censure  it  in  a  Monody 
or  Sonnet  is  almost  as  absurd  as  to  dislike  a  circle 
for  being  round.  Why  then  write  Sonnets  or  Mono- 
dies ?  Because  they  give  me  pleasure  when  perhaps 
nothing  else  could.  After  the  more  violent  emotions 
of  Sorrow,  the  mind  demands  amusement,  and  can 
find  it  in  employment  alone :  but,  full  of  its  late  suf- 
ferings, it  can  endure  no  employment  not  in  some 
measure  connected  with  them.  Forcibly  to  turn 
away  our  attention  to  general  subjects  is  a  painful 
and  most  often  an  unavailing  efibrt. 

But  O  1  how  grateful  to  a  wounded  heart 
Tlie  tale  of  Misery  to  impart — 
From  others'  eyes  bid  artless  sorrows  flow, 
And  raise  esteem  upon  the  base  of  Woe  I 

Shaw. 

The  communicativeness  of  our  Nature  leads  us  to 
describe  our  ovsti  sorrows  ;  in  the  endeavor  to  de- 
scribe them,  intellectual  activity  is  exerted  ;  and 
from  intellectual  activity  there  results  a  pleasure, 
which  is  gradually  associated,  and  mingles  as  a  cor- 
rective, with  the  painful  subject  of  the  description. 
"  True  I "  (it  may  be  an.swered)  "  but  how  are  the 
Public  interested  in  your  sorrows  or  your  Descrip- 
tion ?"  We  are  for  ever  attributing  personal  Unities 
to  imaginary  Aggregates.  What  is  the  Public,  but  a 
term  for  a  number  of  scattered  individuals  ?  of  whom 
as  many  will  be  interested  in  these  sorrows,  as  have 
experienced  the  same  or  similar. 

Holy  be  the  lay 
Which  mourning  soothes  the  mourner  on  his  way. 

If  I  could  judge  of  others  by  m^-self,  I  should  not 
hesitate  to  affirm,  that  the  most  interesting  pa-ssages 
are  those  in  which  the  Author  develops  hrs  own 
feelings  ?  The  sweet  voice  of  Cona*  never  sounds 
so  sweedy,  as  when  it  speaks  of  itself;  and  I  should 
almost  suspect  that  man  of  an  tmkindly  heart,  who 
could  read  tlie  opening  of  the  third  book  of  the  Para- 
dise Lost  without  peculiar  emotion.  By  a  Law  of  our 
Nature,  he,  who  labors  under  a  strong  feeling,  is 


•  Ossian. 
B2 


impelled  to  seek  for  sympathy ;  but  a  Poet's  feelings 
are  all  strong.  Qidcqiiid  amet  valde  amat.  Akenside 
therefore  spealvs  with  philosophical  accuracy  when 
he  classes  Love  and  Poetry,  as  producing  the  same 
effects : 

Love  and  the  wish  of  Poets  when  their  tongue 
Would  teach  to  others'  bosoms,  what  so  charms 
Their  own. 

Pleasures  of  Imagination. 

Tliere  is  one  species  of  Egotism  which  is  truly 
disgusting ;  not  that  which  leads  us  to  communicate 
our  feelings  to  others  but  that  which  would  reduce 
the  feelings  of  others  to  an  identity  with  our  own. 
The  Atheist,  who  exclaims  "  pshaw  I "  when  he 
glances  his  eye  on  the  praises  of  Deity,  is  an  Egotist : 
an  old  man,  when  he  speaks  contem])tuously  of  Love- 
verses,  is  an  Egotist :  and  the  sleek  Favorites  of 
Fortune  are  Egotists,  when  they  condenm  all  "  mel- 
ancholy, discontented  "  verses.  Surely,  it  would  be 
candid  not  merely  to  ask  whether  the  poem  pleases 
ourselves,  but  to  con.sider  whether  or  no  there  may 
not  be  others,  to  whom  it  is  well  calculated  to  give 
an  innocent  pleasure. 

I  shall  only  add,  that  each  of  my  readers  will,  I 
hope,  remember,  that  these  Poems  on  various  sub- 
jects, which  he  reads  at  one  time  and  under  the  in- 
fluence of  one  set  of  feelings,  were  written  at  differ- 
ent times  and  prompted  by  very  different  feelings ; 
and  therefore  that  the  supposed  inferiority  of  one 
Poem  to  another  may  sometimes  be  owing  to  tho 
temper  of  mind  in  which  he  happens  to  peruse  it. 


My  poems  have  been  rightly  charged  with  a  pro 
fusion  of  double-epithets,  and  a  general  turgidness 
I  have  pruned  the  double-epithets  with  no  sparing 
hand  ;  and  used  my  best  efforts  to  tame  the  swell 
and  glitter  both  of  thought  and  diction."*   This  latter 


*  Without  any  feeling  of  anger,  I  may  yet  be  allowed  to 
express  some  degree  of  surprise,  that  alter  having  run  the 
critical  gauntlet  for  a  certain  class  of  faults,  which  I  had,  viz. 
a  too  ornate  and  elaborately  poetic  diction,  and  nothing  hav- 
ing come  before  the  judgment-seat  of  the  Reviewers  during 
the  long  interval,  1  should  for  at  least  seventeen  years,  quarter 
after  quarter,  have  been  placed  by  them  in  the  foremost  rank 
of  the  proscribed,  and  made  to  abide  the  brunt  of  abuse  and 
ridicule  for  faults  directly  opposite,  viz.  bald  and  prosaic  lan- 
guage, and  an  atfected  simplicity  both  of  matter  and  manner 
— faults  which  assuredly  did  not  enter  into  the  character  of 
my  compositions. — Literary  lAfe,  i.  51.  Published  1817 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


iliult  however  had  insinuated  itself  into  my  Religious 
Musings  with  such  intricacy  of  union,  that  some- 
times I  have  omitted  to  disentangle  the  weed  from 
the  fear  of  snapping  the  flower.  A  third  and  heavier 
accusation  has  been  brought  against  me,  that  of  ob- 
scurity ;  but  not,  I  think,  with  equal  justice.  An 
Author  is  obscure,  when  his  conceptions  are  dim 
and  imperfect,  and  his  language  incorrect,  or  unap- 
propriate,  or  involved.  A  poem  that  abounds  in 
allusions,  like  the  Bard  of  Gray,  or  one  that  imper- 
sonates high  and  abstract  truths,  like  CoUins's  Ode 
on  the  poetical  character,  claims  not  to  be  popular — 
but  sliuuld  be  acquitted  of  obscurity.  The  deficiency 
is  in  the  Reader.  But  this  is  a  charge  which  every 
poet,  whose  imagination  is  warm  and  rapid,  must 
expect  from  his  contemporaries.  Milton  did  not 
escape  it ;  and  it  was  adduced  with  virulence  against 
Gray  and  Collins.  We  now  hear  no  more  of  it : 
not  that  their  poems  are  belter  understood  at  present, 
than  they  were  at  their  first  publication  ;  but  their 
fame  is  established ;  and  a  critic  would  accuse  him- 
self of  frigidity  or  inattention,  who  should  profess 
not  to  understand  them.  But  a  living  writer  is  yet 
subjudice;  and  if  we  cannot  follow  his  conceptions 
or  enter  into  his  feelings,  it  is  more  consoling  to  our 
pride  to  consider  him  as  lost  beneath,  than  as  soaring 
above  us.  If  any  man  expect  from  my  poems  the 
same  easiness  of  style  which  he  admires  in  a  drink- 
ing-song, for  him  I  have  not  written.  Inlelligibilia, 
noil  iiilellectum  adfero. 

I  expect  neither  profit  nor  general  fame  by  my 
writings  ;  and  I  consider  myself  as  having  been 
amply  repaid  without  either.  Poetry  has  been  to  me 
its  own  "  exceeding  great  reward  : "  it  has  soothed 
ray  afflictions ;  it  has  multiplied  and  refined  my  en- 
joyments ;  it  has  endeared  solitude  :  and  it  has  given 
me  the  habit  of  wishing  to  discover  the  Good  and 
the  Beautiful  m  all  that  meets  and  surrounds  me. 

S.  T.  C. 


JUVENILE   POEMS. 


GENEVIEVE. 

Maip  of  my  Love,  sweet  Genevieve ! 

In  beauty's  light  you  glide  along  : 

Your  eye  is  like  the  star  of  eve, 

And  sweet  your  voice,  as  seraph's  song. 

Yet  not  your  heavenly  beauty  gives 

This  heart  with  passion  soft  to  glow  : 

Within  your  soul  a  voice  there  lives ! 

It  bids  you  hear  the  tale  of  woe. 

When  sinldng  low  the  sufferer  wan 

Beholds  no  hand  outstretch'd  to  save, 

Fair,  as  the  bosom  of  the  swan 

That  rises  graceful  o'er  the  wave, 

I  've  seen  your  breast  with  pity  heave, 

And  therefore  love  I  you,  sweet  Genevieve ! 


SONNET. 

TO    THE    AUTUMNAL   MOON. 

Mild  Splendor  of  the  various-vested  Night ! 
Mother  of  wildly-working  visions  !  hail ! 
I  watch  thy  gliding,  while  with  watery  light 
Thy  weak  eye  glimmers  through  a  fleecy  veil ; 


And  when  thou  lovest  thy  pale  orb  to  shroud 
Behind  the  gather'd  blackness  lost  on  high  ; 
And  when  thou  dartest  from  the  wind-rent  cloud 
Thy  placid  lightning  o'er  the  awaken'd  sky. 
Ah  such  is  Hope '  as  changeful  and  as  fair ! 
Now  dimly  peering  on  the  wistful  sight ; 
Now  hid  behind  the  dragon-wing'd  Despair  • 
But  soon  emerging  in  her  radiant  might. 
She  o'er  the  sorrow-clouded  breast  of  Care 
Sails,  like  a  meteor  kindling  in  its  IhghL 


TIME,  REAL  AND  IMAGINARY. 

AN    ALLEGORY. 

On  the  wide  level  of  a  mountain's  head 
(I  knew  not  where,  but  't  was  some  faery  place 
Their  pinions,  ostrich-like,  for  sails  outspread, 
Two  lovely  children  run  an  endless  race, 

A  sister  and  a  brother  ! 

This  far  outstript  the  other ; 
Yet  ever  runs  she  with  reverted  face. 
And  looks  and  listens  for  the  boy  behind : 

For  he,  alas  !    is  blind  ! 
O'er  rough  and  smooth  with  even  step  he  pass'd. 
And  knows  not  whether  he  be  first  or  last. 


MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF 
CHATTERTON. 

O  WHAT  a  wonder  seems  the  fear  of  death. 
Seeing  how  gladly  we  all  sink  to  sleep. 
Babes,  Children,  Youths  and  Men, 
Night  following  night  for  threescore  years  and  tei. 
But  doubly  strange,  where  life  is  but  a  breath 
To  sigh  and  pant  with,  up  Want's  rugged  steep. 

Away,  Grim  Phantom !  Scorpion  King,  away 

Reserve  thy  terrors  and  thy  stings  display 

For  coward  Wealth  and  Guilt  in  robes  of  state 

Lo !  by  the  grave  I  stand  of  one,  for  whom 

A  prodigal  Nature  and  a  niggard  Doom 

(That  all  bestowing,  this  withholding  all) 

Made  each  chance  knell  from  distant  spire  or  uomo 

Sound  like  a  seeking  Mother's  anxious  call, 

Return,  poor  Child  !  Home,  weary  Truant,  home  I 

Thee,  Chatterton !  these  unblest  stones  protect 
From  want,  and  the  bleak  freezings  of  neglect. 
Too  long  before  the  vexing  Storm-blast  driven, 
Here  hast  thou  found  repose !  beneath  this  sod  ! 
Thou  !  O  vain  word  !  Ihou  dwell'st  not  with  the  clod 
Amid  the  shining  Host  of  the  Forgiven 
Thou  at  the  throne  of  Mercy  and  thy  God 
The  triumph  of  redeeming  Love  dost  hymn 
(Believe  it,  O  my  soul !)  to  harps  of  Seraphim. 

Yet  oft,  perforce  ('tis  suffering  Nature's  call,) 
I  weep,  that  heaven-born  Genius  so  shall  fall ; 
And  oft,  in  Fancy's  saddest  hour,  my  soul 
Averted  shudders  at  the  jioison'd  bowl. 
Now  groans  my  sickening  heart,  as  still  I  view 

Thy  corse  of  livid  hue  ; 
Now  indignation  checks  the  feeble  sigh, 
Or  flashes  through  the  tear  that  glistens  in  mine  eyo 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


8 


Is  this  the  land  of  song-ennobled  line  ? 

Is  this  tlie  land,  where  Genius  ne'er  in  vain 

Ponr'ii  forth  his  lofty  strain  ? 
Ah  me !  yet  Spenser,  gentlest  bard  divine, 
Beneath  chill  Disappointment's  shade 
His  weary  limbs  in  lonely  anguisli  laid. 

And  o'er  her  darhng  dead 

Pity  hopeless  hung  her  head, 
While  "  'mid  the  pelting  of  that  merciless  storm," 
Sunk  to  the  cold  earth  Otway's  famish'd  form ! 

Sublime  of  thought,  and  confident  of  fame. 

From  vales  where  Avon  winds,  the  Minstrel*  came. 

Light-hearted  youth  !  aye,  as  he  hastes  along, 

He  meditates  the  future  song, 
llow  dauntless  ^lla  fray'd  the  Dacian  foe  ; 

And  while  tho  numbers  flowing  strong 

In  eddies  whirl,  in  surges  throng. 
Exulting  in  the  spirits'  genial  throe. 
In  tides  of  power  his  life-blood  seems  to  flow. 

And  now  his  cheeks  with  deeper  ardors  flame, 
His  eyes  have  glorious  meanings,  that  declare 
More  than  the  light  of  outward  day  shines  there, 
A  hoHer  triumph  and  a  sterner  aim ! 
Wings  grow  within  him ;  and  he  soars  above 
Or  Bard's,  or  Minstrel's  lay  of  war  or  love. 
Friend  to  the  friendless,  to  the  Sufferer  health. 
He  hears  the  widow's  prayer,  the  good  man's  praise  ; 
To  scenes  of  bliss  transmutes  his  fancied  wealth, 
And  young  and  old  shall  now  see  happy  days. 
On  many  a  waste  he  bids  trim  gardens  rise. 
Gives  the  blue  sky  to  many  a  prisoner's  eyes  ; 
And  now  in  wrath  he  grasps  the  patriot  steel. 
And  her  own  iron  rod  he  makes  Oppression  feel. 

Sweet  Flower  of  Hope  !  free  Nature's  genial  child ! 
That  didst  so  fair  disclose  thy  early  bloom. 
Filling  the  wide  air  with  a  rich  perfume ! 
For  thee  in  vain  all  heavenly  aspects  smiled  ; 
From  the  hard  world  brief  respite  could  they  win — 
The  frost  nipp'd  sharp  without,  the  canker  prey'd 

within  I 
Ah  '  where  are  fled  the  charms  of  vernal  Grace, 
And  Joy's  wild  gleams  that  lighten'd  o'er  thy  face  ? 
Youth  of  tumultuous  soul,  and  haggard  eye  I 
Thy  wasted  form,  thy  hurried  steps,  I  view. 
On  thy  wan  forehead  starts  the  lelhal  dew, 
And  oh  I  the  anguish  of  tlmt  shuddering  sigh  ! 

Such  were  the  struggles  of  the  gloomy  hour. 

When  Care,  of  wither'd  brow, 
Prepar'd  the  poison's  death-cold  power-. 
Already  to  thy  lips  was  raised  the  bowl. 
When  near  thee  stood  Affection  meek 
(Iler  bosom  l)are,  and  wildly  pale  her  cheek,) 
Thy  sullen  gaze  she  bade  thee  roll 
On  scenes  that  well  might  melt  thy  soul ; 
Thy  native  cot  she  flash'd  upon  thy  view, 
Thy  native  cot,  where  still,  at  close  of  day, 
-  cace  smiling  sate,  and  lisien'd  to  thy  lay  ; 
Thy  Sister's  shrieks  she  bade  thee  hear, 
I      And  mark  thy  Mother's  thrilling  tear ; 

See,  see  her  breast's  con^"^dsive  throe, 
Her  silent  agony  of  woe  ! 
Ah  I  dash  the'noison'd  chalice  from  thy  hand  ! 
And  thou  hadst  dash'd  it,  at  her  soft  command, 


♦  Avon,  a  river  near  Bristol;  the  birth-place  of  Chatterton. 


But  that  Despair  and  Indignation  rose. 
And  told  again  the  story  of  thy  woes ; 
Told  the  keen  insult  of  tlie  unfeeling  heart ; 
The  dread  dependence  on  the  low-born  mind  ; 
Told  every  pang,  with  which  thy  soul  must  smart. 
Neglect,  and  grinning  Scorn,  and  Want  combined  I 
Recoiling  quick,  thou  bad'st  the  friend  of  pain 
Roll  the  black  tide  of  Death  through  every  frcezins 
vein ! 

Ye  woods  !  that  wave  o'er  Avon's  rocky  steep. 
To  Fancy's  ear  sweet  is  your  murmuring  deep! 
For  here  she  loves  the  C)'press  wreath  to  weave. 
Watching,  with  wistful  eye,  the  saddening  tints  of  eve 
Here,  far  from  men,  amid  this  pathless  grove. 
In  solemn  thought  the  Minstrel  wont  to  rove. 
Like  star-beam  on  the  slow  sequesler'd  tide 
Lone-glittering,  through  the  high  tree  branching  wide 
And  here,  in  Inspiration's  eager  hour. 
When  most  the  big  soul  feels  the  mastering  power, 
These  wilds,  these  caverns  roaming  o'er. 
Round  winch  the  screaming  sea-gul's  soar, 
With  wild  unequal  steps  he  pass'd  along. 
Oft  pouring  on  the  winds  a  broken  song  : 
Anon,  upon  some  rough  rock's  fearful  brow 
Would   pause   abrupt — and  gaze   upon  the   waves 
below. 

Poor  Chatterton !  he  sorrows  for  tliy  fate 

Who  would  have  praised  and  loved  thee,  ere  too 

late. 
Poor  Chatterton !  farewell !  of  darkest  hues 
This  chaplet  cast  I  on  thy  tuishaped  tomb  ; 
But  dare  no  longer  on  the  sad  theme  muse. 
Lest  kindred  woes  persuade  a  kindred  doom: 
For  oh  I  big  gall-drops,  shook  from  Folly's  wing. 
Have  blacken'd  the  fair  promise  of  my  spring  ; 
And  the  stem  Fate  transpierced  with  viewless  dart 
The  last  pale  Hope  that  shiver'd  at  my  heart ! 

Hence,  gloomy  thoughts !    no  more  my  soul  shail 

dwell 
On  joys  that  were  !  No  more  endure  to  weigh 
The  shame  and  anguish  of  the  e\dl  day. 
Wisely  forgetful !  O'er  the  ocean  swell 
Sublime  of  Hope  I  seek  the  cottaged  dell. 
Where  Virtue  calm  with  careless  step  may  stray 
And,  dancing  to  the  moon-light  rovmdelay. 
The  wizard  Passions  weave  a  holy  spell ! 

O  Chatterton  !  that  thou  wert  yet  alive  ! 
Sure  thou  wouldst  spread  the  canvas  to  the  gale 
And  love  with  us  tlie  tinkling  team  to  drive 
O'er  peaceful  Freedom's  undivided  dale  ; 
And  we,  at  sober  eve,  would  round  thee  tlirong. 
Hanging,  enraptured,  on  thy  stately  song  ! 
And  greet  with  smiles  the  young-eyed  Poesy 
All  deftly  mask'd,  as  hoar  Antiquity. 

Alas  vain  Phantasies  !  the  fleeting  brood 
Of  Woe  self-solaced  in  her  dreamy  mood  ! 
Yet  will  I  love  to  follow  the  sweet  dream, 
\Yhere  Susquehannah  pours  his  untamed  strean 
And  on  some  hill,  whose  forest-frowniing  side 
Waves  o'er  the  murmurs  of  Ids  calmer  tide, 
Will  raise  a  solemn  Cenotaph  to  thee, 
Sweet  Harper  of  time-shrouded  Minstrelsy  ! 
And  there,  soothed  sadly  by  the  dirgeful  wind, 
Muse  on  the  sore  ills  I  had  left  behind 
3  13 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


SONGS  OF  THE  PIXIES. 


The  Pixies,  in  the  superstition  of  Devonshire,  are  a  race  of 
beings  invisibly  small,  and  harmless  or  friendly  to  man.  At  a 
'  email  distance  from  a  village  in  that  county,  half-way  up  a 
wood-covered  hill,  is  an  excavation  called  the  Pixies'  Parlor. 
The  roots  of  old  trees  form  its  ceiling  ;  and  on  its  sides  are 
innumerable  ciphers,  among  which  the  author  discovered  his 
own  cipher  and  those  of  his  brothers,  cut  by  the  hand  of  their 
childhood.    At  the  foot  of  the  hill  flows  the  river  Otter. 

To  this  place  the  Author  conducted  a  party  of  young  Ladies, 
during  the  Summer  months  of  the  year  1793  ;  one  of  whom, 
of  stature  elegantly  small,  and  of  complexion  colorless  yet 
clear,  was  proclaimed  the  Faery  Uueen.  On  which  occasion 
the  following  irregular  Ode  was  written. 


I. 

Whom  the  untaught  Shepherds  call 

Pi.Kies  in  their  madrigal, 
Fancy's  children,  here  we  dwell : 

Welcome,  Ladies  !  to  our  cell. 
Here  the  wren  of  softest  note 

Builds  its  nest  and  warbles  well ; 
Here  the  blackbird  strains  his  throat ; 

Welcome,  Ladies  !  trj  our  cell. 

n. 

When  fades  the  moon  all  shadowy-pale, 
And  scuds  the  cloud  before  the  gale, 
Ere  Morn  with  living  gems  bedight 
Purples  the  East  with  streaky  light. 
We  sip  the  furze-flower's  fragrant  dews 
Clad  in  robes  of  rainbow  hues  : 
Or  sport  amid  the  rosy  gleam, 
Soothed  by  the  distant-tinkling  team. 
While  lusty  Labor  scouting  sorrow 
Bids  the  Dame  a  glad  good-morrow. 
Who  jogs  the  accustom'd  road  along. 
And  paces  cheery  to  her  cheering  song. 

m. 

But  not  our  filmy  pinion 
We  scorch  amid  the  blaze  of  day, 
AVhen  Noontide's  fiery-lressed  minion 
Flashes  the  fervid  ray. 
Aye  from  the  sultry  heat 
We  to  the  cave  retreat 
O'ercanopied  by  huge  roots  intertwined 
With  wildest  texture,  blacken'd  o'er  with  age  : 
Round  them  their  mantle  green  the  ivies  bind, 
Beneath  whose  foliage  pale, 
Fatui'd  by  the  unfrequent  gale. 
We  shield  us  from  the  Tyrant's  mid-day  rage. 

IV. 

Thither,  while  the  murmuring  throng 
Of  wild-bees  hum  their  drowsy  song. 
By  Indolence  and  Fancy  brought, 
\  yotithful  Bard,  "  unknown  to  Fame," 
vVooes  the  Queen  of  Solenm  Thought, 
And  heaves  the  gentle  misery  of  a  sigh. 
Gazing  with  tearful  eye, 
As  round  our  sandy  grot  appear 
Many  a  rudely-sculptured  name 
To  pensive  Memory  dear  I 
Weaving  gay  dreams  of  sunny-tinctured  hue, 
We  glance  before  his  view  : 


O'er  his  hush'd  soul  our  soothing  witcheries  shed. 
And  twine  our  faery  garlands  round  Ids  head. 


VVTien  Evening's  dusky  car, 

Crown'd  with  her  dewy  star, 
Steals  o'er  the  fading  sky  in  shadowy  flight 

On  leaves  of  aspen  trees 

We  tremble  to  the  breeze, 
Veil'd  from  the  grosser  ken  of  mortal  sight 

Or,  haply,  at  the  visionary  hour. 
Along  our  wildly-bower'd  sequester'd  walk, 
We  listen  to  the  enamour'd  rustic's  talk; 
Heave  with  the  heavings  of  the  maiden's  breast. 
Where  yoimg-eyed   Loves  have   built  the'r  turtlo 

nest; 
Or  guide  of  soul-subduing  power 
The  electric  flash,  that  from  the  melting  eye 
Darts  tlie  fond  question  and  the  soft  reply. 

VI. 

Or  through  the  mystic  ringlets  of  the  vale 
We  flash  our  faery  feet  in  gamesome  prank , 
Or,  silent-sandall'd,  pay  our  defter  court 
Circling  the  Spirit  of  the  Western  Gale, 
Where  wearied  with  his  flower-caressing  sport 
Supine  he  slumbers  on  a  violet  hank ; 
Then  with  quaint  music  hymn  the  parting  gleam 
By  lonely  Otter's  sleep-persuading  stream  ; 
Or  where  his  waves  with  loud  unquiet  song 
Dash'd  o'er  the  rocky  channel  froth  along 
Or  where,  his  silver  waters  smoothed  to  rest. 
The  tall  tree's  shadow  sleeps  upon  his  breast. 

VII. 
Hence,  thou  lingerer.  Light ! 
Eve  saddens  into  Night. 
Mother  of  wildly-working  dreams  !  we  view 
The  sombre  hours,  that  round  thee  stand 
With  downcast  eyes  (a  duteous  band!) 
Their  dark  robes  dripping  with  the  heavy  dew 
Sorceress  of  the  ebon  throne ! 
Tliy  power  the  Pixies  own. 
When  round  thy  raven  brow 
Heaven's  lucent  roses  glow. 
And  clouds,  in  watery  colors  drest. 
Float  i-n  light  drapery  o'er  thy  sable  vest : 
What  time  the  pale  moon  sheds  a  softer  day, 
Mellowing  the  woods  beneath  its  pensive  beam: 
For  'mid  the  quivering  light  't  is  ours  to  play, 
Aye  daitcing  to  the  cadence  of  the  stream. 

vin. 

Welcome,  lysdies !  to  the  cell 
Where  the  blameless  Pixies  dwell : 
But  thou,   sweet  Nymph  !    proclaim'd   our   Faery 
Queen, 
With  what  obeisance  meet 
Thy  presence  shall  we  greet  ? 
For  lo !  attendant  on  thy  steps  are  seen 
Graceful  Ease  in  artless  stole. 
And  wJiite-robed  Purity  of  soul, 
Willi   Honor's  sol'ter  mien  ; 
Mirth  of  Ihe  loosely-flowing  hair. 
And  meek-eyed  Pity  eloquently  fair. 

Whose  learfiil  cheeks  are  lovely  to  the  view 
As  snow-diop  wet  with  dew. 
14 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


IX. 

rnboastful  inaiil !  though  now  the  Lily  pale 

Transparent  grace  thy  beauties  meek ; 
Yet  ere  again  along  the  empurpling  vale, 
The  purpling  vale  and  elfui-haunted  grove, 
Voung  Zephyr  his  fresh  flowers  profusely  throws, 

We  '11  tinge  with  livelier  hues  thy  cheek  ; 
And  haply,  from  the  nectar-breathing  Rose 
Extract  a  blush  for  love ! 


THE  RAVEN. 

A    CHRISTMAS    TALE,    TOLD    BY  A  SCHOOL-BOY  TO    HIS 
LITTLK    BROTHERS    AND  SISTERS. 

Underneath  a  huge  oak  tree 
There  was,  of  swine,  a  huge  company. 
That  grunted  as  they  crunch'd  the  mast : 
For  that  was  ripe,  and  fell  full  fast. 
Then  they  trotted  away,  for  the  wind  grew  high : 
One  acorn  they  left,  and  no  more  might  you  spy. 
Next  came  a  raven,  that  liked  not  such  folly  : 
He  belong  d,  they  did  say,  to  the  witch  Melancholy  ! 
Blacker  was  he  tnan  blackest  jet, 
Flew  low  in  the  rain,  and  his  feathers  not  wet 
He  pick'd  up  the  acorn  and  buried  it  straight 
By  the  side  of  a  river  both  deep  and  great 
\Vhere  then  did  the  Raven  go  ? 
He  went  high  and  low, 
Over  hill,  over  dale,  did  the  black  Raven  ga 
Many  Autumns,  many  Springs 
Travell'd  he  with  wandering  wings : 
Many  Summers,  many  Winters — 
I  can't  tell  half  his  adventures. 

At  length  he  came  back,  and  with  him  a  She, 
And  the  acorn  was  growTi  to  a  tall  oak  tree. 
They  built  them  a  nest  in  the  topmost  bough, 
And  young  ones  they  had,  and  were  happy  enow. 
But  soon  came  a  woodman  in  leathern  guise, 
His  brow,  like  a  pent-house,  himg  over  his  eyes. 
He'd  an  ax  in  his  hand,  not  a  word  he  spoke, 
But  with  many  a  hem !  and  a  sturdy  stroke. 
At  length  he  brought  down  the   poor  Raven's  own 

oak. 
His  young  ones   were   kill'd ;    for  they  could  not 

depart. 
And  tlieir  mother  did  die  of  a  broken  heart 

The  boughs  from  the  trunk  the  woodman  did  sever ; 
And  they  floated  it  down  on  the  course  of  the  river. 
They  saw'd  it  in  planks,  and  its  bark  they  did  strip. 
And  with  this  tree  and  others  they  made  a  good  ship. 
The  ship  it  w  as  laimch'd  ;  but  in  sight  of  the  land 
Such  a  siorm  there  did  rise  as  no  ship  could  with- 
stand. 
It  bulged  on  a  rock,  and  the  waves  rush'd  in  fast : 
The  ok'  Raven  flew  roimd  and  round,  and  caw'd  to 
the  blast 

He  heard  the  last  shriek  of  the  perisliing  souls — 
See  !  see  !  o'er  the  topmast  the  mad  water  rolls  ! 

Right  glad  was  the  Raven,  and  off  he  went  fleet, 
And  Death  riding  home  on  a  cloud  he  did  meet, 
And  he  thank'd  him  again  and  again  for  this  treat : 

They  had  taken  his  all,  and  Revenge  was  sweet ! 


ABSENCE. 

A   FAREWELL  ODE    ON    QUITTING    SCHOOL    FOR    JESUS 
COLLEGE,    CAMBRIDGE. 

Where  graced  with  many  a  classic  spoil 

Cam  rolls  his  reverend  stream  along, 

I  haste  to  urge  the  learned  toil 

That  sternly  chides  my  lovelorn  song  : 

Ah  me  !  too  mindful  of  the  days 

Illumed  by  Passion's  orient  rays. 

When  Peace,  and  Cheerfulness,  and  Health 

Eiuich'd  me  with  the  best  of  wealth. 

Ah  fair  delights  !  that  o'er  my  soul 
On  Memory's  wing,  like  shadows  fly ! 
Ah  Flowers !  which  Joy  from  Eden  stole 
While  Innocence  stood  smiling  by  ! — 
But  cease,  fond  heart !  this  bootless  moan : 
Those  hours  on  rapid  pinions  flown 
Shall  yet  return,  by  Absence  crown'd 
And  scatter  lovelier  roses  round. 

The  Sun  who  ne'er  remits  his  fires 
On  heedless  eyes  may  pour  the  day : 
The  Moon,  that  oft  from  Heaven  retires. 
Endears  her  renovated  ray. 
What  though  she  leaves  the  sky  unblesl 
To  mourn  awhile  in  murky  vest  ? 
When  she  relumes  her  lovely  light, 
We  bless  the  wanderer  of  the  night 


LINES  ON  AN  AUTUMNAL  EVENING. 

0  thou,  wild  Fancy,  check  thy  wing !  No  more 
Those  thin  white  flakes,  those  purple  clouds  explore ! 
Nor  there  with  happy  spirits  speed  thy  flight 
Bathed  in  rich  amber-glowing  floods  of  light ; 

Nor  in  yon  gleam,  where  slow  descends  the  day, 

With  western  peasants  hail  the  morning  ray ! 

Ah !  rather  bid  the  perish'd  pleasures  move, 

A  shadowy  train,  across  the  soul  of  Love ! 

O'er  Disappointment's  wintry  desert  fling 

Each  flower  that  wreathed  the  dewy  locks  of  Spring, 

Wlien    blushing,    like    a    bride,  from   Hope's   tnra 

bower 
She  leap'd,  awaken'd  by  the  pattering  shower. 
Now  sheds  the  sinking  Sun  a  deeper  gleam, 
Aid,  lovely  Sorceress  !  aid  thy  poet's  dream! 
With  fairy  wand  O  bid  the  Maid  arise, 
Chaste  Joyance  dancing  in  her  bright-blue  eyes ; 
As  erst  when  from  the  Muses'  calm  abode 

1  came,  with  Learning's  meed  not  imbestow'd ; 
Wlien  as  she  twined  a  laurel  round  my  brow, 
And  met  my  kiss,  and  half  return'd  my  vow, 
O'er  all  my  frame  shot  rajHd  my  thrill'd  heart. 
And  every  nerve  confess'd  th'  electric  dart 

0  dear  deceit !  I  see  the  Maiden  rise. 

Chaste  Joyance  dancing  in  her  bright-blue  eyes ! 
When  first  the  lark,  high  soaring,  swells  his  throat, 
Mocks  the  tired  eye,  and  scatters  the  wild  note, 

1  trace  her  footsteps  on  the  accislom'd  lawTi, 
I  mark  her  glancing  'mid  the  gleam  of  dawn. 
When  the  bent  flower  beneath  the  night-dew  weep« 
And  on  the  lake  the  silver  lustre  sleeps, 

15 


G 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Amid  the  paly  radiance  soft  and  sad, 
She  meets  my  lonely  path  in  moon-beams  dad. 
With  her  along  the  streamlet's  brink  I  rove ; 
With  her  I  list  the  warblings  of  the  grove  ; 
And  seems  in  each  low  wind  her  voice  to  float, 
Lone-whispering  Pity  in  each  soothing  note  ! 

Spirits  of  Love  !  ye  heard  her  name !  obey 
The  powerful  spell,  and  to  my  haunt  repair. 
Whether  on  clustering  pinions  ye  are  there, 
Where  rich  snows  blossom  on  the  myrtle  trees, 
Or  with  fond  languishment  around  my  fair 
Sigh  in  the  loose  luxuriance  of  her  hair; 
O  heed  the  spell,  and  hither  wing  your  way, 
Like  far-off  music,  voyaging  the  breeze ! 

Spirits !  to  you  the  infant  Maid  was  given, 
Form'd  by  the  wondrous  alchemy  of  heaven ! 
No  fairer  maid  does  Love's  wide  empire  know, 
No  fairer  maid  e'er  heaved  the  bosom's  snow. 
A  thousand  Loves  around  her  forehead  fly ; 
A  thousand  Loves  sit  melting  in  her  eye  ; 
Love  lights  her  smile — in  Joy's  red  nectar  dips 
His  myrtle  flower,  and  plants  it  on  her  lips. 
She  speaks !  and  hark  that  passion-warbled  song — 
Still,  Fancy  !  still  that  voice,  those  notes  prolong. 
As  sweet  as  when  tliat  voice  with  rapturous  falls 
Shall  wake  the  soften'd  echoes  of  Heaven's  halls ! 

O  (have  I  sigh'd)  were  mine  the  wizard's  rod, 
Or  mine  the  power  of  Proteus,  changeful  god  ! 
A  flower-entangled  arljor  I  would  seem. 
To  shield  my  Love  from  noontide's  sultry  beam : 
Or  bloom  a  Myrtle,  from  \\  hose  odorous  boughs 
My  love  might  weave  gay  garlands  (or  her  brows. 
Wiien  twilight  stole  across  the  fading  vale. 
To  fan  my  love  I'd  be  the  Evening  Gale; 
Mourn  in  the  soft  folds  of  her  swelling  vest, 
And  flutter  my  faint  pinions  on  her  breast ! 
On  Seraph  wing  1  'd  float  a  Dream  by  night. 
To  soothe  my  Love  with  shadows  of  delight :— • 
Or  soar  aloft  to  be  the  Spangled  Skies, 
And  gaze  upon  her  with  a  thousand  eyes  I 

As  when  the  Savage,  who  his  drowsy  frame 
Had  bask'd  beneath  the  Sun's  unclouded  flame, 
Awakes  amid  the  troubles  of  the  air, 
The  skiey  deluge,  and  white  lightning's  glare — 
Aghast  he  scours  before  the  tempest's  sweep. 
And  sad  recalls  the  sunny  hour  of  sleep : — 
So  toss'd  by  storms  along  Life's  wildering  way. 
Mine  eye  reverted  views  that  cloudless  day. 
When  by  my  native  brook  I  wont  to  rove, 
While  Hope  with  kisses  nursed  the  Infant  Love. 

Dear  native  brook !  like  Peace,  so  placidly 
Smoothing  through  fertile  fields  thy  current  meek! 
Dear  native  brook  !  where  first  young  Poesy 
Slared  wildly-eager  in  her  noontide  dream! 
Where  blameless  pleasures  dimple  Quiet's  cheek. 
As  wafer-lilies  ripple  thy  slow  stream! 
Dear  native  hauu:s  I  where  Virtue  still  is  gay, 
WTiere  Friendship's  fix'd  star  sheds  a  mellow'd  ray. 
Where  Love  a  crown  of  thornless  Roses  wears, 
Wliere  soften'd  Sorrow  smiles  within  her  tears ; 
And  Memory,  with  a  Vestal's  chaste  employ, 
Unceasing  feeds  the  lambent  flame  of  joy ! 


No  more  your  sky-larks  melting  from  the  sight 
Shall  thrill  the  attuned  heart-string  with  delight — 
No  more  shall  deck  your  pensive  Pleasures  sweet 
With  wreaths  of  sober  hue  my  evening  seat. 
Yet  dear  to  Fancy's  eye  your  varied  scene 
Of  wood,  hill,  dale,  and  sparkling  brook  between 
Yet  sweet  to  Fancy's  ear  the  warbled  song. 
That  soars  on  Morning's  wings  your  vales  among 

Scenes  of  my  Hope !  the  aching  eye  ye  leave. 
Like  yon  bright  hues  that  paint  the  clouds  of  eve ! 
Tearful  and  saddening  with  the  sadden'd  blaze, 
Mine  eye  the  gleam  pursues  with  wistful  gaze. 
Sees  shades  on  shades  with  deeper  tint  impend. 
Till  cliill  and  damp  the  moonless  night  descend 


THE  ROSE. 

As  late  each  flower  that  sweetest  blows 
I  phick'd,  the  Garden's  pride! 
Within  the  petals  of  a  Rose 
A  sleeping  Love  I  spied. 

Around  his  brows  a  beamy  wreath 
Of  many  a  lucent  hue ; 
All  purple,  glow'd  his  cheek,  beneath 
Inebriate  with  dew. 

I  softly  seized  the  unguarded  Power, 
Nor  scared  his  balmy  rest ; 
And  placed  him,  caged  within  the  flower, 
On  spotless  Sara's  breast. 

But  when  unweeting  of  the  guile 
Awoke  the  prisoner  sweet. 
He  struggled  to  escape  awhile. 
And  stamp'd  his  faery  feet. 

Ah !  soon  the  soul-entrancing  sight 
Subdued  the  impatient  boy  ! 
He  gazed !  he  thrill'd  with  deep  dehght ! 
Then  clapp'd  his  wings  for  joy. 

"  And  O !  he  cried — "  Of  magic  kind 
What  charm  this  Throne  endear ! 
Some  other  Love  let  Venus  find^ 
I'll  fix  my  empire  here." 


THE  KISS. 

One  kiss,  dear  Maid !  I  said  and  sigh'd- 
Your  scorn  the  little  boon  denied. 
Ah  why  refuse  the  blameless  bliss  ? 
Can  danger  lurk  within  a  kiss  ? 

Yon  viewless  Wanderer  of  the  vale. 
The  Spirit  of  the  Western  Gale, 
At  Morning's  break,  at  Evening's  closo 
Inhales  the  sweetness  of  the  Rose. 
And  hovers  o'er  the  uninjured  bloom 
Sighing  back  the  soft  perfume. 
Vigor  to  the  Zephyr's  wing 
Her  nectar-breathing  kisses  fling; 
16 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


And  He  the  glitter  of  the  DeW 
Scaiiers  on  the  Rose's  hue. 
Bashl'iil,  lo !  she  bends  her  head, 
And  darts  a  bhish  of  deeper  red! 

Too  well  those  lovely  lips  disclose 
The  triumphs  of  the  opening  Rose ; 
O  fair  !  O  graceful !  hid  them  prove 
As  passive  lo  the  brealh  of  Ijove. 
In  lender  accents,  faint  and  low. 
Well-pleased  I  hear  the  vvhisiier'd  "  No!" 
The  whisper'd  "  A'o" — how  little  meant! 
Sweet  fttlsehood  that  endears  consent ! 
For  on  those  lovely  lips  the  while 
Dawns  the  soft-relenting  smile. 
And  tempts  wilh  feign'd  dissuasion  coy 
The  gentle  violence  of  Joy. 


TO  A  YOUiMG  ASS. 

ITS    MOTHER    BEING    TETHERED    NEAR    IT. 

Poor  little  foal  of  an  oppressed  race ! 

I  love  the  languid  patience  of  thy  face  : 

And  oft  with  gentle  hand  I  give  thee  bread, 

And  clap  thy  ragged  coat,  and  pat  thy  head. 

But  what  thy  dulled  spirits  hath  dismay'd. 

That  never  thou  dost  sport  along  the  glade  ? 

And  (most  unlike  the  nature  of  things  young) 

That  earthward  still  thy  moveless  head  is  himg? 

Do  thy  prophetic  fears  antici])ate, 

Meek  Child  of  Misery  !  thy  future  fate  ? 

The  starving  meal,  and  all  the  thousand  aches 

"  Which  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes  ?" 

Or  is  thy  sad  heart  thrill'd  with  fdial  pain 

To' see  thy  wretched  mothers  shorten'd  chain ? 

And  truly,  very  piteous  is  her  lot — 

Chain'd  to  a  log  within  a  narrow  spot 

Where  the  close-eaten  grass  is  scarcely  seen. 

While  sweet  around  her  waves  the  tempting  green ! 

Poor  Ass!  thy  master  should  have  learnt  to  show 

Pity — best  taught  by  fellowship  of  woe ! 

For  much  I  fear  me  that  he  lives  like  thee, 

Half  famish'd  in  a  land  of  luxury ! 

How  askingly  its  footsteps  hither  bend  ? 

It  seems  to  say,  "  And  have  I  then  one  friend  ?" 

Innocent  Foal !  thou  poor  despised  forlorn ! 

I  hail  thee  brother — spite  of  the  fools  scorn ! 

And  fain  would  take  thee  with  me,  in  the  dell 

Of  peace  and  mild  equality  to  dwell. 

Where  Toil  shall  call  the  charmer  Health  his  Bride, 

And  Laughter  tickle  Plenty's  ribless  side ! 

How  thou  wouldst  toss  thy  heels  in  gamesome  play, 

And  frisk  almtit,  as  lamb  or  kitten  gay ! 

Yea!  and  more  musically  sweet  to  me 

Thy  dissonant  harsh  bray  of  joy  would  be, 

Than  warbled  melodies  that  soothe  to  rest 

The  aching  of  pale  fashion's  vacant  breast ! 


DOMESTIC  PEACE. 

Tell  me,  on  what  holy  ground 
May  Domestic  Peace  be  found  ? 
Halcyon  Daughter  of  the  skies. 
Far    n  fearful  winirs  she  flies. 


From  the  pomp  of  sceptred  state, 
From  the  rel)el's  noisy  hate. 
In  a  cotlaged  vale  She  dwells 
Listening  to  the  Sabbath  bells ' 
Still  around  her  steps  are  seen 
S[Mtlcss  Honor's  meeker  mien, 
Love,  me  sire  of  pleasing  fears. 
Sorrow  smiling  through  her  tears. 
And,  conscious  of  the  past  employ, 
Memory,  bosom-spring  of  joy 


THE  SIGH. 

When  Yoirth  his  faery  reign  began 
Ere  sorrow  had  proclaim'd  me  man ; 
While  Peace  the  present  hour  beguiled. 
And  all  the  lovely  prospect  smiled  ; 
Then,  Mary !  'mid  my  lightsome  glee 
I  heaved  the  painless  Sigh  for  thee. 

And  when, /along  the  waves  of  woe. 
My  harass'd  heart  was  doom'd  to  know 
The  frantic  burst  of  outrage  keen, 
And  the  slow  pang  that  gnaws  unseen  ; 
Then  shipwreck'd  on  life's  stormy  sea, 
I  heaved  an  anguish'd  Sigh  for  thee.' 

But  soon  reflection's  power  impress'd 
A  stiller  sadness  on  my  breast ; 
And  sickly  hope  with  waning  eye 
Was  well  content  to  droop  and  die  : 
I  yielded  to  the  stern  decree, 
Yet  heaved  a  languid  Sigh  for  thee! 

And  though  in  distant  climes  to  roam, 
A  wanderer  from  my  native  home, 
I  fain  would  soothe  the  sense  of  Care 
And  lull  to  sleep  the  Joys  that  were  I 
Thy  Image  may  not  banish'd  be — 
Still,  Mary  !  still  I  sigh  for  thee. 
June,  1794. 


EPITAPH  ON  AN  INFANT. 

Ere  Sin  could  blight  or  Sorrow  fade, 
Death  came  with  friendly  care  ; 

The  opening  bud  to  Heaven  convey'd, 
And  bade  it  blossom  tliere. 


LINES  WRITTEN  AT  THE  KING'S  ARMS 
ROSS. 

FORMERLY  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  "  MAN  OF  ROSS." 

Richer  than  miser  o'er  his  countless  hoards, 

Nobler  than  kings,  or  king-jiolluted  lords. 

Here  dwelt  the  man  of  Ross!  O  Traveller,  hear! 

Departed  merit  claims  a  reverent  tear. 

Friend  to  the  friendless,  to  the  sick  man  health, 

With  generous  joy  he  view'd  his  modest  wealth ; 

He  hears  the   widow's   hcaven-breath'd    prayer  of 

praise. 
He  mark'd  the  shelter'd  orphan's  tearful  gaze. 
Or  where  the  .sorrow-shrivel I'd  captive  lay, 
Pours  the  bright  blaze  of  Freedom's  noontide  ray. 
Beneath  this  roof  if  thy  checr'd  moments  pass, 
I  Fill  to  the  good  man's  name  one  gratelul  gla.ss 

17 


8 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To  higher  zest  shall  Memory  wake  thy  soul, 
And  Virtue  mingle  in  the  ennobled  bowl. 
But  if,  like  rno,  through  life's  distressful  scene, 
Lonely  and  sad,  thy  pilgrimage  hath  been  ; 
And  if  thy  breast  with  heart-sick  anguish  fraught. 
Thou  joumeyest  onward  tempest-toss'd  in  thought ; 
Here  cheat  thy  cares !  in  generous  visions  melt, 
And  dream  of  goodness,  thou  hast  never  felt ! 


LINES  TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  SPRING  IN  A 
VILLAGE. 

Once  more,  sweet  Stream !  with  slow  foot  wander- 
ing near, 
I  bless  thy  milky  waters  cold  and  clear. 
Escaped  the  flashing  of  the  noontide  hours 
With  one  fresh  garland  of  Pierian  flowers 
(Ere  from  thy  zephyr-haunted  brink  I  turn) 
My  languid  hand  shall  wreath  thy  mossy  urn. 
For  not  through  pathless  grove  vnth  murmur  rude 
Thou  soothest  the  sad  wood-nymph,  Solitude  ; 
Nor  thine  unseen  in  cavern  depths  to  well, 
The  Hennit-fountain  of  some  dripping  cell ! 
Pride  of  the  Vale !  thy  useful  streams  supply 
The  scatter'd  cots  and  peaceful  hamlet  nigh. 
The  elfm  tribe  around  thy  friendly  banks 
With  infant  uproar  and  soul-soothing  pranks, 
Released  from  school,  their  little  hearts  at  rest, 
Launch  paper  navies  on  thy  waveless  breast. 
The  rustic  here  at  eve  with  pensive  look 
Whisthng  lorn  ditties  leans  upon  his  crook. 
Or,  starting,  pauses  with  hope-mingled  dread 
To  list  the  much-loved  maid's  accustom'd  tread  : 
She,  vainly  mindful  of  her  dame's  command, 
Loiters,  the  long-fiU'd  pitcher  in  her  hand. 
Unboastful  Stream !  thy  fount  with  pebbled  falls 
The  faded  form  of  past  delight  recalls. 
What  time  the  morning  sun  of  Hope  arose, 
Aiid  all  was  joy  ;  save  when  another's  woes 
A  transient  gloom  upon  my  soul  imprest, 
Like  passing  clouds  impicturcd  on  thy  breast. 
Life's  current  then  ran  sparkling  to  tlie  noon. 
Or  silvery  stole  beneath  the  jjensive  Moon : 
Ah !  now  it  works  rude  brakes  and  thorns  among, 
Or  o'er  the  rough  rock  bursts  and  foams  along  ! 


LINES  ON  A  FRIEND, 

WHO  DIED  OF  A  FRENZY  FEVER  INDUCED  BY  CALUM- 
NIOUS REPORTS. 

Edmund?  thy  grave  with  aching  eye  I  scan. 

And  inly  groan  for  Heaven's  poor  outcast — Man! 

'T  is  tempest  all  or  gloom  :  in  early  youth. 

If  gifted  with  the  ilhuriel  lance  of  Truth, 

We  force  to  start  amid  her  feign'd  caress 

Vice,  siren-hag!  in  native  ugliness  ; 

A  brother's  iate  will  haply  rouse  the  tear, 

And  on  we  go  in  heaviness  and  fear ! 

But  if  our  fond  hearts  call  to  Pleasure's  bower 

Some  pigmy  Fo''.y  in  a  careless  hour. 

The  faithless  guest  shall  stamp  the  enchanted  ground 

And  mingled  forms  of  Misery  rise  around  : 

Ileart-fretting  Fear,  with  pallid  look  agliast. 

That  courts  the  future  woe  to  hide  the  past ; 


Remorse,  the  poison'd  arrow  in  his  side, 

And  loud  lewd  Mirth,  to  anguish  close  allied : 

Till  Frenzy,  fierce-eyed  child  of  moping  pain. 

Darts  her  hot  lightning  flash  athwart  the  brain. 

Rest,  injured  shade  !  Shall  Slander  squatting  near 

Spit  her  cold  venom  in  a  dead  Man's  ear? 

'Twas  thine  to  feel  the  s^-mpathetic  glow 

In  Merit's  joy,  and  Poverty's  meek  woe ; 

Thine  all  that  cheer  the  moment  as  it  flies. 

The  zoneless  Cares,  and  smiling  Courtesies. 

Nursed  in  thy  heart  the  firmer  Virtues  grew, 

And  in  thy  heart  they  wither'd  I  Such  chill  dew 

Wan  indolence  on  each  young  blossom  shed  ; 

And  Vanity  her  filmy  net-work  spread. 

With  eye  that  roll'd  around,  in  asking  gaze. 

And  tongue  that  trafTick'd  in  the  trade  of  praise. 

Thy  follies  such !  the  hard  world  mark'd  them  well 

Were  they  more  wise,  the  proud  who  never  fell  ? 

Rest,  injur'd  shade!  the  poor  man's  grateful  prayer 

On  heavenward  wing  thy  wounded  soul  shall  bear 

As  oft  at  twilight  gloom  thy  grave  I  pass, 

And  sit  me  down  upon  its  recent  grass. 

With  introverted  eye  I  contemplate 

Similitude  of  soul,  perhaps  of — Fate  ! 

To  me  hath  Heaven  with  bounteous  hand  assign'd 

Energic  Reason  and  a  shaping  mind. 

The  daring  ken  of  I'ruth,  the  Patriot's  part, 

And  Pity's  sigh,  that  breathes  the  gentle  heart. 

Slolh-jaundic'd  all !  and  from  my  graspless  hand 

Drop  Friendshi's   precious    pearls,   like   hour-glass 

sand. 
I  weep,  yet  stoop  not !  the  faint  anguish  flows, 
A  dreamy  pang  in  ftlorning's  feverish  doze. 

Is  this  piled  earth  our  being's  passless  mound  ? 
Tell  me,  cold  grave !  is  Death  with  poppies  crown'd 
Tired  sentinel !  'mid  fitful  starts  I  nod. 
And  fain  would  sleep,  though  pillow'd  on  a  clod ! 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY,  WITH  A  POEM  ON 
THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 

Much  on  my  early  youth  I  love  to  dwell. 

Ere  yet  I  bade  that  friendly  dome  farewell. 

Where  first,  beneath  the  echoing  cloisters  pale, 

I  heard  of  guilt  and  wonder'd  at  the  tale ! 

Yet  though  the  hours  flew  by  on  careless  wing, 

Full  heavily  of  Sorrow  would  I  sing. 

Aye  as  the  star  of  evening  flung  its  beam 

In  broken  radiance  on  the  wavy  stream. 

My  soul  amid  the  pensive  twilight  gloom 

Mourn'd  with  the  bree/e,  O  Lee  Boo!*  o'er  thy  tomb 

Where'er  I  wander'd   Pity  still  was  near. 

Breathed  from  the  heart  and  glislen'd  in  the  tear  ■ 

No  knell  that  loll'd,  but  fill'd  my  anxious  eye. 

And  suflTenng  Nature  wept  that  one  should  die  !t 

Thus  to  sad  sympailiiei-  I  soothed  my  breast. 
Calm,  as  the  rainbow  in  the  weeping  West : 
When  slumbering  Freedom  roused  with  high  disdain 
With  giant  fury  burst  her  triple  chain ! 


*  Lee  Boo,  the  son  of  Abba  Thule.  Prinre  of  the  Pelew  Isl- 
ands. Clime  over  to  England  with  Captain  Wilson,  died  of  the 
small-pox,  and  is  buried  in  Greenwich  church-yard.— See  Keate'i 
Jlccdunt. 

T  Soulliey's  Retrospect. 

18 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


Fierce  on  her  front  the  blasting  Dog-star  glovv'd  ; 
Her  banner?  like  a  midnight  meteor,  llovv'ii ; 
Amid  ilie  yelling  of  the  siorm-rent  skies ! 
She  ciiiiie,  and  scaiter'd  battles  Irom  her  eyes! 
Then  Kxnltaiion  waked  llie  patriot  lire, 
And  swept  with  wilder  hand  the  Alciean  lyre : 
Red  from  the  tyrant's  wound  1  shook  the  lance, 
And  strode  in  joy  the  reeking  plains  of  France ! 

Fallen  is  the  oppressor,  friendless,  ghastly,  low, 
And  mv  heart  aches,  though  Mercy  struck  the  blow. 
W'lih  wearied  thought  once  more  I  seek  the  shade, 
AVhcre  peaceful  Virtue  weaves  the  myrtle  braid. 
And  O!  if  eyes  whose  holy  glances  roll. 
Swift  messengers,  and  eloquent  of  soul ; 
If  smiles  more  winning,  and  a  gentler  mien 
Than  the  love-wilder'd  Maniac's  brain  hath  seen 
Shaping  celestial  forms  in  vacant  air. 
If  these  demand  the  impassion'd  ptiet's  care — 
W  Wirth  and  sofien'd  Sense  and  Wit  refmed, 
The  blameless  features  of  a  lovely  mind  ; 
Then  haply  shall  my  trembling  hand  assign 
]\'o  fading  wreath  to  beauty's  saintly  shrine. 
IVor,  Sara  !  thou  these  early  flowers  refuse — 
Ne'er  lurk'd  the  snake  beneath  their  simple  hues; 
Ko  purple  bloom  the  child  of  nature  brings 
From  Flatter)''s  night-shade ;  as  he  feels,  he  sings. 
Seplcinher,  1792. 


SONNET. 


Content,  as  random  Fancies  might  inspire. 
It"  liis  weak  harp  at  times,  or  lonely  lyre 
He  strunk  with  desultory  hand,  and  drew 
Some  sol^en'd  tones  to  Nature  not  untrue. 

Bowles. 


My  heart  has  thank'd  thee,  Bowles!  for  those  soft 

strains, 
Wliose  sadness  soothes  me,  like  the  murmuring 
Of  wild-bees  in  the  sunny  showers  of  spring  I 
For  hence  not  callous  to  the  mourner's  pains 
Through   youth's  gay  prime  and   ihornless   path  I 

went  : 
And  when  the  mightier  throes  of  man  besan, 
And  drove  me  forth,  a  thought-bewilder'd  man ! 
Their  mild  and  manliest  melancholy  lent 
A  mingled  charm,  such  a»  the  pang  consign'd 
To  slumljer,  though  the  big  tear  it  renew'd  ; 
Bidding  a  strange  mysterious  Pleasure  brood 
Over  the  wavy  and  tumultuous  mind. 
As  the  great  S|)irit  erst  with  plastic  sweep 
Moved  on  the  darkness  of  the  unform'd  deep. 


SONNET. 

As  late  I  lay  in  slumber's  shadowy  vale, 
With  wetted  cheek  and  in  a  mourner's  guise, 
I  saw  the  sainted  form  of  Freedom  rise : 
She  spake!  not  sadder  moans  the  autumnal  gale  — 
"  Great  Son  of  Genius !  sw-eet  to  me  thy  name, 
Ere  in  an  evil  hour  with  alter'd  voice 
Tho'i  liadst  Oppression's  hireling  crew  rejoice, 
Clastiiig  willi  wizard  spell  my  laurcll'd  fame, 
'^'el  never,  Burke  I  thou  drank'st  Corruption's  bowl ! 
The  stormy  Pity  and  the  cherish'd  lure 
C 


Of  Pomp,  and  proud  PreciiHtance  of  soul 
Wilder'd  with  meteor  fires.     Ah  spirit  pure ' 
'i'hat  error's  mist  had  left  thy  ])urgcd  eye  : 
So  might  I  clasp  ihee  with  a  mother's  joy ! 


SONNET. 


Though  roused  by  that  dark  Vizir,  Riot  rude 
Have  driven  our  Pkiest  over  the  ocean  swell 
Though  Superstition  and  her  wollish  brood 
Bay  his  mild  radiance,  imiwtent  and  fell ; 
Calm  in  his  halls  of  brightness  he  shall  dwell 
For  lo  I  Religion  at  his  strong  behest 
Starts  with  mild  anger  from  the  Papal  spell. 
And  flings  to  earth  her  tinsel-glittering  vest, 
Her  mitred  slate  and  cumbrous  pomp  unholy ; 
And  Justice  wakes  lo  bid  the  Oppressor  wail, 
Insidting  aye  the  wrongs  of  patient  Folly : 
And  from  her  dark  retreat  by  Wisdom  won, 
Meek  Nature  slowly  hfts  her  matron  veil 
To  smile  with  fondness  on  her  gazing  son ! 


SONNET. 

Whem  British  Freedom  for  a  happier  land 

Spread  her  broad  wings,  that  (lutter'd  with  affright, 

Erskine  !  thy  voice  she  heard,  and  paused  her  fligbl 

Sublime  of  hope  !  For  dreadless  thou  didst  stand 

(Thy  censer  glowing  with  the  hallow'd  flame) 

A  hireless  Priest  before  the  insulted  shrine. 

And  at  her  altar  pour  the  stream  divine 

Of  unmatch'd  eloquence.     Therefore  thy  name 

Her  sons  shall  venerate,  and  cheer  thy  breast 

With  blessings  heavenward  breathed.      And  when 

the  doom 
Of  Nature  bids  thee  die,  beyond  the  tomb 
Thy  light  shall  shine  :  as  sunk,  beneath  the  West, 
Though  the  great  Summer  Sun  eludes  our  gaze. 
Still  burns  w  ide  Heaven  with  his  distended  blaze. 


SONNET. 

It  w'as  some  Spirit,  Sheridan  !  that  breathed 

O'er  thy  young  mind  such  wildly  various  power ! 

My  soul  hath  mark'd  thee  in  her  shaping  hour. 

Thy  temples  with  Hymettian  flow'rets  wreathed: 

And  sweet  thy  voice,  as  when  o'er  Laura's  l)ier 

Sad  music  trembled  through  Vauclusa's  glaio; 

Sweet,  as  at  dawn  the  lovelorn  serenade 

That  wafts  soft  dreams  to  Slumber's  listening  o-tT 

Now  patriot  mge  and  indignation  high 

Swell   the  full   tones!    And  now  thine   eye-beania 

dance 
Meaning  of  Scorn  and  Wit's  quaint  revelry! 
Writhes  iidy  from  the  Iwsom-prohing  glance 
The  Apostate  by  the  brainless  rout  adored. 
As  erst  that  elder  fiend  beneath  great  Michael's  sword 


SONNET. 

O  WHAT  a  loud  and  fearful  shriek  was  there. 
As  though  a  thousand  souls  one  doaiii-groaii  pour'd! 
Ah  me  !   thev  vievv'd  bcnoalli  a  hireling's  sword 
Fallen  Kosciusko!  Through  the  burthcn'd  air 
19 


10 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


^As  pauses  the  tired  Cossack's  barbarous  yell 

Of  tri  imph)  on  the  chill  and  midnight  gale 

Rises  wilh  frantic  burst  or  sadder  swell 

The  dirge  of  murder'd  Hope!  while  Freedom  pale 

Bends  in  such  anguish  o'er  her  destined  bier, 

As  if  from  eldest  time  some  Spirit  meek 

Had  gather'd  in  a  mystic  urn  each  tear 

That  ever  on  a  Patriot's  furrow'd  cheek 

Fit  channel  found  ;  and  she  had  drarn'd  the  bowl 

In  the  mere  wilfulness,  and  sick  despavr  of  soul  I 


SONNET. 

As  when  far  off  the  warbled  strains  are  heard 
That  soar  on  Morning's  wing  the  vales  among, 
Within  his  cage  the  imprison'd  matin  bird 
Swells  the  full  chorus  with  a  generous  song : 
He  bathes  no  pinion  in  the  dewy  light, 
No  Father's  joy,  no  Lover's  bliss  he  shares. 
Yet  still  the  rising  radiance  cheers  his  sight ; 
His  Fellows'  freedom  soothes  ihe  Captive's  cares : 
Thou,  Fayette!  who  didst  wake  with  startling  voice 
Life's  better  sun  from  that  long  wintry  night, 
Thus  in  thy  Country's  triumphs  shalt  rejoice. 
And  mock  with  raptures  high  the  dungeon's  might: 
For  lo !  the  morning  struggles  into  day. 
And  Slavery's  spectres  shriek  and  vanish  from  the 
ray! 


SONNET. 

Thod  gentle  Look,  that  didst  my  soul  beguile. 
Why  hast  thou  left  me  ?  Still  in  some  fond  dream 
Revisit  my  sad  heart,  auspicious  Smile! 
As  falls  on  closing  flowers  the  lunar  beam : 
Wliat  time,  in  sickly  mood,  at  parting  day 
I  lay  me  dowTi  and  think  of  happier  years; 
Of  joys,  that  glimmer'd  in  Hope's  twilight  ray, 
Then  left  me  darkling  in  a  vale  of  tears. 
O  pleasant  days  of  Hope — for  ever  gone ! 
Could  I  recall  you ! — But  that  thought  is  vain. 
Availclh  not  Persuasion's  sweetest  tone 
To  lure  the  fleet-wing'd  travellers  back  again: 
Yet  fair,  though  faint,  their  images  shall  gleam 
Like  the  bright  rainbow  on  a  willowy  stream. 


SONNET. 

Pale  Roamer  through  the  Night;  thou  poor  Forlorn! 
Remorse  tliat  man  on  his  death-bed  possess, 
Wlio  in  the  credulous  hour  of  tenderness 
Betray'd,  then  cast  thee  forth  to  Want  and  Scorn! 
The  world  is  pitiless :  the  Chaste  one's  pride, 
Mimic  of  Virtue,  scowls  on  thy  distress: 
Thy  loves  and  they,  that  envied  thee,  deride  : 
And  Vice  alone  will  shelter  wretchedness! 
O!  I  am  sad  to  think,  that  there  should  be 
Cold-hosom'd  lewd  ones,  who  endure  to  place 
Foul  offerings  on  the  s!irine  of  Misery, 
And  force  from  Famine  the  caress  of  Love  ;      ^ 
May  He  shed  healing  on  the  sore  disgrace, 
He,  the  great  Comforter  that  rules  above  ! 


SONNET. 

Sweet  Mercy  !  how  my  very  heart  has  bled 
To  see  thee,  poor  Old  Man!  and  thy  gray  hairs 
Hoar  with  the  snowy  blast :  while  no  one  cares 
To  clothe  thy  shrivell'd  limbs  and  palsied  head. 
My  Father!  throw  away  this  tatter'd  vest 
Tliat  mocks  thy  shivering!  take  my  garment — use 
A  yoimg  man's  arm!  I'll  melt  these  frozen  dews 
That  hang  from  thy  white  beard  and  numb  thy  breast 
My  Sara  too  shall  tend  thee,  like  a  Child : 
And  thou  shalt  talk,  in  our  fire-side's  recess, 
Of  purple  Pride,  that  scowls  on  Wretchedness. 
He  did  not  so,  the  Galitean  mild. 
Who  met  the  Lazars  turn'd  from  rich  men's  doors. 
And  call'd  them  Friends,  and  heal'd  their  noisome 
Sores ! 


SONNET. 

Thou  bleedest,  my  poor  Heart!  and  thy  distress 
Reasoning  I  ponder  with  a  scornful  smile. 
And  i)robe  thy  sore  wound  sternly,  though  the  wliile 
Swoln  be  mine  eye  and  dim  with  heaviness. 
Vv'hy  didst  tnou  listen  to  Hope's  whisper  bland  ? 
Or,  listening,  why  forget  the  healing  tale, 
When  Jealousy  with  feverish  fancies  pale 
Jarr'd  thy  fine  fibres  with  a  maniac's  hand? 
Faint  was  that  Hope,  and  rayless! — Yet  'twas  fair 
And  soothed  with  many  a  dream  the  hour  of  rest: 
Thou  shouldst  have  loved  it  most,  when  most  oppresl 
And  nursed  it  with  an  agony  of  Care, 
Even  as  a  Mother  her  sweet  infant  heir 
That  wan  and  sickly  droops  upon  her  breast! 


SONNET. 


TO    THE    AUTHOR    OF    THE    "  ROBBERS." 

Schiller!  that  hour  I  would  have  wished  to  die. 
If  through  the  shuddering  midnight  I  had  sent 
From  the  dark  dungeon  of  the  tower  time-rent 
That  fearful  voice,  a  famish'd  Father's  cry — 
Lest  in  some  after  moment  aught  more  mean 
Might  stamp  me  mortal!  A  triumphant  sliout 
Black  Horror  scream'd,  and  all  her  goblin  rout 
Diminish'd  shrunk  from  the  more  withering  scene! 
Ah  Bard  tremendous  in  sublimity! 
Could  I  behold  ihee  in  thy  loftier  mood 
Wandering  at  eve  with  finely  frenzied  eye 
Beneath  some  vast  old  tempest-swinging  wood! 
Awhile  with  mute  awe  gazing  I  would  brood: 
Then  weep  aloud  in  a  wild  ecstasy ! 


LINES 


C0.AirO.':ED   while    climbing    the    LEFT    ASCE\T    OF 

brockley  COOMB,  sojiersetshirb:,  may,  1795 

With  manv  a  pause  and  oft-reverted  eye 
I  climb  the  Coomb's  ascent :  sweet  songsters  near 
Warble  in  shade  their  wild-wood  melody: 
Far  off  the  unvarying  Cuckoo  soothes  my  ear. 
T^p  scour  the  startling  stragglers  of  the  Flock 
That  on  green  plots  o'er  precipices  browse  ; 
From  the  forced  fissures  of  the  naked  rock 
The  Yew-tree  bursts!  Beneath  its  dark-green  boughs 
20 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


li 


f'Mid  which  the  May-thorn  blends  its  blossoms  white) 
Wliere  broad  sntooih  stones  jut  out  in  mossy  seats, 
I  rest  : — and  now  have  gain'd  tlie   topmost  site. 
Ah  !  whai  a  luxury  of  landscape  meeis 
My  gaze  I  Proud  'I'owers,  and  Cots  more  dear  to  me, 
Elm-shadow'd  Fielils,  and  prospect-bounding  Sea  ! 
Deep  sighs  my  lonely  heart     I  drop  the  tear : 
Enchanting  spot !  O  were  my  Sara  here ! 


LINES 


IN   THE   MANNER    OF   SPENSER. 

0  PEAcr !  that  on  a  lilied  bank  dost  love 
To  reot  f.line  liead  beneath  an  Olive  Tree, 

1  would,  that  from  the  pinions  of  thy  Dove 
One  quili  wilhouien  pain  ypluck'd  might  be  ! 
For  O !  I  wish  my  Sara's  frowns  to  flee, 
And  fain  to  her  some  sootliing  song  would  write. 
Lest  she  lesent  my  rude  discourtesy, 
Who  vowd  to  meet  her  ere  the  morning  hght. 
But  broke  my  plighted  word — ah  I  false  and  recreant 

wight ! 

Last  night  as  1  my  weary  head  did  pillow 
With  thoughts  of  my  dissever'd  Fair  engross'd. 
Chill  Fancy  droop'd  viieathing  herself  with  willow 
As  though  my  breast  entomb'd  a  pining  ghost. 
'  From  some   blest  couch,  young  Rapture's  bridal 

boast, 
Rejected  Slumber  !  hither  wing  thy  way  ; 
But  leave  me  with  the  matin  hour,  at  most ! 
As  night-closed  Floweret  to  the  orient  ray. 
My  sad  heart  will  expand,  when  I  the  Maid  survey." 

But  Love,  who  heard  the  silence  of  my  thought, 
Contrived  a  too  successful  wile,  I  ween : 
And  whisper'd  to  himself,  v\ith  malice  fraught — 
"  Too  long  our  Slave  the  Damsel's  smiles  hath  seen  : 
To-morrow  shall  he  ken  her  alter'd  mien ! " 
He  spake,  and  ambush'd  lay,  till  on  my  bed 
Tlie  morning  shot  her  dewy  glances  keen. 
When  as  I  'gan  to  lift  my  drowsy  head — 
"  j\'ow.  Bard!  I'll  work  thee  woe!"  the  laughing 
Elfin  said. 

Sleep,  softly-breathing  God  !  his  downy  wing 
Was  fluttering  now,  as  quickly  to  depart ; 
\\'hen  twang'd  an  arrow"  from  Love's  mystic  string, 
With  palhless  wound  it  pierced  him  to  the  heart. 
^Vas  there  some  magic  in  the  Elfin's  dart  ? 
Or  did  he  strike  my  couch  with  wizard  lance  ? 
For  straight  so  fair  a  Form  did  upwards  start 
(No  fairer  deck'd  the  Bowers  of  old  Romance) 
That  Sleep  enamour'd   grew,  nor  moved  from  his 
sweet  trance ! 

My  Sara  came,  with  gentlest  look  divine  ; 

Bright  shone  her  eye,  yet  tender  was  its  beam: 

1  felt  the  pressure  of  her  lip  to  mine ! 

Whispering  we  went,  and  Love  was  all  our  theme— 

I_/)ve  pure  and  spotless,  as  at  first,  I  deem. 

He  sprang  from  Heaven !  Such  joys  with  Sleep  did 

'bide. 
That  I  the  living  Image  of  my  Dream 
Fondly  forgot.    Too  late  I  woice,  and  sigh'd — 
'  O !  how  shall  I  behold  my  Love  at  eventide  ! " 


IMITATED  FROM  OSSIAN. 

The  stream  with  languid  murmur  creeiis, 

In  Lumin's  jlowcry  vale  : 
Beneath  the  dew  the  Lily  weeps. 

Slow-waving  to  the  gale. 

"  Cease,  restless  gale  ! "  it  seems  to  say, 
"  Nor  wake  me  with  thy  sighing! 

The  honors  of  my  vernal  day 
On  rapid  wing  arc  flying. 

"  To-morrow  shall  the  Traveller  come 
Wlio  late  beheld  me  blooming : 

His  searching  eye  shall  vainly  roam 
The  dreary  vale  of  Lumin." 

With  eager  gaze  and  wetted  cheek 
My  wonted  haimts  along. 

Thus,  faithful  Maiden  !  thou  shall  seek 
The  Youth  of  simplest  song. 

But  I  along  the  breeze  shall  roll 
The  voice  of  feeble  power; 

And  dwell,  the  moon-beam  of  thy  soul, 
In  Slumber's  nightly  hour. 


TliE  COMPLAINT  OF  NINATHOMA 

How  long  will  ye  round  me  be  swelling, 

O  ye  blue-tumbling  waves  of  the  Sea  ? 
Not  always  in  Caves  was  my  dwelling. 

Nor  beneath  the  cold  blast  of  the  Tree.  ~ 
Through  the  high-sounding  halls  of  Cathloma 

In  the  steps  of  my  beautj^  1  stray'd  ; 
The  Warriors  beheld  Ninathoma, 

And  they  blessed  the  white-bosom'd  Maid ! 

A  Ghost !  by  my  cavern  it  darted  ! 

In  moon-beams  the  Spirit  was  drest — 
For  lovely  appear  the  departed 

When  they  visit  the  dreams  of  my  rest ! 
But,  distnrb'd  by  the  Tempest's  commotion, 

Fleet  the  shadowy  forms  of  Delight — 
Ah  cease,  thou  shrill  blast  of  the  Ocean ! 

To  howl  through  my  Cavern  by  Night 


IMITATED  FROM  THE  WELSH 

If,  while  my  passion  I  impart. 
You  deem  my  words  untrue, 

O  place  your  hand  upon  my  heart — 
Feel  how  it  throbs  for  you  .' 

Ah  no  !  reject  the  thoughtless  claim, 

In  pity  to  your  lover ! 
That  thrilling  touch  would  aid  the  flame 

It  wishes  to  discover. 


TO  AN  INFANT. 

Ah  cease  thy  tears  and  Sobs,  my  little  Life  • 
I  did  but  snatch  away  the  unclasp'd  Knife  : 
Some  safer  Toy  will  soon  arrest  thine  eye. 
And  to  quick  Laughter  change  this  peevish  ^  yl 
4  21 


12 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Poor  Stumbler  on  the  rocky  coast  of  Woe, 
Tutor'd  by  Pain  each  source  of  Pain  to  know ! 
Alike  the  foodful  fruit  and  scorching  fire 
Awake  thy  eager  grasp  and  young  desire  ; 
Alike  the  Good,  the  111  oflcnd  thy  sight, 
And  rouse  the  stormy  sense  of  shrill  affright! 
Unlauglit,  yet  wise!  'mid  all  thy  brief  alarms 
Thou  closely  chngest  to  thy  Mother's  arms, 
Nestling  thy  little  lace  in  that  fond  breast 
Whose  anxious  heavings  lull  thee  to  thy  rest ! 
Man"s  breathing  Miniature !  thou  makest  me  sigh — 
A  Babe  art  thou — and  such  a  tiling  am  I ! 
To  anger  rapid  and  as  soon  appeased, 
For  trilles  mourning  and  by  irilles  pleased, 
Break  Friendship's  Mirror  with  a  techy  blow. 
Yet  snatch  \\  hat  coals  of  lire  on  Pleasure's  altar 
glow ! 

O  thou  that  rearest  with  celestial  aim 

The  future  Seraph  in  my  mortal  frame. 

Thrice-holy  Faith !  whatever  thorns  I  meet 

As  on  I  totter  with  unpractised  feet. 

Still  let  me  stretch  my  arms  and  cling  to  thee. 

Meek  Nurse  of  Souls  through  their  long  Infancy ! 


LINES 


WRITTEN  AT  SHURTON  BARS,  NEAR  BRIDGEWATER, 
SEPTEMBER,  1795,  IN  ANSWER  TO  A  LETTER 
FROM    BRISTOL. 


Good  verse  most  good,  and  bad  verse  then  seems  better 

Received  from  absent  friend  by  way  of  Letter. 

For  what  so  sweet  can  labor'd  lays  impart 

As  one  rude  rhyme  warm  from  a  friendly  heart  7 

Anon. 


Nor  travels  my  meandering  eye 
The  starry  wilderness  on  high  ; 

Nor  now  with  curious  sight 
I  mark  the  glow-worm,  as  I  pass, 
Move  with  "  green  radiance  "  through  the  grass, 

An  emerald  of  light. 

0  ever  present  to  my  view  ! 
My  wafted  spirit  is  with  you. 

And  soothes  your  boding  fears  : 

1  see  you  all  oppress'd  with  gloom 
Sit  lonely  in  that  cheerless  room — 

Ah  me  !  You  are  in  tears  ! 

Beloved  Woman !  did  you  fly 

Chill'd  Friendship's  dark  disliking  eye, 

Or  Mirth's  untimely  din  ? 
With  cruel  weight  these  trilles  press 
A  temper  sore  with  tenderness. 

When  aches  the  void  within. 

But  why  with  sable  wand  unbless'd 
Should  Fancy  rouse  within  my  breast 

Dim-visaged  shapes  of  Dread  ? 
Untenanting  its  beauteous  clay 
My  Sara's  soul  has  vving'd  its  way, 

And  hovers  round  my  head  ! 

[  felt  it  prompt  the  tender  Dream, 
When  slowly  sunk  the  day's  last  gleam ; 


You  roused  each  gentler  sense 
As,  sighing  o'er  the  Blossom's  bloom. 
Meek  Evening  wakes  its  soft  perfume 

With  viewless  inlluence. 

And  hark,  my  Love  !  The  sea-breeze  moans 
Through  yon  reft  house !  O'er  rolling  stones 

In  bold  ambitious  sweep. 
The  onward-surging  tides  supply 
The  silence  of  the  cloudless  sky 

With  mimic  thimders  deep. 

Dark  reddening  from  the  channell'd  Isle* 
(Where  stands  oiie  solitary  pile 

Unslated  by  the  blast) 
The  Watch-fire,  like  a  sullen  star 
Twinkles  to  many  a  dozing  Tar 

Rude   cradled  on  the  mast. 

Even  there — beneath  that  light-house  tower- 
In  the  tumultuous  evil  hour 

Ere  Peace  with  Sara  came. 
Time  was,  I  should  have  thought  it  sweet 
To  count  the  echoings  of  my  feet. 

And  watch  the  slorm-vex'd  flame. 

And  there  in  black  soul-jaundiced  fit 
A  sad  gloom-pamper'd  Man  to  sit, 

And  listen  to  the  roar  : 
When  Mountain  Surges  bellowing  deep 
With  an  uncouth  monster  leap 

Plunged  foaming  on  the  shore. 

Then  by  the  Lightning's  blaze  to  mark  * 
Some  loihng  tempesl-shatter'd  bark ; 

Her  vaiir  distress-guns  hear; 
And  when  a  second  sheet  of  light 
Flash'd  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  night — 

To  see  no  Vessel  there ! 

But  Fancy  now  more  gaily  sings  : 
Or  if  awhile  she  droop  her  wijigs, 

As  sky-larks  'mid  the  corn. 
On  summer  fields  she  grounds  her  breast : 
The  oblivious  Poppy  o'er  her  nest 

Nods,  till  returning  morn. 

O  mark  tliose  smiling  tears,  that  swell 
The  open'd  Rose  I  From  heaven  they  fell, 

And  with  the  sun-beam  blend. 
Bless'd  visitations  from  above. 
Such  are  the  lender  woes  of  Love 

Fostering  the  heart,  they  bend  ! 

When  stormy  Midnight  howling  round 
Beats  on  our  roof  with  clattering  sound. 

To  me  your  arms  you  '11  stretch  : 
Great  God  !  you  '11  say — To  us  so  kind, 
O  shelter  from  this  loud  bleak  wind 

The  houseless,  friendless  wretch! 

The  tears  that  tremble  down  your  cheek, 
Shall  bathe  Uiy  Idsses  chaste  and  meek 


*  The  Holmes,  in  the  Bristol  Channel. 
22 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


13 


Jn  Pity's  dew  divine  ; 
And  from  your  heart  the  sighs  tliat  steal 
Shall  make  your  rising  bosom  leel 

The  answering  swell  of  mine  ! 

flow-  ofi,  my  Love !  with  shapings  sweet 
I  paint  the  moment  we  shall  meet ! 

With  eager  speed    I   dart — 
I  seize  you  in  the  vacant  air, 
And  (ancy,  with  a  Hushand's  care 

J   press  you  to  my  heart  ! 

'T  is  said,  on  Summer's  evening  hour 
Flashes  the  golden-color'd  tlower 

A  fair  electric  flame  : 
And  so  shall  flash  my  love-charged  eye 
When  all  the  heart's  big  ecstasy 

Shoots  rapid  through  the  frame ! 


LINES 

FRIEND     IN    ANSWER    TO 
LETTER. 


A  MELANCHOLY 


Away,  those  cloudy  looks,  that  laboring  sigh. 
The  p4>evish  oflspring  of  a  sickly  hour ! 
]Nor  meanly  thus  complain  of  Fortune's  power. 
When  the  blind  Gamester  throws  a  luckless  die. 

Yon  setting  Sun  flashes  a  mournful  gleam 
Behind  those  broken  clouds,  his  stormy  train : 
To-morrow  shall  the  many-color'd  main 
Lu  brightness  roll  beneath  his  orient  beam ! 

Wild,  as  the  autumnal  gust,  the  hand  of  Time 
Flies  o'er  his  mystic  lyre  :  in  shadowy  dance 
The  alternate  groups  of  Joy  and  Grief  advance. 
Responsive  to  his  varjing  strains  sublime ! 

Bears  on  its  w  ing  each  hour  a  load  of  Fate ; 
The  swain,  who,  luli'd  by  Seine's  mild  murmurs,  led 
Ilis  weary  oxen  to  their  nightly  shed, 
T(vday  may  rule  a  tempest-troubled  State. 

Nor  shall  not  Fortune  with  a  vengeful  smile 
Survey  the  sanguinary  Despot's  might. 
And  haply  hurl  the  Pageant  from  his  height. 
Unwept  to  wander  in  some  savage  isle. 

There,  shiv'ring  sad  beneath  the  tempest's  frown, 
Round  his  tir'd  limbs  to  wrap  the  purple  vest ; 
And  raix'd  with  nails  and  beads,  an  equal  jest! 
Barter,  for  food,  the  jewels  of  his  crown. 


RELIGIOUS  MUSINGS; 

A  DESULTORY  POEM, 
WRITTEN    ON    THE    CHRISTMAS   EVE    OF    1794. 

This  is  the  lime,  when  most  divine  to  hear, 

The  voice  of  Adoralion  rouses  me. 

As  with  a  Cherub's  trump:  and  high  upborne, 

Yea,  mingling  with  the  Choir,  I  seem  to  view 

The  vision  of  the  heavenly  multitude, 

Who  hyiim'd  the  song  of  Peace  o'er  Bethlehem' 

fields ! 
Yet  thou  more  bright  than  all  the  Angel  blaze, 
That  harbinger'd  thy  birih,  Thou,  Man  of  Woes  ! 
C-2 


Despised  Galilscan  !  For  the  Great 
Invisible  (by  symbols  only  seen) 
Willi  a  peculiar  and  surpassing  light 
Shines  from  the  visage  of  the  oppress'd  good  Man 
When  heedless  of  himself  the  scourged  Saint 
Mourns  i'or  the  Oppressor.    Fair  the  vernal  Mead 
Fair  the  high  Grove,  the  Sea,  the  Sun,  the  Siars  ; 
True  impress  each  of  their  creating  Sire ! 
Yet  nor  high  Grove,  nor  many-color'd  Mead, 
Nor  the  green  Ocean  with  his  thousand  Isles, 
Nor  the  starr'd  Azure,  nor  the  sovran  Sun, 
E  'er  with  such  majesty  of  portraiture 
Imaged  the  supreme  beauty  uncreate. 
As  thou,  meek  Savior !  at  the  fearful  hour 
When  thy  insulted  Anguish  wing'd  the  prayer 
Harp'd  by  Archangels,  when  they  sing  ol'  Mercy! 
Which  when   the   Almighty  heard  from  forth  his 

Throne, 
Diviner  light  fill'd  Heaven  with  ecstasy ! 
Heaven's  hyranings  paused     and  Hell  her  yawning 

mouth 
Closed  a  brief  moment. 

Lovely  was  the  death 
Of  Him  whose  life  was  love !  Holy  with  power 
He  on  the  thought-benighted  sceptic  beam'd 
Manifest  Godhead,  nielling  into  day 
What  floating  mists  of  dark  Idolatry 
Broke  and  misshaped  the  Omnipresent  Sire : 
And  first  by  Fear  uncliann'd  the  drowsed  Soul.' 
Till  of  its  nobler  nature  it  'gan  feel 
Dim  recollections  :  and  tlicnce  soar'd  to  Hope, 
Strong  to  believe  whate'er  of  niyslic  good 
The  Eternal  dooms  (or  his  immorla!  Sons. 
From  Hope  and  firmer  Faith  to  perfect  Love 
Attracted  and  absorb'd :  and  centred  there 
God  only  to  behold,  and  Imow,  and  feel, 
Till  by  exclusive  Consciousness  of  God 
All  self-annihilated  it  shall  make 
God  its  Identity  :  God  all  in  all ! 
We  and  our  Father  one  ! 

And  bless'd  are  they, 
WTio  in  this  fleshly  World,  the  elect  of  Heaven, 
Their  strong  eye  darting  through  the  deeds  of  Men, 
Adore  with  stedfast  unpresuming  gaze 
Him  Nature's  Essence,  Mind,  and  Energy! 
And  gazing,  trembling,  patiently  ascend 
Treading  beneath  their  feet  all  visible  things 
As  steps,  that  upward  to  tiieir  Father's  Throne 
Lead  gradual — else  nor  glorified  nor  loved. 
They  nor  Contempt  embosom  nor  Revenge  . 
For  they  dare  know  of  what  may  seem  deform 
The  Supreme  Fair  sole  Operant :  in  whose  sight 
All  tilings  are  pure,  his  strong  controlling  Love 
Alike  from  all  educing  perfect  good. 
Theirs  too  celestial  courage,  inly  arm'd — 
Dwarfing  Earth's  ■  giant  brood,  what  time  they  muse 
On  their  great  Father,  great  beyond  compare ! 
And  marching  onwards  view  high  o'er  their  heads 
His  waving  Banners  of  Omnipotence. 

Who  the  Creator  love,  created  might 

Dread  not :  within  their  tents  no  terrors  walk. 


*  To  Noj/rov  SiTjpTiKaaiv  ct;  -rroWwv 
Ocuiv  tCiorrjTai. 

Damas.  de  Myst.  j^i^yi-t, 
23 


14 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


For  they  are  holy  tilings  before  the  Lord, 

Aye  unprofanetl,  though  Earth  should  league  with 

Hell; 
God's  Altar  grasping  with  an  eager  hand, 
Fear,  the  wild-visaged,  pale,  eye-starting  wretch, 
Sure-refuged  hears  his  hot  pursuing  fiends 
Yell  at  vain  distance.    Soon  refresh'd  from  Heaven, 
He  calms  the  throb  and  tempest  of  his  heart. 
His  countenance  settles  ;  a  soft  solemn  bliss 
Swims  in  his  eye — his  swimming  eye  upraised  : 
And  Faith's  whole  armor  glitters  on  his  limbs! 
And  tlius  transfigured  with  a  dreadless  awe, 
A  solemn  hush  of  soul,  meek  he  beholds 
All  things  of  terrible  seeming:  yea,  unmoved 
Views  e'en  the  immitigable  ministers 
That  shower  down  vengeance  on  these  latter  days. 
For  kindling  with  intenser  Deity 
From  the  celestial  Mercy-seat  they  come, 
And  at  the  renovating  Wells  of  Love 
Have  fill'd  their  Vials  with  salutary  Wrath, 
To  sickly  Nature  more  medicinal 
Than  what  soft  balm  the  weeping  good  man  pours 
Into  the  lone  despoiled  traveller's  wounds ! 

Thus  from  the  Elect,  regenerate  through  faith. 
Pass  the  dark  Passions  and  what  thirsty  Cares 
Drink  up  the  spirit  and  the  dim  regards 
Self-centre.    Lo  they  vanish !  or  acquire 
New  names,  new  features — by  supernal  grace 
Enrobed  with  light,  and  naturalized  in  Heaven. 
As  when  a  shepherd  on  a  vernal  morn 
Through  some  thick  log  creeps  timorous  with  slow 

foot. 
Darkling  he  fixes  on  the  immediate  road 
His  downward  eye:  all  else  of  fairest  kind 
Hid  or  deform'd.    But  lo  !  the  bursting  Sun  ! 
Touch'd  by  the  enchantment  of  that  sudden  beam. 
Straight  the  black  vapor  melteth,  and  in  globes 
Of  dewy  glitter  gems  each  plant  and  tree ; 
On  every  leaf,  on  every  blade  it  hangs! 
Dance  glad  the  new-born  intermingling  rays. 
And  wide  around  the  landscape  streams  with  glory! 

There  is  one  Mind,  one  omnipresent  Mind, 

Omnific.    His  most  holy  name  is  Love. 

Truth  of  subliming  import!    tvith  the  which 

Who  feeds  and  saturates  his  constant  soul, 

He  froiu  his  small  particular  orbit  flies 

With  liless'd  outstarting !  From  Himself  he  flies, 

Stands  in  the  Sun,  and  with  no  partial  gaze 

Views  all  creation ;  and  he  loves  it  all. 

And  blesses  it,  and  calls  it  very  good  ! 

This  is  indeed  to  dwell  with  the  Most  High! 

Cherubs  and  rapture-trembling  Seraphim 

Can  press  no  nearer  lo  the  Almighty's  Throne. 

But  that  we  roam  unconscious,  or  with  hearts 

Unfeeling  of  our  universal  Sire, 

And  that  in  his  vast  family  no  Cain 

Injures  uninjured  On  her  best-aim'd  blow 

Victorious  Murder  a  blind  Suicide), 

Haply  for  this  some  younger  Angel  now 

Looks  down  on  Human  Nature  :  and,  behold  ! 

A  sea  of  blood  bestrew'd  with  wrecks,  where  mad 

Embattling  Interests  on  each  other  rush 

With  unhelm'd  rage  ! 

'T  is  the  sublime  of  man, 
Our  .r.wntide  Majesty,  to  know  ourselves 


Parts  and  proportions  of  one  wondrous  whole ! 
This  Iralernizes  Man,  this  constitutes 
Our  charities  and  bearings.    But  't  is  God 
Difllised  tlirough  all,  that  doth  make  ail  one  wholes 
This  the  worst  superstition,  him  except 
Aught  to  desire.  Supreme  Reality! 
The  plenitude  and  permanence  of  bliss ! 

0  Fiends  of  Superstition  !    not  that  oft 

The  erring  Priest  hath  staiu'd  with  brother's  blood 
Your  grisly  idols,  not  for  this  may  wrath 
Thunder  against  you  from  the  Holy  One  I 
But  o'er  some  plain  that  steameth  to  the  sun, 
Peopled  with  Death  ;  or  where  more  hideous  Trade 
Loud-laugliing  packs  his  bales  of  human  anguish : 

1  will  raise  up  a  mourning,  O  ye  Fiends  ! 

And  curse  your  spells,  that  film  the  eye  of  Faith, 

Hiding  the  present  God  ;  whose  presence  lost, 

The  moral  world's  cohesion,  we  become 

An  anarchy  of  Spirits  !  Toy-be viiich'd, 

Made  blind  by  lusts,  disherited  of  soul. 

No  common  centre  Man,  no  common  sire 

Knoweth  !  A  sordid  solitary  thing, 

'Mid  countless  brethren  with  a  lonely  heart 

Through  courts  and  cities  the  smooth  Savage  roams, 

Feeling  himself,  his  own  low  Self  the  whole  ; 

When  he  by  sacred  sympathy  might  make 

The  whole  one  Self!  Self  that  no  alien  knows! 

Self,  far  diflTused  as  Fancy's  wing  can  travel ! 

Self,  spreading  still !  Oblivious  of  its  own. 

Yet  all  of  all  possessing !  This  is  Faith  ! 

This  the  Messiah's  destin'd  victory  ! 

But  first  offences  needs  must  come !  Even  now* 

(Black  Hell  laughs  horrible — to  hear  the  scoff  I) 

Thee  to  defend,  meek  Galitean !  Thee 

And  thy  mild  laws  of  love  unutterable. 

Mistrust  and  Enmily  have  burst  the  bands 

Of  social  Peace  ;  and  listening  Treachery  lurks 

With  pious  Fraud  to  snare  a  brother's  hie ; 

And  childless  widows  o'er  the  groaning  land 

Wail  nuiuberlcss ;  and  orphans  weep  lor  bread  ; 

Thee  to  defend,  dear  Savior  of  Mankind  ! 

Thee,  Lamb  of  God  I    Thee,  blameless  Prince  of 

Peace !  * 

From  all  sides  rush  the  thirsty  brood  of  War ! 
Austria,  and  that  foul  Woman  of  the  North, 
The  lustful  Murderess  of  her  wedded  Lord  ! 
And  he,  connatural  Mind  !  whom  (in  their  songs 
So  bards  of  elder  lime  had  haply  feign'd) 
Some  Fury  fondled  in  her  hate  to  man. 
Bidding  her  serpent  hair  in  mazy  surge 
Lick  his  young  face,  and  at  his  mouth  inbreathe 
Horrible  sympathy!  And  leagued  with  these 
Each  petty  German  princeling,  nursed  in  gore  ! 
Soul-harden'd  barterers  of  human  blood  ! 


*  January  21st,  1794,  in  the  debate  on  tlie  Address  to  his 
Majesty,  on  the  speech  from  the  Throne,  the  Earl  of  Guild- 
ford moved  an  Amendment  to  the  following  effect: — "Thai 
the  House  hoped  hie  Majesty  would  seize  the  earliest  oppor- 
tunity to  conclude  a  peace  with  France,"  etc.  Tlii:.  motion 
was  opposed  hy  the  Duke  of  Portland,  who  "  considered  thu 
war  to  be  merely  grounded  on  one  principle — the  preservatio 
of  the  Christian  Relifrion."  May  30lh,  V.VA,  llie  IHike  o. 
Bedford  moved  a  number  of  Resolutions,  with  a  view  to  the 
Establishment  of  a  Peace  wilh  France.  He  was  opposed 
(among  others)  by  Lord  Abingdon  in  these  remarkable  words-. 
"The  best  road  to  Peace,  my  Lords,  is  War!  and  War  car- 
ried on  in  the  same  manner  m  which  we  are  taught  to  worship 
our  Creator,  namely,  wilh  all  our  souls,  and  wilh  all  our 
minds,  and  with  all  our  hearts,  and  with  all  our  strength." 
24 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


15 


Death's  prime  Slave-merchants!  Scorpion- whips  of 

Fate ! 
Nor  least  in  savagery  of  holy  zeal, 
Apt  for  the  yoke,  the  race  degenerate, 
Whom  Britain  erst  had  bliisli'd  to  call  her  sons  ! 
Thee  to  defend  the  Moloch  Priest  prefers 
The  prayer  of  hate,  and  bellows  to  the  herd 
Tiiat  Deity,  Accomplice  Deity 
j!i  the  fierce  jealousy  of  waken'd  wrath 
Will  go  Ibrih  with  our  armies  and  our  Heels, 
To  scatter  the  red  ruin  on  their  iocs  >. 
O  blasphemy  !  to  mingle  fiendish  deeds 
With  blessedness  I 

Lord  of  unsleeping  Love,* 
From  everlasting  Thou  I  We  shall  not  die. 
These,  even  these,  in  mercy  didst  thou  form, 
Teachers  of  Good  through  Evil,  by  brief  wrong 
Making  Truth  lovely,  and  her  future  might 
Magnetic  o"er  the  lix'd  untrembling  heart. 

In  the  primeval  age  a  dateless  while 
The  vacant  Shepherd  wander'd  with  his  flock. 
Pitching  his  tent  where'er  the  green  grass  waved. 
But  soon  Imagination  conjured  up 
An  host  of  new  desires  :  with  busy  aim, 
Each  for  himself  Earth's  eager  children  toil'd. 
So  Property  began,  two-streaming  fount, 
Whence  Vice  and  V'irtue  flow,  honey  and  gall. 
Hence  the  soft  couch,  and  many-color'd  robe, 
The  timbrel,  and  arch'd  dome  and  costly  feast. 
With  all  the  inventive  arts,  that  nursed  the  soul 
To  forms  of  beauty,  and  by  sensual  wants 
TJnsensualized  the  mind,  which  in  the  means 
Learnt  to  forget  the  grossness  of  the  end. 
Best  pleasured  with  its  own  activity. 
And  hence  Disease  that  withers  manhood's  arm. 
The  dagger'd  Envy,  spirit-quenching  Want, 
Warriors,  and  Lords,  and  Priests — all  the  sore  ills 
That  vex  and  desolate  our  mortal  life. 
^Vide-wasting  ills  I  yet  each  the  immediate  source 
Of  mightier  good.    Their  keen  necessities 
To  ceaseless  action  goading  human  thought 
Have  made  Earth's  reasoning  animal  her  Lord  ; 
And  the  pale-featured  Sage's  trembling  hand 
Strong  as  an  host  of  anned  Deities, 
Such  as  the  blind  Ionian  fabled  erst. 

From  Avarice  thus,  from  Luxury  and  War 

Sprang    heavenly    Science  ;     and    from     Science 

Freedom. 
O'er  waken'd  realms  Philosophers  and  Bards 
Spread  in  concentric  circles  :  they  whose  souls, 
Conscious  of  their  high  dignities  from  God, 
Brook  not  Wealth's  rivalry !  and  they  who  long 
Enamour'd  with  the  charms  of  order  hate 
The  unseemly  disproportion  :  and  whoe'er 
Turn  wilii  mild  sorrow  from  the  victor's  car 
And  the  low  puppetry  of  thrones,  to  muse 
On  that  blest  triumph,  when  the  patriot  Sage 
Call'd  tlie  red  lightnings  from  the  o'er-rushing  cloud. 
And  dash'd  the  beauteous  Terrors  on  the  earth 
Smiling  majestic.    Such  a  phalanx  ne'er 
Measured  firm  paces' to  the  calming  sound 
Of  Spartan  flute  !  These  on  the  fated  day, 


Wlien,  stung  to  rage  by  Pity,  eloquent  men 

Have  roused  with  pealing  voice  unnumber'd  tribes 

That  toil  and  groan  and  bleed,  hungry  and  blind 

These  liush'd  awhile  with  patient  eye  serene, 

Shall  watch  the  mad  careering  of  the  storm ; 

Then  o'er  the  wild  and  wavy  chaos  rush 

And  tame  the  outrageous  mass,  with  plastic  might 

Moulding  Confusion  to  such  perfect  forms. 

As  erst  were  wont,  bright  visions  of  the  day  ! 

To  float  before  them,  wiien,  the  Summer  noon, 

Beneath  some  arch'd  romantic  rock  reclined, 

They  felt  the  sea-breeze  lilt  their  youthful  locks  ; 

Or  in  the  month  of  blossoms,  at  mild  eve. 

Wandering  with  desultoiy  feet  inhaled 

The  wafted  perfumes,  and  the  rocks  and  woods 

And  many-tinted  streams  and  setting  Sun 

With  all  his  gorgeous  company  of  clouds 

Ecstatic  gazed !  then  homeward  as  they  stray'd 

Cast  the  sad  eye  to  earth,  and  inly  mused 

Why  there  was  Misery  in  a  world  so  fair. 

Ah  far  removed  from  all  that  glads  the  sense, 

From  all  that  softens  or  ennobles  Man, 

The  wretched  Many  !    Bent  beneath  their  loads 

They  gape  at  pageant  Power,  nor  recognize 

Their  cots'  transmuted  plunder  I  From  the  tree 

Of  Knowledge,  ere  the  vernal  sap  had  risen 

Rudely  disbranch'd !"  Blessed  Society  ! 

Fitliest  depictured  by  some  sun-scorch'd  waste, 

W'here  oft  majestic  through  the  tainted  noon 

The  Simoom  sails,  before  whose  purple  pomp 

Who  falls  not  prostrate  dies  I  And  where  by  night 

Fast  by  each  precious  fountain  on  green  herbs 

The  lion  couches  ;  or  hyena  dips 

Deep  in  the  lucid  stream  his  bloody  jaws  • 

Or  serpent  plants  his  vast  moon-glittering  oulk, 

Caught  in  whose  monstrous  twine  Behemoth*  yells 

His  bones  loud-crashing  ! 

O  ye  numberless, 
WTiom  foul  Oppression's  ruffian  gluttony 
Drives    from  life's    plenteous    feast  !    O  thou   poor 

wretch, 

WTio  nursed  in  darkness  and  made  wild  by  want, 
Roamest  for  prey,  yea  thy  unnatural  hand 
Dost  lift  to  deeds  of  blood !  O  pale-eyed  form, 
The  victim  of  seduction,  doom'd  to  know 
Polluted  nights  and  days  of  blasphemy  ; 
Who  in  lothed  orgies  with  lewd  wassailers 
Must  gaily  laugh,  while  thy  remember'd  home 
Gnaws  like  a  viper  at  thy  secret  heart ! 
O  aged  W^omen  !  ye  who  weekly  catch 
The  morsel  toss'd  by  law-forced  Charity, 
And  die  so  slowly,  that  none  call  it  murder! 
O  lothely  Suppliants !  ye,  that  unreceived 
Totter  heart-broken  from  the  closing  gates 
Of  the  full  Lazar-house  :  or,  gazing,  stand 
Sick  with  despair  I  O  ye  to  Glory's  field 
Forced  or  ensnared,  who,  as  ye  gasp  in  death. 
Bleed  with  new  wounds  beneath  the  Vulture's  beak 
O  thou  poor  Widow,  who  in  dreams  dost  view 
Thy  Husband's  mangled  corse,  and  from  short  doze 
Start'st  with  a  shriek  ;  or  in  thy  half  thatch'd  cot 
Waked  by  the  wintry  night-storm,  wet  and  cold, 
Cow'rst  o'er  thy  screaming  baby  !  Rest  awhile 


•  Art  thou  not  from  everlasting,  O  Lord,  mine  Holy  one  7 
We  shall  not  die.  O  Lo™*  ti\au  bast  ordained  them  for  judg- 
ment, elc.—Habakkuk. 


*  Behemoth,  in  Hebrew,  signifies  wild  beasts  in  general. 
Some  bclii-ve  it  is  the  plephiint,  some  the  hippopotamus;  some 
Affirm  it  is  the  wild  bull.  Poelically,  it  designates  any  large 
quadruped. 

25 


16 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Children  of  Wretchedness !  More  groans  must  rise. 
More  blood  must  stream,  or  ere  your  wrongs  be  full. 
Yet  is  the  day  of  Retribution  nigh : 
The  Lamb  of  God  hath  open'd  the  fifth  seel : 
And  upward  rush  on  swiftest  wing  of  5re 
The  innumerable  multitude  of  wrongs 
By  man  on  man  indicted  !  Rest  awhile, 
Children  of  Wretchedness  I  The  hour  is  nigh  ; 
And  lo !  the  Great,  the  Rich,  the  Mighty  Men, 
Tha  Kings  and  the  Chief  Captains  ol'  the  World, 
With  all  that  fix'd  on  high  like  stars  of  Heaven 
Shot  baleful  influence,  shall  be  cast  to  earth. 
Vile  and  dowiMrodden,  as  the  untimely  fruit 
Shook  fro.-Q  the  fig-tree  by  a  sudden  siorm. 
Even  now  the  slorm  begins:*  each  gentle  name, 
Faitli  and  meek  Piety,  with  fearful  joy 
Tremble  far-ofl? — for  lo !  the  Giant  Frenzy, 
Uprooting  empires  with  his  whirlwind  arm, 
Mocketh  high  Heaven  ;  burst  hideous  from  the  cell 
Where  the  old  Hag,  unconquerable,  huge, 
Crearlon's  eyeless  drudge,  black  Ruin,  sits 
Nursing  the  impatient  earthquake. 


O  return  ! 
Pure  Faith !  meek  Piety !  The  abhorred  Form 
Whose  scarlet  robe  was  stiff  with  earthly  pomp, 
Who  drank  iniquity  in  cups  of  gold. 
Whose  names  were  many  and  all  blasphemous, 
Hath  met  the  horrible  judgment '  Whence  that  cry? 
The  mighty  army  of  foul  Spirits  shriek'd 
Disherited  of  earth  !  For  she  hath  fallen 
On  whose  black  front  was  written  Mystery  ; 
She  that  reel'd  heavily,  whose  wine  was  blood ; 
She  that  work'd  whoredom  with  the  Demon  Power, 
And  from  the  dark  embrace  all  evil  things 
Brought  forth  and  nurtured  :  mitred  Atheism  : 
And  patient  Folly  who  on  bended  knee 
Gives  back  the  steel  that  stabb'd  him  ;    and  pale 

Fear 
Hunted  by  ghastlier  shapings  than  surround 
Moon-blasted  Madness  when  he  yells  at  midnight ! 
Return,  pure  Faith !  return,  meek  Piety ! 
The  kingdoms  of  the  world  are  yours :  each  heart, 
Self-govern'd,  the  vast  family  of  Love 
Raised  from  the  common  earth  by  common  toil, 
Enjoy  the  equal  produce.     Sudi  delights 
As  float  to  earth,  permitted  visitanls  ! 
When  in  some  hour  of  solemn  jubilee 
The  massy  gates  of  Paradise  are  throv\Ti 
Wide  open,  and  forth  come  in  fragments  wild 
Sweet  echoes  of  unearthly  melodies. 
And  odors  snatch'd  from  beds  of  Amaranth, 
And  they,  that  from  the  crystal  river  of  life 
Spring  up  on  freslien'd  wing,  ambrosial  gales  ! 
The  favor'd  good  man  in  his  lonely  walk 
Perceives  them,  and  his  silent  spirit  drinks 
Strange  bliss  which  he  shall  recognize  in  heaven. 
And  such  delight.s,  such  strange  beatitude 
Seize  on  my  young  anticipating  heart 
When  that  blest  future  rushes  on  my  view ! 
For  in  his  own  and  in  his  Father's  might 
The  Savior  comes !  While  as  the  Thousand  Years 
Lead  up  their  mystic  dance,  the  Desert  shouts ! 
Old  Ocean  claps  his  hands  !  The  mighty  Dead 
Riso  to  new  life,  whoe'er  from  earliest  time 


*  Alluding  to  the  French  Revolution. 


With  conscious  zeal  had  urged  Love's  wondrous  plan 
Coadjutors  of  God.    To  Milton's  trump 
The  high  Groves  of  the  renovated  Earth 
llnbosom  their  glad  echoes  :  inly  hush'd. 
Adoring  Newton  his  serener  eye 
Raises  lo  heaven :  and  he  of  mortal  kind 
Wisest,  he*  fii-st  who  mark'd  the  ideal  tribes 
Up  the  fine  fibres  through  the  sentient  brain. 
Lo  !  Priestley  there.  Patriot,  and  Saint,  and  Sage, 
Him,  full  of  years,  from  his  loved  native  land 
Statesmen  blood-slain'd  and  Priests  idolatrous 
By  dark  lies  maddening  the  blind  multitude 
Drove  wiih  vain  hale.    Calm,  pitying,  he  retired, 
And  mused  expectant  on  these  promised  years. 

0  years  !  the  blest  pre-eminence  of  Saints ! 

Ye  sweep  athwart  my  gaze,  so  heavenly  bright, 
The  wings  that  veil  tlie  adoring  Seraph's  eyes. 
What  time  he  bends  before  the  Jasper  Throne,! 
Reflect  no  lovelier  hues  !  yet  ye  depart. 
And  all  beyond  is  darkness !   Heights  most  strange, 
Whence  Fancy  falls,  fluttering  her  idle  wing. 
For  who  of  woman  born  may  paint  the  hour. 
When  seized  in  his  mid  course,  the  Sun  shall  wane 
Making  noon  ghastly  !  Who  of  woman  born 
May  image  in  the  workings  of  his  thought, 
How  the  black-visaged,  red-eyed  Fiend  outstretch'd} 
Beneath  the  unsteady  feet  of  Nature  groans. 
In  feverish  slumbers — destin'd  then  to  wake, 
When  fiery  whirlwinds  thunder  his  dread  name 
And  Angels  shout.  Destruction !  How  his  arm 
The  last  great  Spirit  lifting  high  in  air 
Shall  swear  by  Him,  the  ever-living  One, 
Time  is  no  more  ! 

Believ'e  thou,  O  my  soul 
Life  is  a  vision  shadowy  of  Truth  ; 
And  vice,  and  anguish,  and  the  wormy  grave, 
Shapes  of  a  dream !  The  veiling  clouds  retire, 
And  lo  !  the  Throne  of  the  redeeming  God 
Forth  flashing  unimaginable  day, 
Wraps  in  one  blaze  earth,  heaven,  and  deepest  hell 

Contemplant  Spirits  !  ye  that  hovsr  o'er 
Willi  unlired  gaze  the  immeasurabio  fount 
Ebullient  with  creative  Deity! 
And  ye  of  plastic  power,  that  interfused 
Roll  through  the  grosser  and  material  mass 
In  organizing  surge  !  Holies  of  God  ! 
(And  what  if  Monads  of  the  infinite  mind) 

1  haply  journeying  my  immortal  course 

Shall  sometime  join  your  mystic  choir?  Till  then 

I  discipline  my  young  noviciate  thought 

In  ministries  of  heart-stirring  song. 

And  aye  on  Meditation's  heavenward  wing 

Soaring  aloft  I  breathe  the  empyreal  air 

Of  Love,  omnific,  omnipresent  Love, 

Whose  day-spring  rises  glorious  in  my  soul 

As  the  great  Sun,  when  he  his  influence 

Sheds  on  the  frost-bound  waters — The  glad  stream 

P'lows  to  the  ray,  and  warbles  as  it  flows. 


*  David  Hartley. 

t  Rev.  Chap.  iv.  v.  2  and  3. — And  immediately  I  was  in  the 
Spirit:  and  behold,  a  Throne  was  set  in  Heaven,  and  one  sat 
on  the  throne.  And  he  that  sat  was  to  look  upon  hke  a  jasper 
and  sardine  stone,  etc. 

t  The  final  Destruction  impersonated. 

26 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


17 


THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS. 


\nspicious  Reverence !  Hush  all  meaner  song, 
'i^re  we  the  deep  preliuling  strain  have  i)our'd 
To  the  Great  Fntlier,  only  Riglitriil  King, 
Eternal  Father!  King  Omnipotent ! 
The  Will,  the  Word,  tiie  Breath, — the  Living  God. 

Such  symphony  requires  best  instrument. 
Seize,  then!  my  soul!  from  Freedom's  trophied  dome, 
The  Harp  v^hich  hangeth  high  between  the  Shields 
Of  Brutus  and  Lconiilas !  W'ith  that 
Strong  music,  that  soliciting  spell,  force  back 
Earth's  free  and  stirring  spirit  diat  lies  entranc'd 

For  what  is  Freedom,  but  the  nnfetter'd  use 
Of  all  the  ivnvr rs  which  God  for  use  had  given? 
But  chiefly  this,  him  I'irst,  him  Last  to  view 
Through  meaner  powers  and  secondary  things 
Effulgent,  as  through  clouds  that  veil  his  blaze. 
For  all  that  meets  the  bodily  sense  I  deem 
Symbolical,  one  mighty  alphabet 
For  infant  minds ;  and  we  in  this  low  world 
Placed  with  our  backs  to  bright  Reality, 
That  we  may  learn  whh  young  unwounded  ken 
The  substance  from  its  shadow.     Infinite  Love, 
Whose  latence  is  the  plenitude  of  All, 
Thou  with  retracted  Beams,  and  Self-eclipse 
Veiling,  revealest  thine  eternal  Son. 

But  some  there  are  who  deem  themselves  most  free 
When  they  within  this  gross  and  visible  sphere 
Chain  down  the  winged  thought,  scoffing  ascent. 
Proud  in  their  meanness:  and  themselves  they  cheat 
With  noisy  emptiness  of  learned  phrase, 
Their  subtle  fluids,  impacts,  essences, 
Self-working  tools,  imcaus'd  effects,  and  all 
Those  blind  Omniscients,  those  Almighty  Slaves, 
Untenanting  creation  of  its  God. 

But  properties  are  God  :  the  naked  mass 
(If  mass  there  be,  fantastic  Guess  or  Ghost) 
Acts  only  by  its  inactivity. 
Here  we  pause  humbly.     Others  boldl'er  think 
That  as  one  body  seems  the  aggregate 
Of  .4toms  numberless,  each  organized ; 
So,  bv  a  strange  and  dim  similitude. 
Infinite  myriads  of  self-conscious  minds 
Are  one  all-conscious  Spirit,  which  informs 
With  absolute  ubiquity  of  thought 
(His  one  eternal  se'.faffirming  Act !) 
All  his  involved  Monads,  that  yet  seem 
With  various  province  and  apt  agency 
Each  to  pursue  its  own  self-centering  end. 
Some  nurse  the  infant  diamond  in  the  mine; 
Some  roll  the  genial  juices  through  the  oak  ; 
Some  drive  the  mutinous  clouds  to  clash  in  air, 
.A.nd  rushing  on  the  storm  with  whirlwind  speed. 
Yoke  the  red  lightning  to  tlieir  volleying  car. 
Thus  these  pursue  their  never-varying  course, 
No  eddy  in  their  stream.     Others,  more  wild, 
With  complex  interests  weaving  human  fates, 
Duteous  or  proud,  alike  obedient  all. 
Evolve  the  process  of  eternal  good. 
3 


And  what  if  some  rebellious,  o'er  dark  realms 
Arrogate  power  ?  yet  these  train  up  to  God, 
And  on  ihe  rude  eye,  unconlirm'd  for  day, 
Flash  meteor-lights  better  than  total  gloom 
As  ere  from  Lieule-Oaivc's  va|K)ry  head 
The  Laplander  beholds  the  far-off  Sun 
Dart  his  slant  beam  on  unobcying  snows, 
While  yet  the  stern  and  solitary  Night 
Brooks  no  alternate  sway,  the  Boreal  Morn 
With  mimic  lustre  substitutes  its  gleam. 
Guiding  his  course  or  by  Niemi  lake 
Or  Balda-Zhiok,*  or  the  mossy  stone 
Of  Solfar-kapper,t  while  the  snowy  blast 
Drifts  arrowy  by,  or  eddies  round  his  sledge, 
Maldng  the  poor  babe  at  its  mother's  backt 
Scream  in  its  scanty  cradle :  he  the  while 
Wins  gentle  solace  as  with  upward  eye 
He  marks  the  streamy  banners  of  the  North, 
Thinking  himself  those  happy  spirits  shall  join 
Who  there  in  floating  robes  of  rosy  light 
Dance  sportively.     For  Fancy  is  the  Power 
That  first  unsensualizes  the  dark  mind, 
Giving  it  new  delights  ;  and  bids  it  swell 
With  wild  activity  ;  and  peopling  air. 
By  obscure  fears  of  Beings  invisible. 
Emancipates  it  from  the  grosser  thrall 
Of  the  present  impulse,  teaching  Self-control, 
Till  Superstition  with  unconscious  hand 
Seat  Reason  on  her  throne.     Wherefore  not  vain. 
Nor  yet  without  permitted  power  inipress'd, 
I  deem'd  those  legends  terrible,  wilh  which 
The  polar  ancient  thrills  his  uncouth  throng; 
Whether  of  pitying  Spirits  that  make  their  moan 
O'er  slaughter'd  infants,  or  that  Giant  Bird 
Vuokho,  of  whose  rushing  wings  the  noise 
Is  Tempest,  when  the  unutterable  shape? 
Speeds  from  the  mother  of  Death,  and  utters  once 
That  shriek,  which  never  Murderer  heard  and  lived. 
Or  if  the  Greenland  Wizard  in  strange  trance 
Pierces  the  untravell'd  realms  of  Ocean's  bed 
(Where  live  the  innocent,  as  far  from  cares 
As  from  the  storms  and  overwhelming  waves 
Dark  tumbling  on  the  surface  of  the  deep), 
Over  the  abysm,  even  to  that  uttermost  cave 
By  misshaped  prodigies  beleaguer'd,  such 
As  Earth  ne'er  bred,  nor  Air,  nor  the  upper  Sea. 

There   dwells  the   Fury  Form,   whose   unheard 
name 
With  eager  eye,  pale  cheek,  suspended  breath, 


*  Bidda  Zhiok  ;  i.  e.  mona  altitudinia,  the  highest  mountain 
in  Lapland.  \ 

t  Solfar  Kapper;  capitiiim  Solfar,  hie  locus  omnium  quot- 
quot  veterum  Lapponum  siiperstitio  sacrificiig  religiosoque  cul- 
tui  (leclicavit,  cclebratiBsimus  erat,  in  parte  sinus  australis  situs 
semimilliaris  spatio  a  maiidistans.  Ipse  locus,  quern  curiositatis 
sratia  aliquando  n)e  invisisse  memini,  duabus  preallis  lapidibus, 
Bibi  invicem  opposilis,  quorum  niter  niuscu  circumdatus  erat, 
constabat. — I^er.mius  l)e  Ijiipponihus. 

t  The  Lapland  Women  carry  Iheir  infants  at  their  back  in  a 
pifce  of  excavated  wood,  which  serves  them  for  a  cradle. 
Opposite  to  tlie  infant's  mouth  there  is  a  hole  for  it  to  breathe 
through. — Mirandum  prorsiis  est  el  vix  credibile  nisi  eui  vidisset 
conlieit.  Lappones  hyeme  iter  facientee  per  vastas  monies,  per- 
que  horrida  ct  iiivia  lesqua.  eo  prcseriiin  tempore  quo  omnia 
perpetuls  nivibus  obtecta  sunt  et  nives  ventis  agilantur  et  in 
gyros  aguntur,  viam  ad  destinata  loca  absque  errore  invenire 
posse,  lactantem  autern  infantcin  si  quern  habeat,  ipsa  mater 
in  dorso  bajulat,  in  excavato  ligno  (Gieed'k  ipsi  vocant)  quod 
pro  cunis  uluntur :  in  hoc  infaijs  pannis  et  pellibus  convolutui 
colligatiis  jacpt. — Leemius  De  l.apponibus 

^  Jaibme  Aibmo. 


18 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  lips  half-opening  with  the  dread  of  sound, 

Unsleeping  Silence  guards,  worn  out  with  fear, 

Lest,  haply  escaping  on  some  treacherous  blast. 

The  fateful  word  let  slip  the  Elements, 

And  frenzy  Nature.     Yet  the  wizard  her, 

Arm'd  with   Torngarsuck's*  power,    the    Spirit   of 

Good, 
Forces  to  unchain  the  foodful  progeny 
Of  the  Ocean's  stream. — ^Vild  phantasies!  yet  wise. 
On  the  victorious  goodness  of  High  God 
Teaching  Reliance,  and  Medicinal  Hope, 
Till  from  Bethabra  northward,  heavenly  Truth, 
With  gradual  steps  winning  her  difficult  way. 
Transfer  their  rude  Faith  perfected  and  pure. 

If,  there  be  Beings  of  higher  class  than  Man, 
I  deem  no  nobler  province  they  possess. 
Than  by  disposal  of  apt  circumstance 
To  rear  up  Kingdoms:  and  the  deeds  they  prompt, 
Distinguishing  from  mortal  agency, 
They  choose  their  human  ministers  from  such  states 
As  still  the  Epic  song  half  fears  to  name, 
Repell'd  from  all  the  Minstrelsies  that  strike 
The  Palace-roof  and  soothe  the  Monarch's  pride. 

And  sucli,  perhaps,  the  Spirit,  who  (if  words 
Witness'd  by  answering  deeds  may  claim  our  Faith) 
Held  commune  with  that  warrior-maid  of  France 
Who  scourged  the  Invader.     From  her  infant  days. 
With  Wisdom,  Mother  of  retired  Thoughts, 
Her  soul  had  dwelt ;  and  she  was  quick  to  mark 
The  good  and  evil  thing,  in  huiTian  lore 
Undisciplined.     For  lowly  was  her  Birth, 
And  Heaven  had  doom'd  her  early  years  to  Toil, 
That  pure  from  Tyranny's  least  deed,  herself 
Unfear'd  by  Fellow-natures,  she  miglit  wait 
On  the  poor  Laboring  man  with  kindly  looks, 
And  minister  refreshment  to  the  tired 
Way-wanderer,  when  along  the  rough-hewn  Bench 
The  sweltry  man  had  stretch'd  him,  and  aloft 
Vacantly  watch'd  the  rudely  pictured  board 
Which  on  the  Mulberry-bough  with  welcome  creak 
Swung  to  the  pleasant  breeze.     Here,  too,  the  Maid 
Learnt  more  than  Schools  could  teach:  Man's  shift- 
ing mind. 
His  Vices  and  his  Sorrows !  And  full  oft 
At  Tales  of  cruel  Wrong  and  strange  Distress 
Had  wept  and  shiver'd.     To  the  tottering  Eld 
Still  as  a  Daughter  w^ould  she  run :  she  placed 
His  cold  Limbs  at  the  sunny  Door,  and  loved 
To  hear  him  story,  in  his  garrulous  sort, 
Of  his  eventful  years,  all  come  and  gone. 

So  twenty  seasons  past.     The  Virgin's  Form, 
Active  and  tall,  nor  Slolh  nor  Luxury 
Had  shrunk  or  paled.     Her  front  sublime  and  broad. 
Her  flexile  eye-brows  wildly  hair'd  and  low. 
And  her  full  eye,  now  bright,  now  unillum'd. 
Spake  more  than  Woman's  Thought ;   and  all  her 
face 


*  They  call  tho  Good  .Spirit  TorriKarsuck.  The  other  great 
but  malienant  spirit  is  a  nameless  Female;  she  dwells  under 
the  sea  in  a  great  house,  where  she  can  detain  in  captivity  all 
the  animals  oflhe  ocean  by  her  macic  power.  When  a  dearth 
befalls  the  Greenlanders,  an  Angekok  or  inasician  must  under- 
take a  journey  thither.  He  passes  thmugh  the  kincdom  of 
touls,  over  an  horrible  abyss  into  the  Pa, ace  of  this  phantom, 
.nd  by  his  enchantments  causes  the  captive  creatures  to  ascend 
Jirectly  to  the  surface  of  the  ocean — See  Cranti'  Hist,  of 
G-retnland,  vol.  i.  206. 


Was  moulded  to  such  features  as  declared 
That  Pity  there  had  oft  and  strongly  work'd, 
And  sometimes  Indignation.     Bold  her  mien 
And  like  a  haughty  Huntress  of  the  woods 
She  mov'd :  yet  sure  she  was  a  gentle  maid ! 
And  in  each  motion  her  most  innocent  soul 
Beam'd  forth  so  brightly,  that  who  saw  would  say 
Guilt  was  a  thing  impossible  in  her ! 
Nor  idly  would  have  said — for  she  had  lived 
In  this  bad  World  as  in  a  place  of  Tombs, 
And  touch'd  not  the  pollutions  of  the  Dead.  • 

'Twas  the  cold  season,  when  the  Rustic's  eye 
From  the  drear  desolate  whiteness  of  his  fields 
Rolls  for  relief  to  watch  the  skiey  tints 
And  clouds  slow  varying  their  huge  imagery  ; 
When  now,  as  she  was  wont,  the  healthful  Maid 
Had  left  her  pallet  ere  one  beam  of  day 
Slanted  the  fog-smoke.     She  went  forth  alone, 
Urged  by  the  indwelling  angel-guide,  that  oft, 
With  dim  inexplicable  sympathies 
Disquieting  the  Heart,  shapes  out  Man's  course 
To  the  predoom'd  adventure.     Now  the  ascent 
She  climbs  of  that  steep  upland,  on  whose  top 
The  Pilgrim-Man,  who  long  since  eve  had  watch  d 
The  alien  shine  of  unconcerning  Stars, 
Shouts  to  himself,  there  first  the  Abbey-lights 
Seen  in  Neufchatel's  vale ;  now  slopes  adown 
The  winding  sheep-track  vale-ward  :  when,  behold 
In  the  first  entrance  of  the  level  road 
An  unattended  Team !  The  foremost  horse 
Lay  with  stretch'd  limbs  ;  the  others,  yet  alive. 
But  stiff  and  cold,  stood  motionless,  their  manes 
Hoar  with  the  frozen  night-dews.     Dismally 
The  dark-red  down  now  glimmer'd  ;  but  its  gleams 
Disclosed  no  face  of  man.     The  Maiden  paused. 
Then  hail'd  who  might  be  near      No  voice  rephed,. 
From  the  thwart  wain  at  length  there  reach'd  hei 

ear 
A  sound  so  feeble  that  it  almost  seem'd 
Disttmt :  and  feebly,  with  slow  effort  push'd, 
A  miserable  man  crept  forth  :  his  limbs 
The  silent  frost  had  eat,  scathing  like  fire. 
Faint  on  the  shafts  he  rested.     She,  meantime. 
Saw  crowded  close  beneath  the  coverture 
A  mother  and  her  cliildren — lifeless  all, 
Yet  lovely !  not  a  lineament  was  marr'd — 
Death  had  put  on  so  slumber-like  a  form ! 
It  was  a  piteous  sight ;  and  one,  a  babe. 
The  crisp  milk  frozen  on  its  innocent  lips, 
Lay  on  the  woman's  arm,  its  little  hand 
Stretch'd  on  her  bosom. 


Mutely  questioning. 
The  Maid  gazed  wildly  at  the  living  wretch. 
He,  his  head  feebly  turning,  on  the  group 
IjOok'd  with  a  vacant  stare,  and  his  eye  spoke 
The  drowsy  pang  that  steals  on  worn-out  angtiish. 
She  shudder'd  :  but,  each  vainer  pang  subdued, 
Quick  disentangling  from  the  foremost  horse 
The  rustic  bands,  with  difficulty  and  toil 
The  stiff  cramp'd  team  forced  homeward.     There 

arrived, 
Anxiously  tends  him  she  with  healing  herbs. 
And  weeps  and  prays — but  the  numb  power  of  Death 
Spreads  o'er  his  limbs ;  and  ere  the  noontide  'lour, 
The  hovering  spirits  of  his  Wife  and  Babes 
Hail  him  immortal !  Yet  amid  his  pangs, 
28 


JUVENILE  POEMS. 


If 


With  interruptions  long  from  ghastly  throes, 
His  voice  had  faltcr'd  out  tliis  simple  tale. 

The  Village,  where  he  dwell  an  Husbandman, 
By  sudden  inroad  liad  been  seized  and  fired 
Late  on  ihc  yester-evening.    With  his  wile 
A.nd  little  ones  he  hurried  his  escape. 
They  saw    the    neighboring   Hamlets    flame,    they 

heard 
Uproar  and  shrieks !  and  terror-struck  drove  on 
Through  unfrequented  roads,  a  weary  way  ! 
But  saw  nor  house  nor  cottage.    All  had  quench 'd 
Their  evening  hearth-fire  :  lor  the  alarm  had  spread. 
The  air  dipt  keen,  the  night  was  fang'd  with  frost. 
And  they  provisionless !  The  weeping  wife 
III  hush'd    her   children's    moans  ;    and  still    they 

moan'd, 
Till  Fright  and  Cold  and  Hunger  drank  their  life. 
They  closed  their  eyes  in  sleep,  nor  knew   't  was 

Death. 
He  only,  lashing  his  o'er-wearied  team, 
Gain'd  a  sad  respite,  till  beside  tlie  base 
Of  the  high  hill  his  foremost  horse  dropp'd  dead. 
Tlicn  hopeless,  strcngthless,  sick  for  lack  of  food. 
He  crept  beneath  the  coverture,  entranced, 
fill  waken'd  by  the  maiden. — Such  his  tale. 

Ah !  suffering  to  the  height  of  what  was  suffer'd. 
Stung  with  too  keen  a  sympathy,  the  Maid 
Broofied  with  moving  lijis,  mute,  startful,  dark ! 
And  now  her  flush'd  tumultuous  features  shot 
Such  strange  vivacity,  as  fires  the  eye 
Of  misery  Fancy-crazed  !    and  now  ^nce  more 
Naked,  and  void,  and  fix'd,  and  all  within 
The  unquiet  silence  of  confused  thought 
And  shapeless  feelings.     For  a  mighty  hand 
Was  strong  upon  her,  till  in  the  heat  of  soul 
To  the  high  hill-top  tracing  back  her  steps. 
Aside  the  beacon,  up  whose  smoulder'd  stones 
The  tender  ivy-trails  crept  thinly,  there. 
Unconscious  of   the  driving  element. 
Yea,  swallow'd  up  in  the  ominous  dream,  she  sate 
Ghastly  as  broad-eyed  Slumber  !  a  dim  anguish 
Breathed  from  her  look!  and  still,  with  pant  and  sob, 
Inly  she  toil'd  to  flee,  and  still  subdued, 
Felt  an  inevitable  Presence  near. 

Thus  as  she  toil'd  in  troublous  ecstasy, 
An  horror  of  great  darltness  wrapt  her  round, 
And  a  voice  uttered  fortli  unearthly  tones. 
Calming  her  soul, — "  O  Thou  of  the  Most  High 
Chosen,  whom  all  the  perfected  in  Heaven 
Behold  expectant 

[The  following  fragments  were  intended  to  form  part  of  the 
Foem  when  finished.] 

"  Maid  beloved  of  Heaven  ! " 
(To  her  the  tutelary  Power  exclaim'd) 
"  Of  Chaos  the  adventurous  progeny 
TTiou  seest ;  foul  missionaries  of  foul  sire, 
{■'ierce  to  regain  the  losses  of  that  hour 
When  Love  rose  glittering,  and  his  gorgeous  wings 
Over  the  abyss  flutter'd  with  such  glad  noise, 
As  what  time  after  long  and  pestful  calms. 
With  slimy  shapes  and  miscreated  life 
Poisoning  the  vast  Pacific,  the  fresh  breeze 
Wakens  the  merchant-sail  uprising.     Night 
A  heavy  unimaginable  luoan 


Sent  forth,  when  she  the  Protoplast  beheld 
Stand  beauteous  on  Confusion's  charmed  wave. 
Moaning  she  fled,  and  entered  the  Profound 
That  leads  with  downward  windings  to  the  Cave 
Of  darkness  palpable.  Desert  of  Death 
Sunk  deep  beneath  Gehenna's  ma.ssy  roots. 
There  many  a  dateless  age  the  Beldame  lurk'd 
And  trembled  ;  till  engender'd  by  fierce  Hale, 
Fierce  Hale  and  gloomy  Hope,  a  Dream  arose. 
Shaped  like  a  black  cloud  niark'd  with  streaks  of 

fire. 
It  roused  the  Hell-Hag  :  she  the  dew  damp  wiped 
From  off  her  brow,  and  through  the  uncouth  mazfl 
Retraced  her  steps  ;  but  ere  site  reach'd  the  mouth 
Of  that  drear  labyrinth,  shuddering  site  paused, 
Nor  dared  re-enter  the  diininish'd  Gulf. 
As    through    the    dark   vaults   of  some    moulder'd 

Tower 
(Which,  fearful  to  approach,  the  evening  Hind 
Circles  at  distance  in  his  homeward  way) 
The  winds  breathe  hollow,  deem'd  the  plaining  groan 
Of  prison'd  spirits  ;  with  such  fearful  voice 
Night  murmur'd,  and  the  soimd  through  Chaos  went 
Loap'd  at  her  call  her  hideous-fronted  brood ! 
A  dark  behest  they  heard,  and  rush'd  on  earth  ; 
Since  that  sad  hour,  in  Camps  and  Courts  adored, 
Rebels  from  God,  and  Monarchs  o'er  IManldndl" 


From  his  obscure  haunt 
Shriek 'd  Fear,  of  Cruelty  the  ghastly  Dam, 
Feverish  yet  freezing,  eager-paced  yet  slow, 
As  she  that  creeps  from  Ibrth  her  swampy  reeds. 
Ague,  the  biform  Hag  !  when  early  Spring 
Beams  on  the  marsh-bred  vapors. 


"  Even  so"  (the  exulting  Maiden  said) 
"  The  sainted  Heralds  of  Good  Tidings  fell. 
And  thus  they  witness'd  God  !  But  now  the  clouds 
Treading,  and  storms  beneath  their  feet,  they  soar 
Higher,  and  higher  soar,  and  soaring  sing 
Loud  songs  of  Triumph !  O  ye  spirits  of  God, 
Hover  around  my  mortal  agonies  !" 
She  spake,  and  instantly  faint  melody 
]Melts  on  her  ear,  soothing  and  sad,  and  slow, — 
Such  Measures,  as  at  calmest  midnight  heard 
By  aged  Hermit  in  his  holy  dream. 
Foretell  and  solace  death  ;  and  now  they  rise 
Louder,  as  when  with  harp  and  mingled  voice 
The  white-robed*  multitude  of  slaughter'd  saints 
At  Heaven's  wide-open'd  portals  gratulant 
Receive  some  martyr'd  Patriot.    The  harmony 
B'^ntranced  the  Maid,  till  each  suspended  sense 
Brief  slumber  seized,  and  confused  ecstasy. 

At  length  awakening  slow,  she  gazed  around : 
And  through  a  Mist,  the  relic  of  that  trance 
Still  thinning  as  she  gazed,  an  Isle  appear'd. 
Its  high,  o'er-hanging,  while,  broad-breasted  cliffs, 
Glass'd  on  the  subject  ocean.    A  vast  plain 
Strelch'd  opposite,  where  ever  and  anon 


*  Revel,  vi.  9,  11.  And  when  he  had  opened  the  fifth  seal.  I 
saw  under  the  altar  the  souls  of  them  that  were  slain  for  the 
word  of  God,  and  for  the  testimony  which  they  held.  And 
white  robes  were  given  unto  every  one  of  them,  and  it  was 
said  unto  therri  that  they  should  rest  yet  for  a  liule  season, 
until  their  fellow  servants  also  and  their  brethren,  that  should 
be  killed  as  they  were,  should  be  fullilled. 

5  29 


20 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  Plow-man,  following  sad  his  meagre  team, 
Turn'd  up  fresh  sculls  unstartled,  and  the  bones 
Of  fierce  hate-breathing  combatants,  who  there 
All  mingled  lay  beneath  the  common  earth, 
Death's  gloomy  reconcilement !  O'er  the  Fields 
Slept  a  fair  form,  repairing  all  she  might, 
Her  temples  olive-wreathed ;  and  where  she  trod 
Fresh  flowerets  rose,  and  many  a  foodful  herb. 
But  wan  her  cheek,  her  footsteps  insecure, 
And  anxious  pleasure  beam'd  in  her  faint  eye. 
As  she  had  newly  left  a  couch  of  pain, 
Pale  Convalescent !  (yet  some  time  to  rule 
With  power  exclusive  o'er  the  willing  world. 
That  bless'd  prophetic  mandate  then  fulfill'd, 
Peace  be  on  Earth !)    A  happy  while,  but  brief, 
She  seem'd  to  wander  with  assiduous  feet. 
And  heal'd  the  recent  harm  of  chill  and  blight. 
And  nursed  each  plant  that  fair  and  virtuous  grew. 

But  soon  a  deep  precursive  sound  moan'd  hollow : 
Black  rose  the  clouds,  and  now  (as  in  a  dream) 
Their   reddening   shapes,   transformed   to  Warrior- 
hosts, 
Coursed  o'er  the  Sky,  and  battled  in  mid-air. 
Nor  did  not  the  large  blood-drops  fall  from  Heaven 
Portentous !  while  aloft  were  seen  to  float. 
Like  hideous  features  booming  on  the  mist, 
Wan  Stains  of  ominous  Light !  Resign'd,  yet  sad, 
The  fair  Form  bowed  her  olive-crowiied  Brow, 
Then  o'er  the  plain  with  oft-reverted  eye 
Fled  till  a  Place  of  Tombs  she  reach'd,  and  there 
Within  a  ruined  Sepulchre  obscure 
Found  Hidmg-place. 

The  delegated  Maid 
Gazed  through  her  tears,  then  in  sad  tones  exclaim'd, 
"  Thou  mild-eyed  Form  !  wherefore,  ah  !  wherefore 

fled? 
The  power  of  Justice,  like  a  name  all  Light, 
Shone  from  thy  brow ;  but  all  they,  who  unblamed 
Dwelt  in  thy  dwellings,  call  thee  Happiness. 
Ah  !  why,  uninjured  and  unprolited. 
Should  multitudes  against  their  brethren  rush  ? 
Why  sow  they  guilt,  still  reaping  Misery  ? 
Lenient  of  care,  thy  songs,  O  Peace  !  are  sweet. 
As  after  showers  the  perfumed  gale  of  eve. 
That  flings  the  cool  drops  on  a  feverous  cheek : 
And  gay  the  grassy  altar  piled  with  fruits. 
But  boasts  the  shrine  of  Daemon  War  one  charm. 
Save  that  with  many  an  orgie  strange  and  foul. 
Dancing  around  with  interwoven  arms. 
The  Maniac  Suicide  and  Giant  Murder 
Exult  in  their  fierce  union  >.  I  am  sad. 
And  know  not  why  the  simple  Peasants  crowd 
Beneath  the  Chieftains'  standard!"  Thus  the  Maid. 


To  her  the  tutelary  Spirit  replied  : 
"  When  Luxury  and  Lust's  exhausted  stores 
No  more  can  rouse  the  appetites  of  Kings  ; 
When  the  low  flattery  of  their  reptile  Lords 
Falls  flat  and  heavy  on  the  accustom'd  ear ; 
When  Eunuchs  sing,  and  Fools  bufl^oonery  make, 
And  Dancers  writhe  their  harlot-limbs  in  vain ; 
Then  War  and  all  its  dread  vicissitudes 
Pleasingly  agitate  their  stagnant  Hearts  ; 
Its  hopes,  its  fears,  its  victories,  its  defeats, 
Insipid   Royalty's  keen  condiment  ! 
Therefore  uninjured  and  unprofited 


(Victims  at  once  and  Executioners), 
The  congregated  Husbandmen  lay  waste 
The  Vineyard  and  the  Harvest.    As  long 
The  Bothnic  coast,  or  southward  of  the  Line, 
Though  hush'd  the  Winds  and  cloudless  the  higb 

Noon, 
Yet  if  Leviathan,  weary  of  ease. 
In  sports  unwieldy  toss  his  Island-bulk, 
Ocean  behind  him  billows,  and  before 
A  storm  of  waves  breaks  foamy  on  the  strand. 
And  hence,  for  times  and  seasons  bloody  and  dark, 
Short  Peace  shall  skin  the  wounds  of  causeless  War 
And  War,  his  strained  sinews  knit  anew. 
Still  violate  the  imiinish'd  works  of  Peace. 
But  yonder  look  !  for  more  demands  thy  view ! " 
He  said  :  and  straightway  from  the  opposite  Isle 
A  Vapor  sailed,  as  when  a  cloud,  exhaled 
From  Egypt's  fields  that  steam  hot  pestilence, 
Travels  the  sky  for  many  a  trackless  league. 
Till  o'er  some  Death-doom'd  land,  distant  in  vain. 
It  broods  incumbent.    Forthwith  from  the  Plain, 
Facing  the  Isle,  a  brighter  cloud  arose, 
And  steer'd  its  course  which  way  the  Vapor  went 

The  Maiden  paused,  musing  what  this  might  mean. 
But  long  time  pass'd  not,  ere  that  brighter  cloud 
Retuni'd  more  bright ;  along  the  plain  it  swept ; 
And  soon  from  forth  its  bursting  sides  emerged 
A  dazzling  form,  broad-ljosom'd,  bold  of  eye. 
And  wild  her  hair,  save  where  with  laurels  bound. 
Not  more  majestic  stood  the  healing  God, 
Wlien  from  his  bow  the  arrow  sped  that  slew 
Huge  Python.    Shriek'd  Ambition's  giant  throng. 
And  with  them  hiss'd  the  Locust-fiends  that  crawl'd 
And  glitter'd  in  Corruption's  slimy  track. 
Great  was  their  wralh,  for  short  they  knew  their 

reign ; 
And  such  commotion  made  they,  and  uproar. 
As  when  the  mad  Tornado  bellows  through 
The  guilty  islands  of  the  western  main. 
What  time  departing  from  their  native  shores, 
Eboe,  or  Koromantyn's*  plain  of  Palms, 


The  slaves  in  the  West-Indies  consider  death  as  a  passport 
to  their  native  co\intry.  This  sentiment  is  thus  expressed  in 
the  introduction  to  a  Greek  Prize-Ode  on  the  Slave-Trade,  of 
which  the  ideas  are  better  than  the  language  in  which  iher 
are  conveyed. 

ii  OKOTov  TTuXaf,  Qavare,  TrpoXturuv 
Es  ycvos  a7Ttv6ois  vrro^ev^Oev  Arif 
Ov  (tviadri  cri  yivvwv  mrapay^oi ; 

Oi)^'  oXoXvyfiw, 

AXXa  Kai  KvK^oiai  ■)(^opotTVTioiai 
yC aafiartov  X'^Pf  <po6tpos  /'£>'  ttrcc 
AXX'  o/iwi  KXcvdcftia  cvvotKttg, 

Trvyvc  Tvpavve ! 
AauKioii  CTTCi  TTTcpvytaai  crjai 
A  !    ^aXaaaiov  KaOopiavns  oiifxa 
AidcpoirXayroti  vtto  t,occ^  avztai 

IlaTpii  fjr'  atav. 

Ei'Oa  ixav  Kpaaat  'Ep(^fnvv<Tiv 

Apipi  TVriyrjaiv  Kirpii'iov  uir'  uXffWi',  j 

Offo-'tiTTO  fipoTOts  tTTaOov  j3pOTCl,  Ta 
ilciva  Xcyovat. 

LITERAL    TRANSLATION. 

Leaving  the  Gates  of  Darkness,  O  Death  !  hasten  thou  to  a 
Race  yoked  with  Misery !   Thou  wilt  not  be  received  witli 
30 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


21 


The  infuriate  spirits  of  the  Murder'd  make 
Fierce  merriment,  and  vengeance  ask  of  Heaven. 
Warm'd  w'ith  new  influence,  tlie  luiwholesome  plain 
Sent  up  its  foulest  fogs  to  meet  the  Morn  : 
The  Sun  that  rose  on  Freedom,  rose  in  blood! 

"Maiden  beloved,  and  Delegate  of  Heaven!" 
'To  her  the  tutelary  Spirit  said) 
•  Soon  shall  the  Morning  struggle  into  Day, 
The  stormy  Morning  into  cloudless  Noon. 
Much  hast  thou  seen,  nor  all  canst  understand — 
But  this  be  thy  best  Omen — Save  thy  Country  ! " 


lacerations  of  cheeks,  nor  with  funeral  ululation — but  with 
ciicling  dances  and  the  joy  of  songs.  Thou  art  terrible  indeed, 
yet  thou  dwellest  with  Liberty,  stern  Genius!  Borne  on  thy 
dark  pinions  over  the  swelling  of  ocean,  they  return  to  their 
native  country.  There,  by  the  side  of  Fountains  beneath 
Citron-groves,  the  lovers  lell  to  their  beloved  what  horrors, 
being  Men,  they  had  endured  from  Men. 


Thus  saying,  from  the  answering  Maid  he  pa-ss'd, 
And  with  him  disappear'd  the  Heavenly  Vision. 

"  Glory  to  Thee,  Father  of  Earth  and  Heaven  • 
All-conscious  Presence  of  the  Universe  ! 
Nature's  vast  Ever-acting  Energy  ! 
In  Will,  in  Deed,  Impulse  of  All  to  All ! 
Whether  thy  love  with  unrefracted  ray 
Beam  on  the  Prophet's  purged  eye,  or  if 
Diseasing  realms  the  enthusiast,  wild  of  thought 
Scatter  new  frenzies  on  the  infected  throng, 
Thou  both  inspiring  and  predooniing  both. 
Fit  instruments  and  best,  of  perfect  end  : 
Glory  to  Thee,  Father  of  Earth  and  Heaven!" 

And  first  a  landscape  rose, 
More  wild  and  waste  and  desolate  than  where 
The  white  bear,  drifting  on  a  field  of  ice, 
Howls  to  her  simder'd  cubs  with  piteous  rage 
And  savage  agony. 


SilifiUine  Hea^cso;* 


I  POEMS  OCCASIONED  BY  POLITICAL 
EVENTS  OR  FEELINGS  CONNECTED 
WITH  THEM. 


When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 

Great  nations,  how  ennobling  thoughts  depart 

When  men  change  swords  for  legeis,  and  desert 

The  student's  bower  for  gold,  some  fears  unnamed 

I  had,  my  country  !  Am  I  to  be  blamed  t 

But,  when  I  think  of  Thee,  and  what  Thou  art. 

Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

Of  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed. 

But  dearly  must  we  prize  thee ;  we  who  find 

In  thee  a  bulwark  of  the  cause  of  men  ; 

And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled. 

What  wonder  if  a  poet,  now  and  then. 

Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind. 

Felt  for  thee  as  a  Lover  or  a  Child. 

JVordsiBorth. 


ODE  TO  THE  DEPARTING  YEAR* 

loii,  loll,   &  (S  KUKa. 

Tn   av  fic  Seii'ds  ipdofjiavrtias  itdvo; 
HrpoStt,  Tapdacrtov  (ftpoipiiots  fipriniois. 
****** 
T6  /liWov  fi^ci.     Kal  mi  firiv  Trd^ei  vapiiv 
'Ayov  y'  dXi76(5/;<avr(i/^'  ipui. 

yEscHYL.  Asam.  1225. 


ARGUMENT. 

The  Ode  commences  with  an  Address  to  the  Divine 
Providence,  that  regulates  into  one  vast  harmony  all 
the  events  of  time,  however  calamitous  some  of  them 

*  This  Ode  was  composed  on  the  24th,  23th,  and  26tli  days 
of  December,  1796 :  and  was  first  published  on  the  last  day  of 
that  year. 


may  appear  to  mortals.  The  second  Strophe  calls 
on  men  to  suspend  their  private  joys  and  sorrows, 
and  devote  them  for  a  while  to  the  cause  of  human 
nature  in  general.  The  first  Epode  speaks  of  the 
Empress  of  Russia,  who  died  of  an  apoplexy  on  the 
17th  of  November,  1796;  having  just  concluded  a 
subsidiary  treaty  with  the  Kings  combined  against 
France.  The  first  and  second  Antistrophe  describe 
the  Image  of  the  Departing  Year,  etc.  as  in  a  vision. 
The  second  Epode  prophesies,  in  anguish  of  spirit, 
the  downfall  of  this  coimtry. 


I. 

Spirit  who  sweepest  the  wild  Harp  of  Time  ! 
It  is  most  hard,  with  an  untroubled  ear 
Thy  dark  inwoven  harmonies  to  hear ! 
Yet,  mine  eye  fix'd  on  Heaven's  unchanging  clime. 
Long  when  I  listen'd,  free  from  mortal  fear. 
With  inward  stillness,  and  submitted  mind ; 
When  lo  !  its  folds  far  waving  on  the  wind, 
I  saw  the  train  of  the  Departi.ng  Year  ! 
Starting  from  my  silent  sadness. 
Then  with  no  unholy  madness, 
Ere  yet  the  enter'd  cloud  foreclosed  my  sight, 
I  raised  the  impetuous  song,  and  solemnized   his 
flight. 

II. 

Hither,  from  the  recent  tomb, 
From  the  prison's  direr  gloom, 
From  Distemper's  midnight  anguish  ; 
And  thence,  where  Poverty  doth  waste  and  languish, 
Or  where,  his  two  bright  torches  blending. 

Love  illumines  manhood's  maze  ; 
Or  where,  o'er  cradled  infants  bending, 
Hope  has  fix'd  her  wishful  gaze. 
Hither,  in  perplexed  dance. 
Ye  Woes.!  ye  young-eyed  Joys  !  advance  ' 
31 


22 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


By  Time's  wikl  harp,  and  by  the  hand 
Whose  indefatigable  sweep 
Raises  its  fatei'iil  strings  from  sleep, 
I  bid  you  haste,  a  niix'd  tumultuous  band ! 
From  every  private  bower, 

And  each  domestic  hearth. 
Haste  lor  one  solemn  hour  ; 
And  with  a  loud  and  yet  a  louder  voice, 
O'er  Nature  struggling  in  portentous  birth 

Weep  and  rejoice  I 
Still  echoes  the  dread  Name  that  o'er  the  earth 
Let  slip  the  storm,  and  woke  the  brood  of  Hell  : 

And  now  advance  in  saintly  Jubilee 
Justice  and  Truth !  They  too  have  heard  thy  spell. 
They  too  obey  thy  name,  Divinest  Liberty ! 


in. 

I  mark'd  Ambition  in  his  war-array ! 

I  heard  the  mailed  Monarch's  troublous  cry — 
"Ah!  wherefore  does  the  Northern  Conqueress  stay! 
Groans  not  her  chariot  on  its  onward  way  ? " 
Fly,  mailed  Monarch,  fly  ! 
Stunn'd  by  Deatli's  twice  mortal  mace, 
No  more  on  Murder's  lurid  face 
The  insatiate  hag  shall  gloat  with  drunken  eye ! 
Manes  of  the  unnumber'd  slain  ! 
Ye  that  gasp'd  on  Warsaw's  plain! 
Ye  that  erst  at  Ismail's  tower, 
When  human  ruin  choked  the  streams, 

Fell  in  conquest's  glutted  hour, 
'Mid  W'Omen's  shrieks  and  infants'  screams ! 
Spirits  of  the  uncofliu'd  slain. 

Sudden  blasts  of  triumph  swelling, 
Oft,  at  night,  in  misty  train, 

Rush  around  her  narrow  dwelling  ! 
The  exterminating  fiend  is  fled — 

(Foul  her  life,  and  dark  her  doom) 
Mighty  armies  of  the  dead 

Dance  like  death-lires  rotind  her  tomb! 
Then  with  prophetic  song  relate. 
Each  some  tyrant-murderer's  fate ! 


IV. 

Departing  Year  !  't  was  on  no  earthly  shore 
My  soul  beheld  thy  vision  !  Where  alone, 
Voiceless  and  stern,  before  the  cloudy  throne, 
Aye  Memory  sits:  thy  robe  inscribed  with  gore, 
With  many  an  unimaginable  groan 

Tliou  storied'st  thy  sad  hours  !  Silence  ensued, 
Deep  silence  o'er  the  ethereal  multitude, 
Whose   locks   with   wreaths,   whose   wreaths  with 
glories  shone. 
Then,  his  eye  wild  ardors  glancing. 
From  the  choired  Gods  advancing, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  made  reverence  meet, 
And  stood  up,  beautiful,  before  the  cloudy  seat. 

V. 

Throughout  the  blissful  throng, 

Husli'd   were  harp  and  song  : 
Till  wheeling  round  the  throne  the  Lampads  seven 

(The  mystic  Words  of  Heaven), 

Permissive  signal  make  : 
The  fervent  Spirit  bovv'd,  then  spread  his  wings  and 
spake ! 


"  Thou  in  stormy  blackness  throning 

Love  and  uncreated  Light, 
By  the  Earth's  unsolaced  groaning, 
Seize  thy  terrors.  Arm  of  might ! 
By  Peace  with  proffer'd  insult  sacred, 
Masked  Hate  and  envying  Scorn  ! 
By  Years  of  Havoc  yet  unborn ! 
And  Hunger's  bosom  to  the  frost-wmds  bare.l ! 
But  chief  by  Afric's  wrongs. 

Strange,  horrible,  and  ibul !  ' 

By  what  deep  guilt  belongs 
To  the  deaf  Synod,  '  full  of  gifts  and  lies ' ' 
By  Wealth's  insensate  laugh  !  by  Torture's  howl '. 
Avenger,  rise  ! 
For  ever  shall  the  thankless  Island  scowl, 
Her  quiver  full,  and  with  unbroken  bow  ? 
Speak !  from  thy  storm-black  Heaven,  O  speak  aloud 

And  on  the  darkling  foe 
Open  thine  eye  of  fire  from  some  imcertain  cloud  ! 

O  dart  the  flash !  O  rise  and  deal  tlie  blow .' 
The  past  to  thee,  to  tiiee  the  future  cries ! 

Hark !  how  wide  Nature  joins  her  groans  l^-Jovv  ! 
Rise,  God  of  Nature  !  rise." 


VI. 

The  voice  had  ceased,  the  vision  fled ; 
Yet  still  I  gasp'd  and  reel'd  with  dread. 
And  ever,  when  the  dream  of  night 
Renews  the  phantom  to  my  sight, 
Cold  sweat-drops  gather  on  my  limbs  ; 

My  ears  throb  hot ;  my  eye-balls  start ; 
My  brain  with  horrid  tumult  swim.s  ; 
Wild  is  the  tempest  of  my  heart ; 
And  my  thick  and  struggling  breath 
Imitates  the  toil  of  Death  ! 
No  stronger  agony  confounds 

The  Soldier  on  the  war-field  spread, 
When  all  foredone  with  toil  and  wounds. 

Death-like  he  dozes  among  heaps  of  dead 
(The  strife  is  o'er,  the  day-light  fled. 

And  the  night-wind  clamors  hoarse  ! 
See  !  the  starting  wretch's  head 

Lies  pillow'd  on  a  brother's  corse !) 


'VII. 

Not  yet  enslaved,  not  wholly  vile, 
O  Albion  !  O  my  mother  Isle  ! 
Thy  valleys,  fair  as  Eden's  bowers, 
Glitter  green  with  sunny  showers ; 
Thy  grassy  uplands'  gentle  swells 

Echo  to  the  bleat  of  flocks 
(Those  grassy  hills,  those  glittering  dells 

Proudly  ramparted  with  rocks) ; 
And  Ocean,  'mid  his  uproar  wild 
Speaks  safety  to  his  island-child  ! 

Hence,  for  many  a  fearless  age 

Has  social  Quiet  loved  thy  shore ! 
Nor  ever  proud  Invader's  rage 
Or  sack'd  thy  towers,  or  stain'd  thy  fields  with  goro 


VIII. 
Abandon'd  of  Heaven '  mad  Avarice  thy  guide, 
At  cowardly  distance  yet  kindling  with  pride — 
32 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


2» 


'Mid  thy  herds  and  thy  corn-fields  secure  thou  hast 

St(XKl, 

And  join'd  the  wild  yellinfr  of  P'amine  and  Blood  ! 
TliP  nations  curse  ihec  !  Tliey  "  i'h  eat^cr  wondering 

Shall  hear  Destruction,  like  a  \'ulturc,  scream  ! 

Strange-eyed  Destruction!  wlio  with  many  a  dream 
Of  central  fires  through  nelher  seas  uplhundering 

Soothes  her  fierce  solitude  ;  yet,  as  she  lies 
By  livid  fount,  or  red  volcanic  stream,* 

If  ever  to  her  lidless  dragon-eyes, 

O  Albion!  thy  predestin'd  ruins  rise. 
The  fiend-hag  on  her  perilous  couch  doth  leap. 
Muttering  distemper'd  triumph  in  her  charmed  sleep. 

IX. 

Away,  my  soul,  away  I 
In  vain,  in  vain,  the  Birds  of  warning  sing — 
And  hark !  I  hear  the  famish'd  brood  of  prey 
Flap  their  lank  pennons  on  the  groaning  wind! 
Away,  my  soul,  away  ! 
I,  unpariaking  of  the  evil  thing. 
With  daily  prayer  and  daily  toil 
Soliciting  for  food  my  scanty  soil, 
Have  wail'd  my  country  with  a  loud  lament. 
Now  I  recentre  my  immortal  mind 

In  the  deep  sabbath  of  meek  self-content  ; 
Cleans'd  from  the  vaporous  passions  that  bedim 
God  j  Image,  sister  of  the  Seraphim. 


FRANCE. 


Ye  Clouds !  that  far  above  me  float  and  pause, 

■\Vhose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may  control ! 

Ye  Ocean- Waves  !  that,  wheresoe'er  ye  roll, 
Yield  homage  only  to  eternal  laws ! 
Ye  Woods !  that  listen  to  the  night-birds'  singing, 

Midway  the  smooth  and  perilous  slope  reclined, 
Save  when  vour  own  imperious  branches  swinging. 

Have  made  a  solemn  music  of  the  wind  I 
^Vhere,  like  a  man  beloved  of  God, 
Through  glooms,  which  never  woodman  trod. 

How  oft,  pursuing  fancies  holy, 
My  moonlight  way  o'er  flowering  weeds  I  wound, 

Inspired,  beyond  the  guess  of  folly. 
By  each  rude  shape  and  wild  unconquerable  sound! 
O  ye  loud  Waves !  and  O  ye  Forests  high  ! 

And  O  ye  Clouds  that  far  above  me  soar'd  I 
Thou  rising  Sun!  thou  blue  rejoicing  Sky! 

Yea,  every  thing  that  is  and  will  be  free! 

Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe'er  ye  be, 

With  what  deep  worship  I  have  still  ador'd 
The  spirit  of  divinest  Liberty. 

II. 
When  France  in  wrath  her  giant-limbs  uprear'd, 

And  with  that  oath,  which  smote  air,  earth  and  sea, 

Stamp'd  her  strong  foot  and  said  she  would  be  free. 
Bear  witness  for  me,  how  I  hoped  and  fear'd  I 
With  what  a  joy  my  lofty  gratulalion 

Unaw'd  I  sane  amid  a  slavish  band : 
And  when  to  whelm  the  disenchanted  nation, 

Like  fiends  embattled  by  a  wizard's  viand, 


The  Monarchs  march'd  in  evil  day. 
And  Britain  joined  llie  dire  array; 

Thoiigb  dear  her  .shores  and  circling  ocean, 
Thougli  many  friendships,  many  youthful  loves 

Had  swoln  the  patriot  emotion. 
And  (lung  a  magic  light  o'er  all  her  hills  and  groves; 
Yet  still  my  voice,  unalter'd,  sang  defeat 

To  all  that  braved  the  tyrant-tjuelling  lance, 
And  shame  too  long  dclay'd  and  vain  retreat! 
For  ne'er,  O  Liberty!  with  partial  aim 
I  diinm'd  thy  light  or  dami/d  thy  holy  flame ; 

But  bless'd  the  pagans  of  dclivcr'd  France, 
And  hung  my  head  and  wept  at  Britain's  name. 

TIL 

"  And  what,"  I  said,  "  though  Blasphemy's  loud  scream 
With  that  sweet  music  of  deliverance  strove! 
Though  all  the  fierce  and  drunken  ))assions  wove 
A  dance  more  wild  than  e'er  was  maniac's  dream  ' 

Ye  storms,  that  round  the  dawning  cast  assembled. 
The  Sun  was  rising,  though  he  hid  his  light ! 

And  when,    to   soothe  my  soul,   that  hoped  ai.d 
trembled. 
The    dissonance  ceased,  and    all  seem'd  calm  ano' 
bright ; 
When  France  her  front  deep-scarr'd  and  gory 
Conceal'd  with  clustering  wreaths  of  glory  ; 

When,  insupportably  advancing, 
Her  arm  made  mockery  of  the  warrior's  tramp; 

While  timid  looks  of  fury  glancing. 
Domestic  treason,  crush'd  beneath  her  fatal  stamp. 
Writhed  like  a  wounded  dragon  in  his  gore  ; 

Then  I  reproach'd  my  fears  that  would  not  flee ; 
"  And  soon,"  I  said,  "  shall  V\'isdom  teach  her  lore 
In  the  low  huts  of  them  that  toil  and  groan  I 
And,  conquering  by  her  happiness  alone, 

Shall  France  compel  the  nations  to  ije  free. 
Till  Love  and  Joy  look  round,  and  call  the  Earth 
their  own." 

IV. 

Forgive  me.  Freedom  !  O  forgive  those  dreams  I 
I  hear  thy  voice,  I  hear  thy  loud  lament. 
From  bleak  Helvetia's  icy  caverns  sent — 

I  hear  thy  groans  upon  her  blood-stain'd  streams! 
Heroes,  that  for  your  peaceful  country  porish'd 

And  ye  that,  fleeing,  spot  your  mountain-snows 
With  bleeding  wounds;  forgive  me  that  I  cherisii'd 

One  thought  that  ever  bless'd  your  cruel  foes ! 
To  scatter  rage,  and  traitorous  guilt. 
Where  Peace  her  jealous  home  had  built , 
A  patriot  race  to  disinherit 

Of  all  that  made  their  stormy  wilds  so  dear; 
And  with  inexpiable  spirit 

To  taint  the  bloodless  freedom  of  the  niounlaineer-— 

O  France,  that  mockcst  Heaven,  adulterous,  blind. 
And  patriot  only  in  pernicious  toils  ! 

Are  these  thy  boasts,  Chamjiioa  of  human-kind  ? 
To  mix  with  Kings  in  the  low  lust  of  sway, 

Yell  in  the  hunt,  and  share  the  tnurderous  prey ; 

To  insult  the  shriue  of  Liberty  with  s|x)ils 
From  Freemen  torn  ;  to  tempt  atid  to  betray  ? 

V. 

The  Sensual  and  the  Dark  rebel  in  vain, 
Slaves  by  their  own  compulsion  !  In  mad  game 
They  burst  their  manacles  and  wear  the  name 

Of  Freedom,  graven  on  a  heavier  chain  I 
33 


24 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


O  Liberty  !  v\ith  profitless  endeavor 
Have  I  pursued  thee,  many  a  weary  hour ; 

But  thou  nor  svvell'st  the  victor's  strain,  nor  ever 
Didst  breatlie  thy  soul  in  forms  of  human  power. 
Alike  from  all,  howe'er  they  praise  thee 
(Not  prayer  nor  boastful  name  delays  thee), 

Alike  from  Pri-estcrafi's  harpy  minions, 
And  factious  Blasphemy's  obscener  slaves, 
Thou  speedest  on  thy  subtle  pinions, 
The  guide  of  homeless  winds,  and  playmates  of  the 

waves ! 
And  there  I  felt  thee ! — on  that  sea-cliff's  verge, 

Whose  pines,  scarce  travell'd  by  the  breeze  above. 

Had  made  one  murmur  with  the  distant  surge ! 

Yes,  while  I  stood  and  gazed,  my  temples  bare, 

And  shot  my  being  through  earth,  sea,  and  air, 

Possessing  all  things  with  intensest  love, 

O  Liberty !  my  spirit  felt  thee  there. 

February,  1797. 


FEARS  IN  SOLITUDE. 

WRITTEN    IN    APRIL,    1798,    DURING    THE    ALARM    OF 
AN    INVASION. 

A  GREEN  and  silent  spot,  amid  the  hills, 

A  small  and  silent  dell !  O'er  stiller  place 

No  sinking  sky-lark  ever  poised  himself. 

The  hills  are  heathy,  save  that  swelling  slope, 

Which  hath  a  gay  and  gorgeous  covering  on. 

All  golden  with  the  never- hloomless  furze. 

Which  now  blooms  most  profusely ;  but  the  dell, 

Bathed  by  the  mist,  is  fresh  and  delicate 

As  vernal  corn-field,  or  the  unripe  flax, 

When,  througti  its  half-transparent  stalks,  at  eve, 

The  level  Sunshine  glimmers  with  green  light. 

Oh!  'tis  a  quiet  spirit-healing  nook! 

Which  all,  methinks,  would  love  ;  but  chiefly  he. 

The  humble  man,  who,  in  his  youthful  years. 

Knew  just  so  much  of  folly,  as  had  made 

His  early  manhood  more  securely  wise ! 

Here  he  might  lie  on  fern  or  wither'd  heath. 

While  from  the  singing-lark  (that  sings  unseen 

The  minstrelsy  that  solitude  loves  best). 

And  from  the  Sun,  and  from  tlie  breezy  Air, 

Sweet  influences  trembled  o'er  his  frame  ; 

And  he,  with  many  feelings,  many  tlioughts, 

Made  up  a  meditative  joj',  and  found 

Religious  meanings  in  the  forms  of  nature  ! 

And  so,  his  senses  gradually  wrapt 

In  a  half-sleep,  he  dreams  of  belter  worlds. 

And  dreaming  hears  thee  still,  O  singing-lark ! 

That  singest  like  an  angel  in  the  clouds ! 


My  God  !  it  is  a  melancholy  thing 
For  such  a  man,  who  would  full  fain  preserve 
His  soul  in  calmness,  yet  perforce  must  feel 
For  all  his  human  brethren — O  my  God  ! 
It  weighs  upon  the  heart,  that  he  must  think 
What  uproar  and  what  strife  may  now  be  stirring 
This  way  or  that  way  o'er  these  silent  hills — 
Tavasion,  and  the  thunder  and  the  shout. 


And  all  the  crash  of  onset;  fear  and  rage, 

And  undetermined  conflict — even  now. 

Even  now,  perchance,  and  in  his  native  isle  ; 

Carnage  and  groans  beneath  this  blessed  Sun ! 

We  have  offended.  Oh  !  my  countrymen  ! 

We  have  offended  veiy  grievously. 

And  been  most  tyrannous.     From  east  to  west 

A  groan  of  accusation  pierces  Heaven  I 

The  wretched  plead  against  us;  multitudes 

Countless  and  vehement,  the  Sons  of  God, 

Our  Brethren  !  Like  a  cloud  that  travels  on, 

Steam'd  up  from  Cairo's  swamps  of  pestilence. 

Even  so,  my  countrymen  !  have  we  gone  forth 

And  borne  to  distant  tribes  slavery  and  pangs. 

And,  deadlier  far,  our  vices,  whose  deep  taint 

With  slow  perdition  murders  the  whole  man. 

His  body  and  his  soul !  Meanwhile,  at  home. 

All  individual  dignity  and  power 

Ingulf 'd  in  Courts,  Committees,  Institutions, 

Associations  and  Societies, 

A  vain,  speech-mouthing,  speech-reporting  Guild, 

One  Benefit-Club  for  mutual  flattery. 

We  have  drunk  up,  demure  as  at  a  grace. 

Pollutions  from  the  brimming  cup  of  wealth ; 

Contemptuous  of  all  honorable  rule. 

Yet  bartering  freedom  and  the  poor  man's  life 

For  gold,  as  at  a  market !  The  sweet  words 

Of  Chrisrian  promise,  words  that  even  yet 

Might  stem  destruction  were  they  wisely  preach'd, 

Are  mutler'd  o'er  by  men,  whose  tones  proclaim 

How  flat  and  wearisome  they  feel  their  trade: 

Rank  scoffers  some,  but  most  too  indolent 

To  deem  them  falsehoods  or  to  know  their  truth. 

Oh  !  blasphemous !  the  book  of  life  is  made 

A  superetitious  instrument,  on  which 

We  gabble  o'er  the  oalhs  we  mean  to  break; 

For  all  must  swear — all  and  in  every  place, 

College  and  wharf,  council  and  justice-court ; 

All,  all  must  swear,  the  briber  and  the  bribed. 

Merchant  and  lawyer,  senator  and  priest. 

The  rich,  the  poor,  the  old  man  and  the  young ; 

All,  all  make  up  one  scheme  of  perjuiy. 

That  faith  doih  reel  ;  the  very  name  of  God 

Sounds  like  a  juggler's  cliarm ;  and,  bold  with  joy 

Forth  from  his  dark  and  lonely  hiding-place, 

(Portentous  sight!)  the  owlet  Atheism, 

Sailing  on  obscene  wings  athwart  the  noon, 

Drops  his  blue-fringed  lids,  and  holds  them  close, 

And  hooting  at  the  glorious  Sun  in  Heaven, 

Cries  out, "  Where  is  it  ?" 

Thankless  too  for  peace 
(Peace  long  preserved  by  fleets  and  perilous  seas)^ 
Secure  from  actual  warfare,  we  have  loved 
To  swell  the  war-whoop,  passionate  for  war  ! 
Alas !  for  ages  ignorant  of  all 
Its  ghastlier  workings  (famine  or  blue  plague. 
Battle,  or  siege,  or  flight  through  wintry  snows). 
We,  this  whole  people,  have  been  clamorous 
For  war  and  bloodshed  ;  animating  sports. 
The  v\hich  we  pay  for  as  a  thing  to  talk  of. 
Spectators  and  not  combatants  ?  No  guess 
Anticipative  of  a  wrong  unfelt. 
No  speculation  or  contingency. 
However  dim  and  vague,  too  vague  and  dim 
To  yield  a  justifying  cause ;  and  forth 
(Stiifrd  out  with  big  preamble,  holy  names. 
34 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


a5 


And  adjurations  of  ihe  God  in  Heaven), 

We  send  our  mandates  lor  the  certain  death 

Ol'  thousands  and  ten  thousands !  Roys  and  girls, 

And  women,  that  would  groan  to  see  a  child 

Pull  oir  an  insect's  leg,  all  read  of  war, 

The  best  amusement  lor  our  morning-meal ! 

The  poor  wretch,  who  has  learnt  his  only  prayers 

From  curses,  who  knows  scarcely  words  enough 

To  ask  a  blessing  from  his  Heavenly  P'ather, 

Becomes  a  fluent  phraseman,  absolute 

And  technical  in  victories  and  defeats. 

And  all  our  dainty  terms  for  iratricide  ; 

'ferins  which  we  trundle  smoothly  o'er  our  tongues 

Like  mere  abstractions,  empty  sounds,  to  wliich 

We  join  no  feeling  and  attach  no  form ! 

As  if  the  soldier  died  without  a  wound  ; 

As  if  the  libres  of  this  godlike  frame 

Were  gored  without  a  (lang ;  as  if  the  wretch, 

Who  fell  in  battle,  doing  bloody  deeds, 

Pass'd  off  to  Heaven,  translated  and  not  kill'd : 

As  though  he  had  no  wife  to  pine  for  him, 

]\'o  God  to  judge  him  I  Therefore,  evil  days 

Are  coming  on  ns,  O  my  countrymen ! 

And  what  if  all-avenging  Providence, 

Strong  and  retributive,  should  make  us  know 

The  meaning  of  our  words,  force  us  to  feel 

The  desolation  and  the  agony 

Of  our  fierce  doings  ! 


Spare  us  yet  awhile, 
Father  and  God  !  O !  spare  us  yet  awhile  ! 
Oh !  let  not  English  women  drag  their  flight 
Fainting  beneath  the  burthen  of  their  babes, 
Of  the  sweet  infants,  that  but  yesterday 
Laugh'd  at  the  breast !  Sons,  brothers,  husbands,  all 
AV'lio  ever  gazed  with  fondness  on  the  forms 
W'hich  grew  up  with  you  round  the  same  lire-side. 
And  all  who  ever  heard  the  sabbath-bells 
Without  the  inlidel's  scorn,  make  yourselves  pure ! 
Stand  forth  :  be  men  !  repel  an  impious  foe, 
Impious  and  false,  a  light  yet  ci'uel  race, 
\V'ho  laugh  away  all  virtue,  mingling  mirth 
With  deeds  of  murder ;  and  still  promising 
Freedom,  themselves  too  sensual  to  be  free, 
Poison  life's  amities,  and  cheat  the  heart 
Of  faith  and  quiet  hope,  and  all  that  soothes 
And  all  tliat  lifts  the  spirit!  Stand  we  forth; 
Render  them  back  U|xjn  the  insulted  ocean. 
And  let  them  toss  as  idly  on  its  waves 
As  the  vile  sea-weed,  which  some  mountain-blast 
Swept  from  our  shores  I  And  oh  !  may  we  return 
is'ot  with  a  drunken  triumph,  but  with  fear, 
Repenting  of  the  v\rongs  with  which  we  stung 
So  fierce  a  foe  to  frenzy ! 


I  have  told, 
O  Britons !  O  my  brethren  !  I  have  told 
Most  bitter  truth,  but  without  bitterness. 
.\or  deem  my  zeal  or  factious  or  mistimed  ; 
For  never  can  true  courage  dwell  with  them, 
Who,  playing  tricks  v\ith  conscience,  dare  not  look 
At  their  own  vices.     We  have  been  too  long 
Dupes  of  a  deep  delusion!  Some,  belike. 
Groaning  with  restless  enmity,  expect 
All  change  from  change  of  constituted  power; 
As  if  a  Govcmraent  had  been  a  robe, 
D2 


On  which  our  vice  and  wretchedness  were  lagg'd 

Like  fancy  points  and  fringes,  with  the  robe 

PuU'd  off  at  pleasure,     t'ondly  these  attach 

A  radical  causation  to  a  few 

Poor  drudges  of  <hastising  Providence, 

Who  borrow  all  their  hues  and  qualities 

From  our  own  folly  and  rank  wickedness, 

Which  gave  them  birth  and  nursed  them.     Others, 

meanwhile. 
Dote  with  a  mad  idolatry  ;  and  all 
Who  will  not  fall  before  their  images. 
And  yield  them  worship,  they  are  enemies 
Even  of  their  country  ! 

Such  have  I  been  deem'd — 
But,  O  dear  Britain  !  O  my  Mother  Isle  ! 
Needs  must  thou  prove  a  name  most  dear  and  holy 
To  me,  a  son,  a  brother,  and  a  friend, 
A  husband,  and  a  father !  who  revere 
All  bonds  of  natural  love,  and  find  them  all 
Within  the  limits  of  thy  rocky  shores. 

0  native  Britain !  O  my  Mother  Isle  ! 

How  shouldst  thou  prove  aught  else  but  dear  and 

holy 
To  me,  who  from  thy  lakes  and  mountain-hills. 
Thy  clouds,  thy  quiet  dales,  thy  rocks  and  seas, 
Have  drunk  in  all  my  intellectual  life. 
All  sweet  sensations,  all  ennobling  thoughts, 
All  adoration  of  the  God  in  nature. 
All  lovely  and  all  honorable  things. 
Whatever  makes  this  mortal  spirit  feel 
The  joy  and  greatness  of  its  future  being  ? 
There  lives  nor  form  nor  feeling  in  my  soul 
I'uborrow'd  from  my  country.     O  divine 
And  beauteous  island !  thou  hast  been  my  sole 
And  most  magnificent  temple,  in  the  which 

1  walk  with  awe,  and  sing  my  stately  songs, 
Loving  the  God  that  made  me ! 

May  my  fears, 
My  filial  fears,  be  vain !  and  may  the  vaunts 
And  menace  of  the  vengeful  enemy 
Pass  like  the  gust,  that  roar'd  and  died  away 
In  the  distant  tree :  which  heard,  and  only  heard 
In  this  low  dell,  bow'd  not  the  delicate  grass. 


But  now  the  gentle  dew-fall  sends  abroad 
The  fruit-like  perfume  of  the  golden  fiirze : 
The  light  has  left  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
Though  still  a  sunny  gleam  lies  beautiful. 
Aslant  the  ivied  beacon.     Now  farewell. 
Farewell,  awhile,  O  soft  and  silent  spot ! 
On  the  green  sheep-track,  up  the  heathy  hill. 
Homeward  I  wind  my  way ;  and  lo  I  recall'd 
From  lx)dings  that  have  well-nigh  wearied  me, 
I  find  myself  upon  the  brow,  and  pause 
Startled  !  And  after  lonely  sojourning 
In  such  a  quiet  and  surrounding  nook. 
This  burst  of  prospect,  here  the  shadowy  main, 
Dim-tinted,  there  the  mighty  majesty 
Of  that  huge  amphitheatre  of  rich 
And  elmy  fields,  seems  like  society — 
Conversing  with  the  mind,  and  giving  it 
A  livelier  impulse  and  a  dance  of  thought ! 
And  now,  beloved  Stowey!  I  behold 
Thy  church-tower,  and,  methinks,  the  four  huge  olms 
35 


20 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Clustering,  which  mark  iho  mansion  of  my  friend, 
And  close  behind  them,  hidden  from  my  view, 
Is  my  own  lowly  cottage,  where  my  babe 
And  my  babe's  mother  dwell  in  peace !  With  light 
And  quicken'il  footsteps  thitherward  I  tend, 
Remembering  thee,  O  green  and  silent  dell ! 
And  grateful,  that,  by  nature's  quietness 
And  solitary  musings,  all  my  heart 
Is  soften'd,  and  made  worthy  to  indulge 
Love,  and  the  thoughts  that  yearn  for  human-kind. 
Nether  Slowey,  April  28tJt,  1798. 


FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER. 

A  WAR  ECLOGUE. 

WITH  AN  APOLOGETIC  PREFACE.* 


The  Scene  a  desolated  Tract  in  La  Vendie.  Famine 
is  discovered  lying  on  the  ground  ;  to  her  enter  Fire 
and  Slaughter. 


FAMIXE. 

Sisters  !  sisters !  who  sent  you  here  ? 

SLAUGHTER  {tO  FIRE). 

I  will  whisper  it  in  her  ear. 


No !  no !  no ! 
Spirits  hear  what  spirits  tell : 
'Twill  make  a  holiday  in  Hell. 

No!  no  I  no! 
Myself,  1  named  him  once  below, 
And  all  the  souls,  that  damned  be, 
Leap'd  up  at  once  in  anarchy, 
Clapp'd  their  hands  and  danced  for  glee. 
They  no  longer  heeded  me  ; 
But  laugh'd  to  hear  Hell's  burning  rafters 
Unwillingly  re-echo  laughters ! 

No  !  no  !  no  ! 
Spirits  hear  what  spirits  tell ! 
"T  will  make  a  holiday  in  Hell ! 

FAMINE. 

Wiisper  it,  sister!  so  and  so! 
In  a  dark  hint,  soft  and  slow. 

SLAUGHTER. 

Letters  four  do  form  his  name — 
And  who  sent  you  ? 

BOTH. 

The  same!  the  same! 

SLAUGHTER. 

He  came  by  stealth,  and  unlock'd  my  den, 
And  I  have  drunk  the  blood  since  then 
Of  thrice  three  himdred  thousand  men. 


Who  bade  you  do  it? 


SLAUGHTER. 

The  same!  the  same! 


See  Appendix  to  "  Sibylline  Leaves.' 


Letters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  and  cried  Halloo ! 
To  him  alone  the  praise  is  due. 


Thanks,  sister,  thanks!  the  men  have  bled. 

Their  wives  and  their  children  faint  for  bread. 

I  stood  in  a  swampy  field  of  battle ; 

With  bones  and  sculls  I  made  a  rattle. 

To  frighten  the  wolf  and  carrion  crow. 

And  the  homeless  dog — but  they  would  not  go. 

So  oft'  I  fiew ;  for  how  could  I  bear 

To  see  them  gorge  their  dainty  fare? 

I  heard  a  groan  and  a  peevish  squall, 

And  through  the  chink  of  a  cottage-wall — 

Can  you  guess  what  I  saw  there  ? 

BOTH. 

Whisper  it,  sister!  in  our  ear. 


A  baby  beat  its  dying  mother. 

I  had  starved  the  one,  and  was  starving  the  other! 


Who  bade  you  do't? 

FAMINE. 

The  same!  the  same! 
Letters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  and  cried  Halloo! 
To  him  alone  the  praise  is  due. 


Sisters!  I  from  Ireland  came! 

Hedge  and  com-fields  all  on  flame, 

I  triiimph'd  o'er  the  setting  sun! 

And  all  the  while  the  work  was  done 

On  as  I  strode  with  my  huge  strides, 

I  flung  back  my  head  and  I  held  my  sides, 

It  was  so  rare  a  piece  of  fun 

To  see  the  swelter'd  cattle  run 

With  uncouth  gallop  through  the  night, 

Scared  by  the  red  and  noisy  light! 

By  the  light  of  his  own  blazing  cot 

Was  many  a  naked  rebel  shot: 

The  house-stream  met  the  flame  and  hiss'd. 

While  crash!  fell  in  the  roof,  I  wist, 

On  some  of  those  old  bedrid  nurses, 

That  deal  in  discontent  and  curses. 


Who  bade  you  do 't  ? 

FIRE. 

The  same!  the  same! 
Letters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  and  cried  Halloo! 
To  liim  alone  the  praise  is  due. 


He  let  us  loose,  and  cried  Halloo! 
How  shall  we  yield  him  honor  due? 


Wisdom  comes  with  lack  of  food, 
I  '11  gnaw,  1  '11  gnaw  the  multitude. 


36 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


27 


Till  the  Clip  of  rage  o'erbrini : 

They  shall  seize  him  and  his  brood — 

SLAUGHTER. 

Thoy  shiill  tear  him  limb  from  limb ! 

FIRE. 

0  thankless  beldames  and  untrue ! 
And  is  this  all  that  you  can  do 
For  him  wlio  did  so  much  for  you  ? 
Ninety  months  lie,  by  my  troth ! 
Hath  richly  cater"d  for  5'ou  both  ; 
And  in  an  hour  would  you  repay 

An  eight  years'  work  ? — Away !  away ! 

1  alone  am  faithful !   I 
Cling  to  him  everlastingly. 

1796. 


RECANTATION 

ILLUSTRATED  IN  THE  STORY  OF  THE  MAD  OX. 

An  Ox,  long  fed  with  musty  hay, 

And  work'd  with  yoke  and  cliain, 
Was  turn'd  out  on  an  April  day, 
When  fields  are  in  their  best  array. 
And  growing  grasses  sparkle  gay. 
At  once  with  sun  and  rain. 

The  grass  was  fine,  the  sun  was  bright, 

With  truth  I  may  aver  it ; 
The  Ox  was  glad,  as  well  he  might. 
Thought  a  green  lueadow  no  bad  sight, 
And  ti-isk'd  to  show  his  huge  delight, 

Much  like  a  beast  of  spirit. 

"  Stop,  neighbors !  stop  !  why  these  alarms  ? 

The  Ox  is  only  glad." 
But  still  they  pour  from  cots  and  farms^ 
Halloo !  the  parish  is  up  in  arms 
(A  hoaxing  hunt  has  always  charms), 

Halloo!  the  Ox  is  mad. 

The  frighted  beast  scamper'd  about, 

Plunge  !  through  the  hedge  he  drove — 

Ttie  mob  pursue  with  hideous  rout, 

A  bull-dog  fastens  on  his  snout. 

He  gores  the  dog,  his  tongue  hangs  out — 
He's  mad,  he  's  mad,  by  Jove ! 

"  Stop,  neighbors,  stop!"  aloud  did  call 

A  sage  of  sober  hue, 
But  all  at  once  on  him  they  fall, 
And  women  squeak  and  children  squall, 
"  What !  would  you  have  him  toss  us  all  ? 

And,  danune !  who  are  you  ?  " 

Ah,  hapless  sage  !  his  ears  they  stun. 

And  curse  him  o'er  and  o'er — 
"  You  bloody-minded  dog  !  "  (cries  one,) 
"  To  slit  your  windpipe  were  good  fun — 
'Od  bl —  you  for  an  impious*  son 
Of  a  Presbyterian  w — re  ! 


'  One  of  the  mnny  fine  words  whicli  the  most  uneducated 
had  about  this  time  a  constant  opportunity  of  acquiring  from 

the  serinoua  m  the  pulpit,  and  liie  proclamations  ou  tiie 

corners. 


"  You  'd  have  him  gore  tlie  parish-priest, 

And  run  against  the  altar — 
You  Fiend!" — The  sage  his  warnings  ceased, 
And  North,  and  South,  and  West,  and  East, 
Halloo!  they  fijllovv  the  poor  beast. 

Mat,  Dick,  Tom,  Bob,  and  Walter. 

Old  Lewis,  't  was  his  evil  day. 

Stood  trembling  in  his.  shoes  ; 
The  Ox  was  his — what  could  he  say  ? 
His  legs  were  stifFen'd  with  dismay. 
The  Ox  ran  o'er  liim  'mid  the  fray. 

And  gave  him  his  death's  bruise. 

The  frighted  beast  ran  on — but  here, 
The  Gospel  scarce  more  true  is — 

My  muse  stops  short  in  mid-career — 

Nay !  gentle  reader !  do  not  sneer, 

I  cannot  choose  but  drop  a  tear, 
A  tear  lor  good  old  Lewis. 

The  frighted  beast  ran  through  the  towTi, 

All  follow'd,  boy  and  dad, 
Bull-dog,  Parson,  Shopman,  Clown, 
The  Publicans  rush'd  from  the  Crown, 
"  Halloo !  hamstring  him  I  cut  him  down ! ' 

They  drove  the  poor  Ox  mad. 

Should  you  a  rat  to  madness  tease, 

WTiy  even  a  rat  might  plague  you  : 
There  's  no  philosopher  but  sees 
That  rage  and  fear  are  orie  disease — 
Though  that  may  btuTi  and  this  may  freeze 
They're  both  alike  the  ague. 

And  so  this  Ox,  in  frantic  mood, 
.    Faced  round  like  any  Bull — 
The  mob  turn'd  tail,  and  he  pursued. 
Till  they  with  fright  and  fear  were  stew'd. 
And  not  a  chick  of  all  this  brood 
But  had  his  belly-full. 

Old  Nick's  astride  the  beast,  't'is  clear — 

Old  Nicholas  to  a  tittle  I 
But  all  agree  he  'd  disappear, 
Would  but  the  parson  venture  near, 
And  through  his  teeth,  right  o'er  the  steer 

Squirt  out  soiue  fasting-spittle.t 

Achilles  was  a  warrior  fleet, 

The  Trojans  he  could  worry — 
Our  parson  too  was  swift  of  feet, 
But  show'd  it  chiefly  in  retreat ! 
The  victor  Ox  scour'd  down  the  street. 

The  mob  fled  hurry-skurry. 

Through  gardens,  lanes,  and  fields  new-plow'd, 
Through  his  hedge  and  through  her  hedge. 

He  plunged  and  toss'd,  and  bellow'd  loud. 

Till  in  his  madness  he  grew  proud 

To  see  this  helter-skelter  crowd, 

That  had  more  wrath  than  couraee. 


t  Accord  inc  to  the  superstition  of  the  West  Countries,  if  you 
meet  the  Devil,  you  may  either  cut  him  in  half  with  a  straw,  oi 
you  may  cause  him  instantly  to  disappear  by  spitting  over  hi* 
horns.  _ 

6  37 


28 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Alas !  to  mend  the  breaches  wide 

He  made  for  these  poor  ninnies, 
They  all  must  work,  vvhale'cr  betide. 
Both  days  and  months,  and  pay  beside 
(Sad  news  for  Avarice  and  for  Pride) 

A  sight  of  golden  guineas. 

But  here  once  more  to  view  did  pop 

The  man  that  kept  his  senses. 
And  now  he  cried — "  Stop,  neighbors !  stop  ! 
The  Ox  is  mad  !    I  would  not  swop, 
JVo,  not  a  school-boy's  farthing  top 

For  all  the  parish  fences. 

"  The  Ox  is  mad  !  Ho !  Dick,  Bob,  Mat ! 

What  means  this  coward  fuss  ? 
Ho !  stretch  this  rope  across  the  plat — 
'T  will  trip  him  up — or  if  not  that. 
Why,  damme !  we  must  lay  him  flat — 

See,  here's  my  blunderbuss!" 

"  A  lying  dog !  just  now  he  said, 

The  Ox  was  only  glad. 
Let's  break  his  Presbyterian  head!" — 
"  Hush! "  quoth  the  sage,  "  you  've  been  misled. 
No  quarrels  now — let's  all  make  head — 

You  drove  the  poor  Ox  mad  !  " 

As  thus  I  sat  in  careless  chat, 

With  the  njorning's  wet  newspaper, 

In  eager  haste,  without  his  hat. 

As  blind  and  blundering  as  a  bat. 

In  came  that  fierce  aristocrat, 
Our  pursy  woollen  draper. 

And  so  my  Muse  perforce  drew  bit. 

And  in  he  rush'd  and  panted : — 
"  Well,  have  you  heard  ?  " — "  No  !  not  a  whit." 
"  What!  han't  you  heard  I " — Come,  out  with  it ! " 
"  That  Tierney  votes  for  Mister  Pitt, 

And  Sheridan 's  recanled." 


presume  to  offer  to  the  public  a  silly  tale  of  old-fa8hioned  love: 
and  five  years  ago,  [  own  I  should  hav&  allowed  and  felt  tha 
force  of  this  obji^ction.  But,  alas  \  explosion  has  succeeded 
explosion  so  rapidly.that  novelty  itself  ceases  to  appear  new;  and 
itispossible  that  now  even  a  simple  story  .wholly  uninspired  with 
politics  or  personality,  may  find  some  attention  amid  the  hub- 
bub of  revolutions,  as  to  those  who  have  remained  a  long  time 
by  the  falls  of  Niagara,  the  lowest  whispering  becomes  distinct 
ly  audible.  S.  T.  C 

Dec.  21.  1799. 


II.  LOVE  POEMS, 


Q.uas  humilis  tenero  stylus  olim  effudit  in  asvo. 

Perlegis  hie  lacrymas,  et  quod  pharetratus  acuta 

Ille  puer  puero  fecit  mihi  ouspide  vulnus. 

Omnia  paulatim  consumit  longior  a;tas, 

Vivendonup  siniul  morimur,  rapimurque  manendo. 

Ispe  mihi  collatus  cnim  non  ille  videbor: 

Frons  alia  est,  moresque  alii,  nova  mentis  imago, 

Voxque  aliud  sonat — 

Pectore  nunc  gelido  calidosmiseremur  amantes, 

Jamque  arsisse  pudet.    Veteres  tranquilla  tumultus 

Mens  horret  relegensque  alium  putat  ista  locutum. 

Petrarch. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  TALE  OF  THE 
DARK  LADIE. 

The  following  Poem  is  intended  as  the  introduction  to  a 
somewhat  longer  one.  The  use  of  the  old  Ballad  word  Ladiefor 
Lady,  is  the  only  piece  of  obsoleteness  in  it;  and  as  it  is  pro- 
fessedly a  tale  of  ancient  times,  I  trust  that  the  afl^ectionate 
lovers  of  venerable  antiquity  [as  Oamden  saysj  will  grant  me 
their  pardon,  and  perhaps  may  be  induced  to  admit  a  force 
and  propriety  in  it.  A  heavier  objection  may  be  adduced 
against  the  author,  that  in  these  times  of  fear  and  expectation, 
when  novelties  ezplode  around  us  in  all  directions,  he  should 


O  LEAVE  the  lily  on  its  stem; 

0  leave  the  rose  upon  the  spray; 
O  leave  the  elder  bloom,  fair  maids! 

And  listen  to  my  lay. 

A  cypress  and  a  myrtle-bough 

This  morn  around  my  harp  you  twined 
Because  it  fashion'd  mournfully 

Its  murmurs  in  the  wind. 

And  now  a  Tale  of  Love  and  Woe, 
A  woful  Tale  of  Love  I  sing  ; 

Hark,  gentle  maidens,  hark !  it  sighs 
And  trembles  on  the  string. 

But  most,  my  own  dear  Genevieve, 
It  sighs  and  trembles  most  for  thee ! 

0  come,  and  hear  what  cruel  wrongs 
Befell  the  Dark  Ladie. 

Few  Sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own. 
My  hope,  my  joy,  my  Genevieve! 

She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stir  this  mortal  frame. 

All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oh  !  ever  in  my  waking  dreams, 

1  dwell  upon  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  sate. 

Beside  the  ruin'd  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene. 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve,' 

And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy. 
My  own  dear  Genevieve! 

She  lean'd  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight-, 

She  stood  and  lislen'd  to  my  harp, 
Amid  the  ling'ring  light. 

1  play'd  a  sad  and  doleful  air. 

I  sang  an  old  and  moving  sloiy — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  fitted  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 

With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace. 

For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand  ; 

And  how  for  ten  long  years  he  woo'd 
The  Ladie  of  the  Land  .- 

38 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


29 


I  told  her  how  he  pined  :  and  ah  ! 

The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sung  another's  love, 

Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush  ; 

With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace  ; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 

Too  fondly  on  her  face ! 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 

That  crazed  this  told  and  lonely  Knight, 

And  how  he  roam'd   the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  or  night; 

And  how  he  cross'd  the  woodman's  paths. 
Through  briers  and  swampy  mosses  beat ; 

How  boughs  rebounding  scourged  his  limbs, 
And  low  stubs  gored  his  feet ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den. 

And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 

And  sometimes  starling  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sumiy  glade  ; 

There  came  and  look'd  him  in  the  face 
An  Angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 

And  how  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight  ! 

And  how,  unknowing  what  he  did, 

He  leapt  amid  a  lawless  band, 
And  sa\ed  from  outrage  worse  than  death 

The  Ladie  of  the  Land  ! 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasp'd  his  knees ; 

And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  meekly  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain : 

And  how  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave ; 

And  how  his  madness  went  away. 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 

A  dying  man  he  lay  ; 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reach'd 
That  tend'rest  strain  of  all  the  ditty. 

My  falt'ring  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturb'd  her  soul  with  pity ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 

Had  thriU'd  my  guiltless  Genevieve  ; 

The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 

And  hopes  and  fears  that  kindle  hope. 

An  undistinguishable  throng. 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued. 

Subdued  and  cherish'd  long  ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight. 

She  blush 'd  wilh  love  and  maiden-shame; 
4n.I,  like  the  murmurs  of  a  dream, 

1  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

-  saw  her  bosom  heave  and  swell. 

Heave  and  swell  with  inward  sighs — 

I  could  not  choose  but  love  to  see 
Her  gentle  bosom  rise. 


Her  wet  cheek  glow'd :  she  stept  aside. 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stepp'd  ; 

Then  suddenly,  wilh  tim'rous  eye. 
She  flew  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  inclosed  me  w'ith  her  arms. 
She  press'd  me  with  a  meek  embrace ; 

And  bending  back  her  head,  look'd  up. 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'T  was  partly  love,  and  partly  fear. 
And  partly  't  vvjis  a  bashful  art. 

That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calm'd  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm. 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 

And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 
My  bright  and  beauteous  bride. 

And  now  once  more  a  tale  of  woe, 

A  woeful  tale  of  love  I  sing  : 
For  thee,  my  Genevieve  !  it  sighs, 

And  trembles  on  the  string. 

When  last  I  sang  the  cruel  scorn 

That  crazed  this  bold  and  lonely  Knight, 

And  how  he  roam'd  the  mountain-woods 
Nor  rested  day  or  night ; 

I  promised  thee  a  sister  tale 

Of  man's  perfidious  cruelty  : 
Come,  then,  and  hear  what  cruel  wrong 

Befell  the  Dark  Ladie. 


LEWTI,  OR  THE  CIRCASSIAN 
LOVE-CHAUNT. 

At  midnight  by  the  stream  I  roved. 
To  forget  the  form  I  loved. 
Image  of  Lewti !  from  my  mind 
Depart ;  for  Lewti  is  not  kind. 

The  moon  was  high,  the  moonlight  gleam 

And   the  shadow  of  a  ^tar 
Heaved  upon  Tamaha's  stream  ; 

But  the  rock  shone  brighter  far. 
The  rock  half-shelter'd  from  my  view 
By  pendent  boughs  of  tressy  yew — 
So  sliines  my  Lewti's  forehead  fair, 
Gleaming  through  her  sable  hair. 
Image  of  Lewti !  from  my  mind 
Depart ;  for  Lewti  is  not  kind. 

I  saw  a  cloud  of  palest  hue. 

Onward  to  the  moon  it  pass'd ; 
Still  brighter  and  more  bright  it  grevn 
With  floating  colors  not  a  few, 

Till  it  reach'd  the  moon  at  last : 
Then  the  cloud  was  wholly  bright 
With  a  rich  and  amber  light  I 
And  so  with  many  a  hope  I  seek 

And  with  such  joy  I  find  my  Lewti : 
And  even  so  my  pale  wan  cheek 

Drinks  in  as  deep  a  flush  of  beauty  I 
Nay,  treacherous  imago  I  leave  my  mind. 
If  Lewti  never  will  be  kind. 

39 


30 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  little  cloud — it  floats  away, 

Away  it  goes  ;  away  so  soon  ? 
Alas  I  it  has  no  power  to  stay  : 
Its  hues  are  dim,  its  hues  are  gray — 

Away  it  passes  from  tlie  moon ! 
How  mournfully  it  seems  to  fly. 

Ever  fading  more  and  more. 
To  joyless  regions  of  the  sky — 

And  now  't  is  whiter  than  before  ! 
As  white  as  my  poor  cheek  will  be. 

When,  Lewti !  on  my  couch  I  lie, 
A  dying  man  for  love  of  thee. 
Nay,  treacherous  image  !  leave  my  mind — 
And  yet  thou  didst  not  look  unkind. 

I  saw  a  vapor  in  the  sky, 

Tliin,  and  white,  and  very  high ; 
I  ne'er  beheld  so  thin  a  cloud  : 

Perhaps  the  breezes  that  can  fly 

Now  below  and  now  above. 
Have  snatch'd  aloft  the  lawny  shroud 

Of  Lady  fair — that  died  for  love. 
For  maids,  as  well  as  youths,  have  perish'd 
From  fruitless  love  too  fondly  cherish'd. 
Nay,  treacherous  image  !  leave  my  mind — 
For  Lewti  never  will  be  kind. 

Hush !  my  heedless  feet  from  under 
Slip  the  crumbling  banks  for  ever: 

Like  echoes  to  a  distant  thimder. 
They  plunge  into  the  gentle  river. 

The  river-swans  have  heard  my  tread, 

And  slarlle  from  their  reedy  bed. 

O  beauteous  Birds !  methinks  ye  measure 
Your  movements  to  some  heavenly  tune  ! 

0  beauteous  Birds !  't  is  such  a  pleasure 
To  see  you  move  beneath  the  moon, 

1  would  it  were  your  true  delight 
To  sleep  by  day  and  wake  all  night 

I  know  the  place  where  Lewti  lies. 
When  silent  night  has  closed  her  eyes : 

It  is  a  breezy  jasmine-bower. 
The  nightingale  sings  o'er  her  head  : 

Voice  of  the  Night !  had  I  the  power 
That  leafy  labyrinth  to  thread. 
And  creep,  like  thee,  with  soundless  tread, 
I  tlien  might  view  her  bosom  white 
Heaving  lovely  to  my  sight. 
As  these  two  swans  together  heave 
On  the  gently  swelling  wave. 

Oh  !  that  she  saw  me  in  a  dream. 

And  dreamt  that  I  had  died  for  care  ; 

All  pale  and  wasted  I  would  seem. 
Yet  fair  withal,  as  spirits  are ! 

I  'd  die  indeed,  if  I  might  see 

Her  bosom  heave,  and  heave  for  me  ! 

Sootlie,  gentle  image  !  soothe  my  mind  ! 

To-morrow  Lewti  may  be  kind. 
1795. 


THE  PICTURE,  OR  THE  LOVER'S 
RESOLUTION. 

THRoudii  weeds  and  thorns,  and  matted  underwood 
1  force  my  way ;  now  climb,  and  now  descend 


O'er  rocks,  or  bare  or  mos.sy,  with  wild  foot 
Crushing  the  purple  whorls  ;  while  oft  unseen, 
Hurrjdng  along  the  drifted  forest-leaves, 
The  scared  snake  rustles.  Onward  still  I  toil, 
I  know  not,  ask  not  whither !  A  new  joy. 
Lovely  as  light,  sudden  as  summer  gust. 
And  gladsome  as  the  first-born  of  the  spring, 
Beckons  me  on,  or  follows  from  behind, 
Playmate,  or  guide  !    The  master-passion  quell'd, 
I  feel  that  I  am  free.    With  dun-red  bark 
The  fir-trees,  and  the  unfrequent  slender  oak, 
Forth  from  tliis  tangle  wild  of  bush  and  brake 
Soar  up,  and  form  a  melancholy  vault 
High  o'er  me,  murmuring  like  a  distant  sea. 

Here  Wisdom  might  resort,  and  here  Remorse  ; 
Here  too  the  lovelorn  man  who,  sick  in  soul, 
And  of  this  busy  human  heart  aweary. 
Worships  the  spirit  of  unconscious  life 
In  tree  or  wild-flower. — Gentle  Lunatic ! 
If  so  he  might  not  wholly  cease  to  be, 
He  would  lar  rather  not  be  that,  he  is  ; 
But  would  be  something,  that  he  knows  not  of, 
In  winds  or  waters,  or  among  the  rocks ! 

But  hence,  fond  wretch  !  breathe  not  contagior 
here ! 
No  myrtle-walks  are  these :  these  are  no  groves 
Where  Love  dare  loiter !    If  in  sullen  mood 
He  should  stray  hither,  the  low  stumps  shall  gore 
His' dainty  feet,  the  brier  and  the  thorn 
Make  his  plumes  haggard.    Like  a  wounded  bird 
Easily  caught,  ensnare  him,  O  ye  Nymphs, 
Ye  Oreads  chaste,  ye  dusky  Dryades  ! 
And  you,  ye  Earth-winds  I  you  that  make  at  morn 
The  dew-drops  quiver  on  the  spiders'  webs ! 
You,  O  ye  wingless  Airs  !  that  creep  between 
The  rigid  stems  of  heath  and  bitten  furze. 
Within  whose  scanty  shade,  at  summer-noon. 
The  mother-sheep  hath  worn  a  hollow  bed — 
Ye,  that  now  cool  her  fleece  with  droploss  damp. 
Now  pant  and  murmur  with  her  feedijig  lamb. 
Chase,  chase  him,  all  ye  Fays,  and  elfin  Gnomes! 
With  prickles  sharper  than  his  darls  bemock 
His  little  Godshipi  malting  him  perforce 
Creep  through  a  thorn-bush  on  yon  hedgehog's  back 

This  is  my  hour  of  triumph !  I  can  now 
With  my  ovvti  fancies  play  the  merry  fool. 
And  laugh  away  worse  folly,  being  free. 
Here  will  I  seat  myself  beside  this  old. 
Hollow,  and  Weedy  oak,  which  ivy-twine 
Clothes  as  with  net-work  :   here  will  I  couch  my 

limbs, 
Close  by  this  river,  in  this  silent  shade. 
As  safe  and  sacred  from  the  step  of  man 
As  an  invisible  world — unheard,  unseen. 
And  list'ning  only  to  the  pebbly  brook 
That  murnmrs  with  a  dead,  yet  tinkling  sound 
Or  to  the  bees,  that  in  the  neighboring  trunk 
Make  honey-hoards.    The  breeze,  that  visits  mt. 
Was  never  Love's  accomplice,  never  raised 
The  tendril  ringlets  from  the  maiden's  brow. 
And  the  blue,  delicate  veins  above  her  cheek; 
Ne'er  play'd  the  wanton — never  half-disclosed 
The  maiden's  snowy  bosom,  scattering  thence 
Eye-poisons  for  some  love-distempcr'd  youth, 
Who  ne'er  henceibrth  may  see  an  aspen-grove 
40 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


31 


Sluver  in  sunshine,  but  his  feeble  heart 
Shall  flow  away  like  a  dissolving  thing. 

Sweet  breeze  !  thou  only,  if  I  guess  aright, 
Liflcst  the  feathers  of  the  robin's  breast, 
That  swells  its  little  breast,  so  full  of  song, 
Singing  above  me,  on  the  mountain-ash. 
And  thou  too,  desert  Stream  !  no  pool  of  thine. 
Though  clear  as  lake  in  latest  sunmier-eve. 
Did  e'er  reflect  the  stately  virgin's  robe, 
The  lace,  the  form  divine,  the  do\«icast  look 
Contemplative  I  Behold  I  her  open  palm 
Presses  her  cheek  and  brow  I  her  elbow  rests 
On  the  bare  branch  of  half  uprooted  tree. 
That  leans  towards  its  mirror!  Who  erewhile 
Had   li-oni   her   countenance    turn'd,   or  look'd   by 

stealth 
v^For  fear  is  true  love's  cruel  nurse),  he  now 
With  stedfast  gaze  and  unoffending  eye. 
Worships  the  watery  idol,  dreaming  hopes 
Delicious  to  the  soul,  but  fleeting,  vain, 
E'en  as  that  phantom-world  on  which  he  gazed. 
But  not  unheeded  gazed  :  for  see,  ah  !  see, 
The  sportive  tyrant  v\'iih  her  left  hand  plucks 
The  heads  of  tall  flowers  that  behind  her  grow. 
Lychnis,  and  willow-herb,  and  fox-glove  bells  : 
And  suddenly,  as  one  that  toys  with  time. 
Scatters  ihem  on  the  pool !  Then  all  the  charm 
Is  broken — all  that  phantom-world  so  lair 
Vanishes,  and  a  thousand  circlets  spread, 
And  each  misshapes  the  other.    Stay  awhile, 
Poor  youth,  w  ho  scarcely  darest  lift  up  thine  eyes ! 
The  stream  will  soon  renew  iis  smoothness,  soon 
The  visions  will  return  !  And  lo  !  he  stays  : 
And  soon  the  fragments  dim  of  lovely  forms 
Come  trembling  back,  unite,  and  now  once  more 
The  pool  becomes  a  mirror ;  and  behold 
Each  wild-flower  on  the  marge  inverted  there, 
And  there  the  half-uprooted  tree — but  where, 
O  where  the  virgin's  snowy  arm,  that  lean'd 
On  its  bare  branch?  He  turns,  and  slie  is  gone  !" 
Homeward   she   steals   through  many  a   woodland 

maze 
Wiich  he  shall  seek  in  vain.    Ill-fated  youth ! 
Go,  day  by  day,  and  waste  thy  manly  prime 
In  mad  love-yearning  by  the  vacant  brook. 
Till  sickly  thoughts  bewitch  thine  eyes,  and  thou 
Behold'st  her  shadow  still  abiding  there, 
The  Naiad  of  the  Mirror ! 

Not  to  thee, 

0  .wild  and  desert  Stream  !  belongs  this  tale  : 
Gloomy  and  dark  art  thou — the  crowded  firs 
Spire  from  thy  shores,  and  stretch  across  thy  bed. 
Making  thee  doleful  as  a  caveni-well : 

Save  when  the  shy  king-fishers  build  their  nest 
On  thy  steep  banks,  no  loves  hast  thou,  wild  stream! 

Tliis  be  my  chosen  haunt — emancipate 
From  passion's  dreams,  a  freeman,  and  alone, 

1  rise  and  trace  its  devious  course.    O  lead. 
Lead  me  to  deeper  shades  and  lonelier  glooms. 
Lo !  stealing  through  the  canopy  of  firs, 
How  fair  the  sunshine  spots  that  mossy  rock, 
Isle  of  the  river,  whose  disparted  waves 
Dart  ofT  asimder  with  an  angry  sound. 

How  soon  to  reunite  !  And  see  !  they  meet, 
Each  in  the  other  lost  and  found :  and  see 


Placeless,  as  spirits,  one  soft  water-sun. 

Throbbing  within  them.  Heart  at  once  and  Eye ! 

With  its  soft  neighborhood  of  filmy  clouds. 

The  stains  and  shadings  of  forgotten  tears. 

Dimness  o'erswum  with  lustre  !  Such  the  hour 

Of  deep  enjoyment,  following  love's  brief  feuds  , 

And  hark,  the  noise  of  a  near  waterfall! 

I  pass  forth  into  light — I  find   myself 

Beneath  a  weei)ing  birch  (most  beautiful 

Of  forest-trees,  tlie  Lady  of  the  woods). 

Hard  by  the  brink  of  a  tall  weedy  rock 

That  overbrows  the  cataract.    How  bursts 

The  landscape  on  my  sight !  Two  crescent  hills 

Fold  ill  behind  each  other,  and  so  make 

A  circular  vale,  and  land-lock'd,  as  might  seem. 

With  brook  and  bridge,  and  gray  stone  cottages, 

Half  hid  by  rocks  and  fruit-trees.    At  iny  feet, 

The  whortle-berries  are  bedevv'd  with  spray, 

Dash'd  upwards  by  the  furious  waterfall. 

How  solemnly  the  pendent  ivy  mass 

Swings  in  its  winnow  :  all  the  air  is  calm. 

The    smoke    from    cottage-cliimneys,    tinged    witli 

light, 
Rises  in  columns  ;  from  this  house  alone, 
Close  by  the  waterfall,  the  column  slants, 
And  feels  its  ceaseless  breeze.    But  what  is  this  ? 
That  cottage,  with  its  slanting  chimney-smoke, 
And  close  beside  its  porch  a  sleeping  child, 
His  dear  head  pillow'd  on  a  sleeping  dog — 
One  arm  between  its  forc-Iegs,  and  the  hand 
Holds  loosely  its  small  handful  of  wild-flowers, 
Unfilleted,  and  of  unequal  lengths. 
A  curious  picture,  with  a  master's  haste 
Sketch'd  on  a  strip  of  pinky-silver  skin, 
Peel'd  from  the  birchen  bark  !  Divinest  maid ! 
Yon  bark  her  canvas,  and  those  purple  berries 
Her  pencil !  See,  the  juice  is  scarcely  dried 
On  the  fine  skin  I  She  has  been  newly  here  ; 
And  lo !  yon  patch  of  licath  has  been  her  couch- 
The  pressure  still  remains !  O  blessed  couch ! 
For  this  mayst  thou  flower  early,  and  the  Sun, 
Slanting  at  eve,  rest  bright,  and  linger  long 
Upon  thy  purple  bells  !    O  Isabel ! 
Daughter  of  genius  !  stateliest  of  our  maids  ! 
More  beautiful  than  whom  Alcaeus  wooed. 
The  Lesbian  woman  of  immortal  song ! 
O  child  of  genius !  stately,  beautiful, 
And  full  of  love  to  all,  save  only  me. 
And  not  ungentle  e'en  lo  me  !  My  heart, 
Why  beats  it  thus  ?  Through  yonder  coppice-wood 
Needs  must  the  palhv.ay  turn,  that  leads  straightway 
On  to  her  father's  house.    She  is  alone  ! 
The  night  draws  on — such  ways  are  hard  to  hit — 
And  fit  it  is  I  should  restore  this  sketch, 
Dropt  unawares,  no  doubt.    Why  should  I  yearn 
To  keep  the  relic?  't  will  but  idly  feed 
The  passion  that  consumes  me.    Let  me  haste ! 
The  picture  in  my  hand  which  she  has  left. 
She  cannot  blame  me  that  I  fijllow'd  her ; 
And  I  may  be  her  guide  the  long  wood  through 


THE  NIGHT-SCENE. 
A   DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT. 

SANDOVAL. 

You  loved  the  daughter  of  Don  Manrique  ? 
41 


32 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


EARL    HENRY. 
SANDOVAL. 

Did  you  not  say  you  woo'd  her  ? 

EARL    HENRY. 

Her  whom  I  dared  not  woo ! 


Loved  ? 


Once  I  loved 


SANDOVAL. 

And  woo'd,  perchance, 
One  whom  you  loved  not .' 

EARL    HENRY. 

Oh !  I  were  most  base. 
Not  loving  Oropeza.    True,  I  woo'd  her. 
Hoping  to  heal  a  deeper  wound  ;  but  she 
Met  my  advances  with  impassion'd  pride. 
That  kindled  love  with  love.    And  when  her  sire, 
Who  in  his  dream  of  hope  already  grasp'd 
The  golden  circlet  in  his  hand,  rejected 
My  suit  with  insult,  and  in  memory 
Of  ancient  feuds  pour'd  curses  on  my  head, 
Her  blessings  overtook  and  baffled  them ! 
But  thou  art  stern,  and  with  unkindly  countenance 
Art  inly  reasoning  whilst  thou  listenest  to  me. 


SANDOVAL. 


Anxiously,  Henry ! 
But  Oropeza — 


reasoning  anxiously. 


EARL    HENRY. 


Blessings  gather  round  her ! 
Within  this  wood  there  winds  a  secret  passage, 
Beneath  the  walls,  which  opens  out  at  length 
Into  the  gloomiest  covert  of  the  garden — 
The  night  ere  my  departure  to  the  army, 
She,  nothing  trembling,  led  me  through  that  gloom. 
And  to  that  covert  by  a  silent  stream. 
Which,  with  one  star  reflected  near  its  marge. 
Was  the  sole  object  visible  around  me. 
No  leaflet  stirr'd ;  the  air  was  almost  sultry ; 
So  deep,  so  dark,  so  close,  the  umbrage  o'er  us  ! 
No  leaflet  stirr'd  ; — yet  pleasure  hung  upon 
The  gloom  and  stillness  of  the  balmy  night-air. 
A  little  further  on  an  arbor  stood. 
Fragrant  with  flowering  trees — I  well  remember 
What  an  uncertain  glimmer  in  the  darkness 
Their  snow-white  blossoms  made — thither  she  led 

me. 
To  that  sweet  bower !  Then  Oropeza  trembled — 
I  heard  her  heart  beat — if  't  were  not  my  own. 

SANDOVAL. 

A  rude  and  scaring  note,  my  friend  ! 

EARL    HENRY. 

Oh!  no! 
I  have  small  memory  of  aught  but  pleasure. 
The  inquietudes  of  fear,  like  lesser  streams 
Still  flowing,  still  were  lost  in  those  of  love : 
So  love  grew  mightier  from  the  fear,  and  Nature, 
Fleeing  from  Pain,  sheller'd  herself  in  Joy. 
The  stars  above  our  heads  were  dim  and  steady. 
Like  eyes  suffased  with  rapture.    Life  was  in  us : 
We  were  all  lile,  eacli  atom  of  our  frames 
A  living  soul — I  vow'd  to  die  for  her  : 
With  the  faint  voice  of  one  who,  having  spoken, 


Relapses  into  blessedness,  I  vow'd  it; 
That  solemn  vow,  a  whisper  scarcely  heard, 
A  murmur  breathed  against  a  lady's  ear. 
Oh !  there  is  joy  above  the  name  of  pleasure. 
Deep  self-possession,  an  intense  repose. 

SANDOVAL  {with  a  sarcastic  smile). 
No  other  than  as  eastern  sages  paint. 
The  God,  who  floats  upon  a  lotos  leaf. 
Dreams  for  a  thousand  ages  ;  then  awaking, 
Creates  a  world,  and  smiling  at  the  bubble, 
Relapses  into  bliss. 

EARL    HENRY. 

Ah !  was  that  bliss 
Fear'd  as  an  alien,  and  too  vast  for  man  ? 
For  suddenly,  impatient  of  its  silence. 
Did  Oropeza,  starting,  grasp  my  forehead. 
I  caught  her  arms ;  the  veins  were  swelling  on  them. 
Through  the  dark  bower  she  sent  a  hollow  voice. 
Oil !  what  if  all  betray  me  ?  what  if  thou  ? 
I  swore,  and  with  an  inward  thought  that  seem'd 
The  purpose  and  the  substance  of  my  being, 
I  swore  to  her,  that  were  she  red  with  guilt, 
I  would  exchange  my  unblench'd  state  with  hers. — 
Friend  !  by  that  winding  passage,  to  that  bower 
I  now  will  go — all  objects  there  will  teach  me 
Unwavering  love,  and  singleness  of  heart. 
Go,  Sandoval !  I  am  prepared  to  meet  her — 
Say  nothing  of  me — I  myself  will  seek  her — 
Nay,  leave  me,  friend !  I  cannot  bear  the  torment 
And  keen  inquiry  of  that  scanning  eye — 

[Earl  Henry  retires  into  the  wood 

SANDOVAL  [alone). 
O  Henry !  alw;ays  strivest  thou  to  be  great 
By  thine  own  act — yet  art  thou  never  great 
But  by  the  inspiration  of  great  passion. 
The  whirl-blast  comes,  the  desert-sands  rise  up 
And  shape  themselves  :  from  Earth  to  Heaven  they 

stand. 
As  though  they  were  the  pillars  of  a  temple, 
Built  by  Omnipotence  in  its  own  honor ! 
But  the  blast  pauses,  and  their  shaping  spirit 
Is  fled  :  the  mighty  columns  were  but  sand, 
And  lazy  snakes  trail  o'er  the  level  ruins ' 


TO  AN  UNFORTUNATE  WOMAN^, 

WHOM  THE  AUTHOR  HAD  KNOWN  IN  THE  DAYS  OP 
HER  INNOCENCE. 

Myrtle-leaf  that,  ill  besped, 

Finest  in  the  gladsome  ray, 
Soil'd  beneath  the  common  tread. 

Far  from  thy  protecting  spray  ! 

When  the  Partridge  o'er  the  sheaf 
Whirr'd  along  the  yellow  vale. 

Sad  I  saw  thee,  heedless  leaf! 
Love  the  dalliance  of  the  gale. 

Lightly  didst  thou,  foolish  thing ! 

Heave  and  flutter  to  his  sighs, 
While  the  flatterer,  on  his  wing, 

Woo'd  and  whisper'd  thee  to  rise. 
42 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


33 


Gnily  from  thy  nioiher-stalk 

\Vert  thou  danccil  and  wafted  high — 
Soon  on  this  iinshelter'd  walk 

Flung  to  fade,  to  rot  and  die. 


TO  AN  UNFORTUNATE  WOMAN  AT  THE 
THEATRE. 

Maiden,  that  with  sullen  brow 
Sittest  behind  those  virgins  gay, 

Like  a  scorch'd  and  mildew'd  bough, 
Leafless  'mid  the  blooms  of  May! 

Him  who  lured  thee  and  forsook, 

Oft  I  watcli'd  with  angry  gaze, 
Fearful  saw  his  pleading  look, 

Anxious  heard  his  fervid  phrase. 

Soft  the  glances  of  the  youth. 
Soft  his  speech,  and  soft  his  sigh ; 

But  no  sound  like  simple  truth. 
But  no  true  love  in  liis  eye. 

Lothing  thy  polluted  lot. 

Hie  thee.  Maiden,  hie  thee  hence ! 

Seek  thy  weeping  Mother's  cot, 
With  a  wiser  innocence. 

Thou  hast  known  deceit  and  folly, 
Thou  hast  felt  that  vice  is  woe : 

With  a  musing  melancholy 
Inly  arm'd,  go,  Maiden!  go. 

Mother  sage  of  Self  dominion. 

Firm  thy  steps,  O  Melancholy  ! 
The  strongest  plume  in  wisdom's  pinion 

Is  the  memory  of  past  folly. 

Mute  the  sky-lark  and  forlorn, 

WTiile  she  moults  the  firstling  plumes. 

That  had  skimm'd  the  tender  corn. 
Or  the  bean-field's  odorous  blooms  : 

Soon  with  renovated  wing 

Shall  she  dare  a  loftier  flight, 
Upward  to  the  day-star  spring. 

And  embathe  in  heavenly  light. 


LINES  COMPOSED  IN  A  CONCERT-ROOM. 

Nor  cold,  nor  stem,  my  soul !  yet  I  detest 

These  scented  Rooms,  where,  to  a  gaudy  throng. 

Heaves  the  proud  Harlot  her  distended  breast. 
In  intricacies  of  laborious  song. 

These  feel  not  Music's  genuine  power,  nor  deign 
To  melt  at  Nature's  passion-warbled  plaint ; 

But  when  the  long-breathed  singer's  uplrill'd  strain 
Bursts  in  a  squall — they  gape  for  wonderment. 

Hark  the  deep  buzz  of  Vanity  and  Hate  ! 

Scornful,  yet  envious,  with  self-torturing  sneer 

My  lady  eyes  some  maid  of  humbler  state, 

Wliile  the  pert  Captain,  or  the  primmer  Priest, 
Prattles  accordant  scandal  in  her  ear. 
4  E 


O  give  me,  from  this  heartless  scene  released, 
To  hear  our  old  musician,  blind  and  gray 

(Whom  stretching  from  my  nurse's  arms  I  kiss'd), 
His  Scottish  tunes  and  warlike  marches  play 

By  moonshine,  on  the  balmy  summer-night. 
The  while  I  dance  amid  the  tedded  hay 

With  merry  maids,  whose  ringlets  toss  in  light 

Or  lies  the  purple  evening  on  the  bay 
Of  the  calm  glossy  lake,  O  let  me  hide 

Unheard,  unseen,  behind  the  alder-trees 
For  round  their  roots  the  fisher's  boat  is  tied, 

On  whose  trim  seat  doth  Edmund  stretch  at  ease, 
And  while  the  lazy  boat  sways  to  and  fro. 

Breathes  in  his  llute  sad  airs,  so  wild  and  slow, 
That  his  owii  cheek  is  wet  with  quiet  tears. 

But  O,  dear  Arme  !  when  midnight  wind  careers, 
And  the  gust  pelting  on  the  out-house  shed 

Makes  the  cock  shrilly  on  the  rain-storm  crow, 

To  hear  thee  sing  some  ballad  full  of  woe, 
Ballad  of  shipwreck'd  sailor  floating  dead. 

Whom  his  own  true-love  buried  in  the  sands  • 
Thee,  gentle  woman,  for  thy  voice  remeasures 
Whatever  tones  and  melancholy  pleasures 

The  things  of  Nature  utter  ;  birds  or  trees. 
Or  moan  of  ocean-gale  in  weedy  caves. 
Or  where  the  stiff  grass  'mid  the  heath-plant  waves. 

Murmur  and  music  thin  of  sudden  breeze. 


THE  KEEPSAKE. 

The  tedded  hay,  the  first  fruits  of  the  soil, 
The  tedded  hay  and  corn-sheaves  in  one  field, 
Show  summer  gone,  ere  come.    The  foxglove  tall 
Sheds  its  loose  purple  bells,  or  in  the  gust, 
Or  when  it  bends  beneath  the  up-springing  lark. 
Or  mountain-finch  alighting.    And  the  rose 
(In  vain  the  darling  of  successful  love) 
Stands,  like  some  boasted  beauty  of  past  years, 
The  thorns  remaining,  and  the  flowers  all  gone. 
Nor  can  I  find,  amid  my  lonely  walk 
By  rivulet,  or  spring,  or  wet  road-side. 
That  blue  and  bright-eyed  floweret  of  the  brook, 
Hope's  gentle  gem,  the  sweet  Forget-me-not!* 
So  will  not  fade  the  flowers  which  Emmeline 
With  delicate  fingers  on  the  snow-white  silk 
Has  work'd   (the  flowers  which  most  she  knew  I 

loved). 
And,  more  beloved  than  they,  her  auburn  hair. 

In  the  cool  morning  twilight,  early  waked 
By  her  full  bosom's  joyous  restlessness. 
Softly  she  rose,  and  lightly  stole  along, 
Down  the  slope  coppice  to  the  woodbine  bower. 
Whose  rich  flowers,  swinging  in  the  morning  breeze, 
Over  their  dim  fast-moving  shadows  hung. 
Making  a  quiet  image  of  disquiet 
In  tlie  smooth,  scarcely  moving  river-pool. 
There,  in  that  bower  where  first  she  owii'd  her  love 
And  let  me  kiss  my  own  warm  tear  of  joy 
From  off  her  glowing  cheek,  she  sate  and  stretch'd 


•  One  of  the  names  (and  meriting  to  be  the  only  one)  of  the 
Jifvusotis  Scorpioides  Palustris,  a  flower  from  six  to  twelve 
inches  high,  with  blue  blngsom  and  bright  ycllnw  eye.  It  baa 
the  sanne  name  over  the  whole  Empire  of  Germany  (Vergis*- 
mein  nickl)  and,  we  believe,  in  Doniuark  and  Sweden 
43 


34 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  silk  upon  Ihe  frame,  and  work'd  her  name 
Between  tlie  Moss-Rose  and  Forget-me-not — 
Her  own  dear  name,  with  her  own  auburn  hair ! 
That  forced  to  wander  till  sweet  spring  return, 
I  yet  might  ne'er  forget  lier  smile,  her  look, 
Her  voice  (that  even  in  her  mirthful  mood 
Has  made  me  wish  to  steal  away  and  weep). 
Nor  yet  the  entrancement  of  that  maiden  kiss 
With  which  she  promised,  that  when  spring  retum'd. 
She  would  resign  one  half  of  that  dear  name, 
And  own  thenceforth  no  other  name  but  mine  ! 


TO  A  LADY. 

WITH    falconer's    "  SHIPWRECK." 

Ah  !  not  by  Cam  or  Isis,  famous  streams. 

In  arched  groves,  the  youthful  poet's  choice  ; 

Nor  while  half-listening,  'mid  delicious  dreams, 
To  harp  and  song  from  lady's  hand  and  voice  ; 

Nor  yet  while  gazing  in  sublimer  mood 

On  cliff,  or  cataract,  in  Alpine  dell ; 
Nor  in  dim  cave  with  bladdery  sea-weed  strew'd. 

Framing  wild  fancies  to  the  ocean's  swell ; 

Our  sea-bard  sang  this  song !  which  still  he  sings. 
And  sings  for  thee,  sweet  friend !  Hark,  Pity,  hark ! 

Now  mounts,  now  totters  on  the  Tempest's  wings, 
Now  groans,  and  shivers,  the  re  plunging  Bark! 

"  Cling  to  the  shrouds  !  "   In  vain  !   The  breakers 
roar — 

Death  shrieks  !  With  two  alone  of  all  his  clan 
Forlorn  the  poet  paced  the  Grecian  shore, 

No  classic  roamer,  but  a  shipwreck'd  man  ! 

Say  then,  what  muse  inspired  these  genial  strauis, 
And  lit  his  spirit  to  so  bright  a  flame  ? 

The  elevating  thought  of  sufTer'd  pains, 

Which  gentle  hearts  shall  mourn ;  but  chief,  the 
name 

Of  Gratitude  !  Remembrances  of  Friend, 
Or  absent  or  no  more  !  Shades  of  the  Past, 

Which  Love  makes  Substance  I  Hence  to  thee  I  send, 
O  dear  as  long  as  life  and  memory  last ! 

I  send  with  deep  regards  of  heart  and  head. 

Sweet  maid,  for  friendship  form'd !  this  work  to 
thee : 

And  thou,  the  while  thou  canst  not  choose  but  shed 
A  tear  for  Falconer,  wilt  remember  me. 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

ON  HER  RECOVERY  FROM  A  FEVER. 

Why  need  I  say,  Louisa  dear! 
How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  here 

A  lovely  convalescent ; 
Risen  from  the  bed  of  pain  and  fear, 

And  feverish  heat  incessant. 

The  sunny  Sliowers,  the  dappled  Sky, 
The  little  Birds  that  warble  high. 

Their  vernal  loves  commencing. 
Will  better  welcome  you  than  I 

With  their  sweet  influencing. 


Beheve  me,  while  in  bed  you  lay, 
Your  danger  taught  us  all  to  pray  : 

You  made  us  grow  devouter! 
Each  eye  look'd  up,  and  seem'd  to  say 

How  can  we  do  without  her  ? 

Besides,  what  vex'd  us  worse,  we  knew. 
They  have  no  need  of  such  as  you 

In  the  place  where  you  were  going ; 
This  World  has  angels  all  too  few, 

And  Heaven  is  overflowins; ! 


SOMETHING  CHILDISH,  BUT  VERY 
NATURAL. 

WRITTEN    IN   GERMANY. 

If  I  had  but  two  little  wings. 
And  were  a  little  feathery  bird, 
To  you  1  'd  fly,  my  dear ! 
But  thoughts  like  these  are  idle  things, 
And  I  stay  here. 

But  in  my  sleep  to  you  I  fly : 

I'm  always  with  you  in  my  sleep  ! 
The  world  is  all  one's  own. 
But  then  one  wakes,  and  where  am  I  ? 
All,  all  alone. 

Sleep  stays  not,  though  a  monarch  bids  : 
So  I  love  to  wake  e  re  break  of  day  : 
For  though  my  sleep  be  gone. 
Yet,  while  'tis  dark,  one  shuts  one's  lids, 
And  still  dreams  on. 


HOME-SICK. 

WRITTEN    IN   GERMANY. 

'T  IS  sweet  to  him,  who  all  the  week 
Through  city-crowds  must  push  his  way, 

To  stroll  alone  through  fields  and  woods, 
And  hallow  thus  the  Sabbath-Day 

And  sweet  it  is,  in  summer  bower, 

Sincere,  affectionate,  and  gay. 
One's  own  dear  children  feasting  round. 

To  celebrate  one's  marriage-day. 

But  what  is  all,  to  his  delight. 

Who  having  long  been  doom'd  to  roam, 
Throws  off  the  bundle  from  his  back. 

Before  the  door  of  his  own  home  ? 

Home-sickness  is  a  wasting  pang  ; 

This  feel  I  hourly  more  and  more  : 
There  's  Healing  only  in  thy  wings. 

Thou  Breeze  that  playest  on  Albion's  shore! 


ANSWER  TO  A  CHILD'S  QUESTION. 

Do  you  ask  what  the  birds  say  ?  The  Sparrow,  tS-* 

Dove, 
The  Linnet  and  Thrush,  say,  "  I  love  and  I  love  I " 
In  the  winter  they  're  silent — the  wind  is  so  strong , 
What  it  says,  I  don't  know,  but  it  sings  a  loud  song. 
But  green  leaves,  and  blossoms,  and  sunny  warm 

weather, 
And  singing,  and  loving — all  come  back  together 
44 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


35 


But  the  Lark  is  so  brimful  of  gladness  and  love, 
The  green  fields  below  him,  the  blue  sky  above, 
That  he  sings,  and  he  sings ;  and  for  ever  sings  he — 
"  1  love  my  Love,  and  my  Love  loves  me  !  " 


THE  VISIONARY  HOPE. 

Sad  lot.  to  have  no  Hope!   Though  lowly  kneeling 
He  fain  would  frame  a  prayer  within  his  breast. 
Would  fain  entreat  for  some  sweet  breath  of  healing. 
That  his  sick  body  might  have  ease  and  rest ; 
He  strove  in  vain!  the  dull  sighs  from  his  chest 
Against  his  will  the  stifling  load  revealing. 
Though  Nature  forced ;  though  like  some  captive  guest, 
Some  royal  prisoner  at  his  conqueror's  feast, 
An  alien's  restless  mood  but  half  concealing, 
The  sternness  on  his  gentle  brow  confess'd, 
Sickness  v\ithin  and  miserable  feeling: 
Though  obscure  pangs  made  curses  of  his  dreams, 
And  dreaded  sleep,  each  night  repell'd  in  vain. 
Each  night  was  scatter'd  by  its  own  loud  screams , 
Yet  never  could  his  heart  command,  though  fain, 
One  deep  full  wish  to  be  no  more  in  pain. 

That  Hope,  which  was  his  inward  bliss  and  boast. 
Which  waned  and  died,  yet  ever  near  him  stood. 
Though  changed  in  nature,  wander  where  he  would — 
For  Love's  Despair  is  but  Hope's  pining  Ghost ! 
For  this  one  Hope  he  makes  his  hourly  moan, 
He  wishes  and  can  wish  for  this  alone ! 
Pierced,  as  with  light  from  Heaven,  before  its  gleanas 
(So  the  love-stricken  visionary  deems) 
Disease  would  vanish,  like  a  summer  shower, 
Wliose  dews  fling  sunshine  from  the  noon-tide  bower! 
Or  let  it  stay !  yet  this  one  Hope  should  give 
Such  strength  that  he  would  bless  his  pains  and  live 


THE  HAPPY  HUSBAND. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

Oft,  oft  methinks,  the  while  with  Thee 
I  breathe,  as  from  the  heart,  thy  dear 
And  dedicated  name,  I  hear 

A  promise  and  a  mystery, 

A  pledge  of  more  than  passing  life, 
Yea,  in.  that  very  name  of  Wife ! 

A  pulse  of  love,  that  ne'er  can  sleep! 

A  feeling  that  upbraids  the  heart 

With  happiness  beyond  desert. 
That  gladness  half  requests  to  weep! 

Nor  bless  I  not  the  keener  sense 

And  unalarming  turbulence 

Of  transient  joys,  that  ask  no  sting. 

From  jealous  fears,  or  coy  denying; 

But  born  beneath  Love's  brooding  wing, 
And  into  tenderness  soon  dying. 

Wheel  out  their  giddy  moment,  then 

Resign  the  soul  to  love  again. 

A  more  precipitated  vein 

Of  notes,  that  eddy  in  the  flow 

Of  smoothest  song,  they  come,  they  go, 

And  leave  the  sweeter  under-strain 


Its  own  sweet  self — a  love  of  Thee 
That  seems,  yet  cannot  greater  be ! 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LOVE. 

How  warm  this  woodland  wild  Recess! 
Love  surely  hath  been  breathing  here. 
And  this  sweet  bed  of  heath,  my  dear ! 

Swells  up,  then  sinks,  with  faint  caress, 
As  if  to  have  you  yet  more  near. 

Eight  springs  have  flown,  since  last  I  lay 
On  seaward  Quantock's  heathy  hills, 
Where  quiet  sounds  from  hidden  rilla 

Float  here  and  there,  like  things  astray. 
And  high  o'erhead  the  sky-lark  shrills 

No  voice  as  yet  had  made  the  air 
Be  music  with  your  name;  yet  why 
That  asking  look  ?  that  yearning  sigh  ? 

That  sense  of  promise  everywhere? 
Beloved!  flew  your  spirit  by? 

As  when  a  mother  doth  explore 

The  rose-mark  on  her  long-lost  child 
I  met,  I  loved  you,  maiden  mild ! 

As  whom  I  long  had  loved  before — 
So  deeply,  had  I  been  beguiled. 

You  stood  before  me  like  a  thought, 
A  dream  remember'd  in  a  dream. 
But  when  tliose  meek  eyes  first  did  seem 

To  tell  me.  Love  within  you  wrought — 
O  Greta,  dear  domestic  stream ! 

Has  not,  since  then,  Love's  prompture  deep. 
Has  not  Love's  whisper  evermore. 
Been  ceaseless,  as  thy  gentle  roar? 

Sole  voice,  when  other  voices  sleep. 
Dear  imder-song  in  Clamor's  hour. 


ON  REVISITING  THE   SEA-SHORE,    AFTER 
LONG    ABSENCE, 

UNDER   STRONG    MEDICAL  RECOMMENDATION   NOT   TO ' 
BATHE. 

GoD  be  with  thee,  gladsome  Ocean! 

How  gladly  greet  I  thee  once  more ! 
Ships  and  waves,  and  ceaseless  motion, 

And  men  rejoicing  on  thy  shore. 

Dissuading  spake  the  mild  Physician, 

"  Those  briny  waves  for  thee  are  Death ! " 

But  my  soul  fulfill'd  her  mission. 

And  lo!  I  breathe  untroubled  breath.' 

Fashion's  pining  sons  and  daughters. 
That  seek  the  crowd  they  seem  to  fly,. 

Trembling  they  approach  thy  waters; 
And  what  cares  Nature,  if  they  die? 

Me  a  thousand  hopes  and  pleasures, 

A  thousand  recollections  bland, 
Tlioughts  sublime,  and  stately  measure* 

Revisit  on  thy  echoing  strand : 
7  45 


36 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Dreams  (the  soul  herself  forsaking), 
Tearful  raptures,  boyish  mirth  ; 

Silent  adorations,  making 

A  blessed  shadow  of  this  Earth .' 

O  ye  hopes,  that  stir  within  me, 

Health  comes  with  you  from  above! 

God  is  with  me,  God  is  in  me ! 
I  cannot  die,  if  Life  be  Love. 


THE  COMPOSITION  OF  A  KISS. 

Cupid,  if  storying  legends*  tell  aright, 

Once  framed  a  rich  elixir  of  delight. 

A  chalice  o'er  love-kindled  flames  he  fix'd, 

And  in  it  nectar  and  ambrosia  mix'd  : 

With  these  the  magic  dews,  which  evening  brings, 

Brush'd  from  the  Idalian  star  by  faery  wdngs : 

Each  tender  pledge  of  sacred  faith  he  join'd. 

Each  gentler  pleasure  of  the  unspotted  mind — 

Day-dreams,  whose  tints  with  sportive  brightness  glow. 

And  Hope,  the  blameless  parasite  of  woe. 

The  eyeless  Chemist  heard  the  process  rise, 

The  steamy  chalice  bubbled  up  in  sighs ; 

■Sweet  sounds  transpired,  as  when  th' enamour'd dove 

Pours  the  soft  murm'ring  of  responsive  love. 

The  finish'd  work  might  Envy  vainly  blame, 

And  "  Kisses"  was  the  precious  compound's  name. 

With  half  the  god  his  Cyprian  mother  blest. 

And  breathed  on  Sara's  loveUer  lips  the  rest. 


III.  MEDITATIVE  POEMS, 

IN    BLANK   VERSE. 


Yea,  he  deserves  to  find  himself  deceived. 
Who  seeks  a  heart  in  the  unthinking  Man. 
Like  shadows  on  a  stream,  the  forms  of  life 
Impress  their  characters  on  the  smooth  forehead  : 
Naught  sinks  into  the  Bosom's  silent  depth. 
Quick  sensibility  of  Pain  and  Pleasure 
Moves  the  light  fluids  lightly  ;  but  no  soul 
Warmeth  the  inner  frame. 

Schiller. 


'HYMN    BEFORE   SUN-RISE,   IN   THE    VALE 
OF  CHAMOUNY. 

Besides  the  Rivers  Arve  and  Arveiron,  which  have  their 
sources  in  the  foot  of  Mont  Blanc,  five  conspicuous  torrents 
rush  down  its  sides,  and  within  a  few  paces  of  the  Glaciers, 
the  Gentiana  Major  grows  in  immense  numbers,  with  its 
"flowers  of  loveliest  blue." 


IIast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  Morning-Star 
iln  his  steep  course  ?  So  long  he  seems  to  pause 


*  Effinxit  quondam  blandum  meditata  laborem 

Basia  lasciva  Cypria  Diva  mana. 
Ambrosiae  succos  occulta  temperat  arte, 

Fragransque  infuso  nectare  tingit  opus. 
"SufKcit  et  partem  mellig,  quod  subdolus  ollra 

Nonimpune  favis  surripuisset  Amor. 
DecussoB  violiE  foUisad  miscetodores 

Et  spolia  aestivis  plurima  rapta  rosis. 
Addit  et  illecebras  et  mille  ct  mille  lepores, 

Et  quot  Acidalius  gaudia  Cestus  habet. 
JRr  his  composuit  Dea  basia  ;  et  omnia  libang 

Invenias  nitidae  sparsa  per  ora  Cloes 

Carm.  Quod.  Vol.  II. 


On  thy  bald  awful  head,  O  sovran  Blanc ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly  ;  but  thou,  most  awful  form' 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  Sea  of  Pines, 
How  silently !  Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black. 
An  ebon  mass  :  methinks  thou  piercest  it, 
As  with  a  wedge !  But  when  I  look  again. 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity ! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount!  I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense. 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought:  entranced  in  prayer 

1  worshipp'd  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  Thought, 
Yea  with  my  Life  and  Life's  own  secret  Joy : 
Till  the  dilaling  Soul,  enrapt,  transfused. 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swell'd  vast  to  Heaven ! 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy!  Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !  Awake,  my  heart,  awake !  . 
Green  vales  and  icy  clifls,  all  join  my  Hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  Sovereign  of  the  Vale ! 
O  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars. 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink : 
Companion  of  the  Morning-Star  at  dawn. 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  :  wake,  O  wake,  and  utter  praise  • 
Wlio  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ? 
Who  fill'd  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 
Who  made  thee  Parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad ! 
Who  call'd  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death. 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  call'd  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks. 
For  ever  shatter'd  and  the  same  for  ever  ? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life. 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy 
Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came). 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest  ? 

Ye  Ice-falls !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  Voice, 
And  stopp'd  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents !  silent  cataracts ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  Gates  of  Heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  IMoon  ?  Who  bade  the  Sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ?  Who,  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  ? — 
God !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer!  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God ! 
God  !  sing  ye  meadow-slTeams  with  glad.«ome  voice 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  .sounds 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow. 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God ! 

46 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


3T 


Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost ' 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 
Ye  eagles,  play-mates  of  the  mountain-storm  ! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  tlie  clouds ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element ! 
Utter  Ibrih  God,  and  fdl  the  hills  with  praise ! 

Thou  too,  hoar  Mount!  with  thy  sky-pointing  peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  Avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds,  that  veil  thy  breast — 
Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain !  thou 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bow'd  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suifused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me — Rise,  O  ever  rise, 
Rise  hke  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  earth ! 
Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Tliou  dread  Ambassador  from  Earth  to  Heaven, 
Great  Hierarch !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  Stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 


LINES 

WRITTEN    IN   THE   ALBUM    AT  ELBINGERODE,    IN    THE 
HARTZ   FOREST. 

I  STOOD  on  Brocken's*  sovran  height,  and  saw 

Woods  crowding  upon  woods,  hills  over  hills, 

A  surging  scene,  and  only  Umited 

By  the  blue  distance.     Heavily  my  way 

Downward  I  dragg'd  through  fir-groves  evermore, 

Where  bright  green  moss  heaves  in  sepulchral  forms 

Speckled  with  sunshine ;  and,  but  seldom  heard. 

The  sweet  bird's  song  became  a  hollow  sound ; 

And  the  breeze,  murmuring  indivisibly, 

Preserved  its  solemn  murmur  most  distinct 

From  many  a  note  of  many  a  waterfall. 

And  the  brook's  chatter ;  'mid  whose  islet  stones 

The  dingy  kidling  \viih  its  tinkling  bell 

Leap'd  frolicsome,  or  old  romantic  goat 

Sat,  his  white  beard  slow  waving.     I  moved  on 

In  low  and  languid  mood  :t  for  I  had  found 

That  outward  forms,  the  loftiest,  still  receive 

Their  finer  influence  from  the  Life  within  : 

Fair  ciphers  else :  fair,  but  of  import  vague 

Or  unconcerning,  where  the  Heart  not  finds 

History  or  prophecy  of  Friend,  or  Child, 

Or  gentle  Maid,  our  first  and  early  love. 

Or  Father,  or  the  venerable  name 

Of  our  adored  Country !  O  thou  Queen, 

Thou  delegated  Deify  of  Earth, 

O  dear,  dear  England  !  how  my  longing  eye 

Turn'd  westward,  shaping  in  the  steady  clouds 

lliy  sands  and  high  white  cliffs ! 


*  The  highest  mountain  in  the  Hartz,  and  indeed  in  North 
Germany. 


t 


-When  I  have  gazed 


From  some  high  eminence  on  goodly  vales, 
And  cots  and  villages  enihower'd  below, 
The  thought  would  rise  that  all  to  me  was  strange 
Amid  the  scenes  so  fair,  mir  one  small  spot 
''Vhere  my  tired  mind  might  rrsf,  and  call  it  home. 

Sniithei/'s  Hymn  to  the  Penates. 


My  native  land ! 
Fill'd  with  the  thought  of  thee  this  heart  was  proud 
Yea,  mine  eye  swam  with  tears  :  that  all  the  view 
From  sovran  Brocken,  woods  and  woody  hills, 
Floated  away,  like  a  departing  dream. 
Feeble  and  dim !  Stranger,  these  impulses 
Blame  thou  not  lightly  ;  nor  will  I  profane. 
With  hasty  judgment  or  injurious  doubt. 
That  man's  sublimer  spirit,  who  can  feel 
That  God  is  everywhere !  the  God  who  framed 
Mankind  to  be  one  mighty  Family, 
Himself  our  Father,  and  the  World  our  Home. 


ON  OBSERVING  A  BLOSSOM  ON  THE  FIRST  CP 
FEBRUARY,  1796. 

Sweet  Flower !  that  peeping  from  thy  russet  stem 

Unfoldest  timidly  (for  in  strange  sort 

This    dark,    frieze-coated,   hoarse,    teeth-chattering 

month 
Hath  borrow'd  Zephyr's  voice,  and  gazed  upon  thee 
With  blue  voluptuous  eye),  alas,  poor  Flower! 
These  are  but  flatteries  of  the  faithless  year. 
Perchance,  escaped  its  unknown  polar  cave, 
E'en  now  the  keen  North-East  is  on  its  way. 
Flower  that  must  perish !  shall  I  liken  thee 
To  some  sweet  girl  of  too  too  rapid  growth, 
Nipp'd  by  Consumption  'mid  untimely  charms  ? 
Or  to  Bristowa's  Bard,*  the  wondrous  boy ! 
An  Amaranth,  which  earth  scarce  seem'd  to  own. 
Till  Disappointment  came,  and  pelting  A\Tong 
Beat  it  to  earth  ?  or  with  indignant  grief 
Shall  I  compare  thee  to  poor  Poland's  Hope, 
Bright  flower  of  Hope  kill'd  in  the  opening  bud  ? 
Farewell,  sweet  blossom !  better  fate  be  thine. 
And  mock  my  boding !  Dim  similitudes 
Weaving  in  moral  strains,  I've  stolen  one  hour 
From  anxious  Self,  Life's  cruel  Task-Master ! 
And  the  warm  w'ooings  of  this  sunny  day 
Tremble  along  my  frame,  and  harmonize 
The  attemper'd  organ,  that  even  saddest  thoughts 
Mix  with  some  sweet  sensations,  like  harsh  tunes 
Play'd  deftly  on  a  soft-toned  instrument. 


THE  EOLIAN  HARP. 

COMPOSED  AT  CLEVEDON,  SOMERSETSHIRE. 

My  pensive  Sara  !  thy  soft  cheek  reclined 

Thus  on  mine  arm,  most  soothing  sweet  it  is 

To  sit  beside  our  cot,  our  cot  o'ergrown 

With  white-flower'd  Jasmin,  and  the  broad-leaved 

Myrtle, 
(Meet  emblems  they  of  Iruiocence  and  Love !) 
And  watch  the  clouds,  that  late  were  rich  with  light, 
Slow  saddening  round,  and  mark  the  star  of  eve 
Serenely  brilliant  (such  should  wisdom  be) 
Shine  opposite !  How  exquisite  the  scents 
Snatch'd  from  you   bean-field!    and  the   world  so 

hush'd ! 
The  stilly  murmur  of  the  distant  Sea 
Tells  us  of  Silence. 

And  that  simplest  Lute. 
Placed  length- ways  in  the  clasping  casement,  hark 
How  by  the  desultory  breeze  caress'd. 
Like  some  coy  maid  half  jnelding  to  her  lo/»>r. 


47 


38 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


It  pours  such  sweet  upbraiding,  as  must  needs 
Tempt  to  repeat  the  wrong !  And  now,  its  strings 
BolJlier  swept,  the  long  sequacious  notes 
Over  delicious  surges  sink  and  rise, 
Such  a  soft  floating  witchery  of  sound 
As  twihght  Elfins  make,  when  they  at  eve 
Voyage  on  gentle  gales  from  Fairy-Land, 
Wliere  Melodies  round  honey-dropping  flowers, 
Footless  and  wild,  like  birds  of  Paradise, 
Nor  pause,  nor  perch,  hovering  on  tmtamed  wing ! 

0  the  one  life  within  us  and  abroad, 
Which  meets  all  motion  and  becomes  its  soul, 
A  light  in  sound,  a  sound-like  power  in  light. 
Rhythm  in  all  thought,  and  joyance  everywhere — 
Methinks,  it  should  have  been  impossible 

Not  to  love  all  things  in  a  world  so  fill'd ; 
Where  the  breeze  warbles,  and  the  mute  still  air 
Is  Music  slumbering  on  her  instniment  ■'' 

And  thus,  my  love!  as  on  the  midway  slope 
Of  yonder  hill  I  stretch  my  limbs  at  noon. 
Whilst  through  my  half-closed  eye-lids  I  behold 
The  sunbeams  dance,  like  diamonds,  on  the  main, 
And  tranquil  muse  upon  tranquillity  ; 
Full  many  a  thought  uncall'd  and  undetain'd, 
And  many  idle  flitting  phantasies, 
Traverse  my  indolent  and  passive  brain. 
As  wild  and  various  as  the  random  gales 
That  swell  and  flutter  on  this  subject  lute  ! 

And  what  if  all  of  animated  nature 
Be  but  organic  harps  diversely  framed. 
That  tremble  into  thought,  as  o'er  them  sweeps. 
Plastic  and  vast,  one  intellectual  breeze. 
At  once  the  Soul  of  each,  and  God  of  All  ? 

But  thy  more  serious  eye  a  mild  reproof 
Darts,  O  beloved  woman !  nor  such  thoughts 
Dim  and  unhallow'd  dost  thou  not  reject, 
And  biddest  me  walk  humbly  with  my  God. 
Meek  daughter  in  the  family  of  Christ ! 
Well  hast  thou  said  and  holily  dispraised 
These  shapings  of  the  unregenerate  mind  ; 
Bubbles  tliat  glitter  as  they  rise  and  break 
On  vain  Philosophy's  aye-babbling  spring. 
For  never  guiltless  may  I  speak  of  him. 
The  Incomprehensible !  save  when  with  awe 

1  praise  him,  and  with  Faith  that  inly  feels ; 
Who  with  his  saving  mercies  healed  me, 

A  sinful  and  most  miserable  Man, 
Wilder'd  and  dark,  and  gave  me  to  possess 
Peace,  and  this  Cot,  and  thee,  heart-honor'd  Maid ! 


REI'LECTIONS  ON  HAVING  LEFT  A  PLACE 
OF  RETIREMENT. 


Sermoni  propriora. — Hor. 


Low  was  otir  pretty  Cot :  our  tallest  rose 
Peep'd  at  the  chamber-window.     We  could  hear. 
At  silent  noon,  and  eve,  and  early  morn. 
The  Sea's  faint  murmur.     In  the  open  air 
Our  myrtles  blossom'd ;  and  across  the  Porch 
rhick  jasmins  twined :  the  little  landscape  round 


Was  green  and  woody,  and  refresh'd  the  eye. 
It  was  a  spot  which  you  might  aptly  call 
The  Valley  of  Seclusion !  once  I  saw 
(Hallowing  his  Sabbath-day  by  quietness) 
A  wealthy  son  of  commerce  saunter  by, 
Bristowa's  citizen :  methought,  it  calm'd 
His  thirst  of  idle  gold,  and  made  him  muse 
With  wiser  feelings ;  for  he  paused,  and  look'd 
With  a  pleased  sadness,  and  gazed  all  around, 
Then  eyed  our  cottage,  and  gazed  roimd  again, 
And  sigh'd,  and  said,  it  was  a  blessed  place. 
And  we  were  bless'd.     Oft  with  patient  ear 
Long-listening  to  the  viewless  sky-lark's  note 
(Viewless  or  haply  for  a  moment  seen 
Gleaming  on  sunny  wings),  in  whisper'd  tones 
I've  said  to  my  beloved,  "  Such,  sweet  girl ! 
The  inobtrusive  song  of  Happiness, 
Unearthly  minstrelsy !  then  only  heard 
When  the  soul  seeks  to  hear;  when  all  is  hush'd. 
And  the  Heart  listens ! " 

■ .  <  .-  But  the  time,  when  first 

From  that  low  dell,  steep  up  the  stony  ]\Ioimt 
I  chmb'd  with  perilous  toil,  and  reach'd  the  top, 
Oh !  what  a  goodly  scene  !  Here  the  bleak  Moimt, 
The  bare  bleak  RIountain  speckled  thin  with  sheep , 
Gray  clouds,  that  shadowing  spot  the  sumiy  fields ; 
And  River,  now  with  bushy  rocks  o'erbrow'd. 
Now  winding  bright  and  full,  with  naked  banks ; 
And  Seats,  and  Lawns,  the  Abbey  and  the  Wood, 
And  Cots,  and  Hamlets,  and  faint  City-spire ; 
The  Channel  there,  the  Islands  and  white  Sails, 
Dim    Coasts,    and    cloud-like    Hills,   and   shoreless 

Ocean — 
It  seem'd  like  Omnipresence  !  God,  methought. 
Had  built  him  there  a  Temple  :  the  whole  World 
Seem'd  imaged  in  its  vast  circumference. 
No  wish  profaned  my  overwhelmed  heart. 
Blest  hour !  It  was  a  luxury, — to  be ! 

Ah!  quiet  dell;  dear  cot,  and  Mount  subUme! 
I  was  constrain'd  to  quit  you.     Was  it  right. 
While  my  unnumber'd  bretliren  toil'd  and  bled. 
That  I  should  dream  away  the  intrusted  hours 
On  rose-leaf  beds,  pampering  the  coward  heart 
With  feelings  all  too  delicate  for  use  ? 
Sweet  is  the  tear  that  from  some  Howard's  eye 
Drops  on  the  cheek  of  One  he  lifts  from  Earth : 
And  He  that  works  me  good  with  unmoved  face, 
Does  it  but  half:  he  chills  me  while  he  aids, 
My  Benefactor,  not  my  Brother  Man ! 
Yet  even  this,  this  cold  beneficence, 
Praise,  praise  it,  O  my  Soul  I  oft  as  thou  scann'st 
The  Sluggard  Pity's  vision-weaving  tribe  ! 
Who  sigh  for  wretchedness,  yet  shun  the  wTetched. 
Nursing  in  some  delicious  solitude 
Their  slothful  loves  and  dainty  Sympathies ! 
I  therefore  go,  and  join  head,  heart,  and  hand. 
Active  and  firm,  to  fight  the  bloodless  fight 
Of  Science,  Freedom,  and  the  Truth  in  Christ. 

Yet  oft,  when  after  honorable  toil 
Rests  the  tired  mind,  and  waking  loves  to  dream, 
My  spirit  shall  revisit  thee,  dear  Cot! 
Thy  jasmin  and  thy  window-peeping  rose. 
And  myrtles  fearless  of  the  mild  sea-air. 
And  I  shall  sigh  fond  wishes — sweet  Abode ! 
48 


SIBYLIJNE  LEAVES. 


39 


Ah  I — had  none  greater !  And  tliat  all  had  such  '. 
It  might  be  so — but  ihe  time  is  not  yet. 
Speed  it,  O  Father  !  Let  thy  Kingdom  come  ! 


TO  THE  REV.  GEORGE  COLERIDGE  OF 
OTTERY  ST.  MARY,  DEVON. 

WITH    SOME    POEMS. 


Notus  in  fratres  animi  patcrni. 

Hot.  Carm.  lib.  i.  2. 


A  BLESSED  lot  hath  he,  who  having  pass'd 
Tlis  youth  and  early  manhood  in  the  stir 
And  turmoil  of  the  world,  retreats  at  length, 
With  cares  that  move,  not  agitate  the  heart. 
To  the  same  dwelling  where  his  father  dwelt ; 
And  haply  views  his  tottering  little  ones 
Embrace  those  aged  knees  and  climb  that  lap, 
On  which  first  kneeling  his  own  infancy 
Lisp'd  its  brief  prayer.    Such,  O  my  earliest  Friend ! 
Thy  lot,  and  such  thy  brothers  too  enjoy. 
At  distance  did  ye  climb  Life's  upland  road, 
Yet  cheer'd  and  cheering :  now  fraternal  love 
Hath  drawn  you  to  one  centre.    Be  your  days 
Holy,  and  blest  and  blessing  may  ye  live  ! 

To  me  th'  Eternal  Wisdom  hath  dispensed 
A  different  fortune  and  more  different  mind — 
Me  from  the  spot  where  first  I  sprang  to  light 
Too  soon  transplanted,  ere  my  soul  had  fix'd 
Its  first  domestic  loves  ;  and  hence  through  life 
Chasing  chance-started  Friendships.    A  brief  while 
Some  have  preserved  me  from  Life's  pelting  ills  ; 
But,  hke  a  tree  with  leaves  of  feeble  stem. 
If  the  clouds  lasted,  and  a  sudden  breeze 
Ruffled  the  boughs,  they  on  my  head  at  once 
Dropp'd  the  collected  shower ;  and  some  most  false. 
False  and  fair  foliaged  as  the  Manchineel, 
Have  tempted  me  to  slumber  in  their  shade 
E  'en  'mid  the  storm  ;  then  breathing  subtlest  damps, 
Mix'd  their  own  venom  with  the  rain  from  Heaven, 
That  I  woke  poison'd  !  But,  all  praise  to  Him 
Who  gives  us  all  things,  more  have  yielded  me 
Permanent  shelter ;  and  beside  one  Friend, 
Beneath  th'  impervious  covert  of  one  Oak, 
I've  raised  a  lowly  shed,  and  know  the  names 
Of  Husband  and  of  Father ;  nor  unhearing 
Of  that  divine  and  nightly-whispering  Voice, 
Which  from  my  childhood  to  maturer  years 
Spake  to  me  of  predestinated  wreaths, 
Bright  with  no  fading  colors ! 

Yet  at  times 
My  soul  is  sad,  that  I  have  roam'd  through  life 
Still  most  a  stranger,  most  with  naked  heart 
At  mine  own  home  and  birth-place  :  chiefly  then, 
When  I  remember  thee,  my  earliest  Friend ! 
■^I'hee,  who  didst  watch  my  boyhood  and  my  youth  ; 
Didst  trace  my  wanderings  with  a  Fathers  eye  ; 
And  boding  evil,  yet  still  hoping  good, 
Rebuked  each  fault,  and  over  all  my  woes 
Sorrovv'd  in  silence  !  He  who  counts  alono 
The  beatings  of  the  solitary  heart. 
That  Being  knows,  how  I  have  loved  thee  ever, 


Ix>vcd  as  a  brother,  as  a  son  revered  thee! 

Oh  !  't  is  to  me  an  ever-new  delight, 

To  talk  of  ihee  and  thine :  or  when  the  blast 

Of  Ihe  slirill  winter,  rattling  our  rude  sash. 

Endears  the  cleanly  hcarlh  and  social  bowl  ; 

Or  when  as  now,  on  some  delicious  eve, 

We,  in  our  sweet  sequester'd  orchard-plot, 

Sit  on  the  tree  crooked  earthward ;  whose  old  boughs, 

That  hang  above  us  in  an  arborous  roof, 

Stirr'd  by  the  faint  gale  of  departing  May, 

Send  tlieir  loose  blossoms  slanting  o'er  our  heads ! 

Nor  dost  not  Vioii  sometimes  recall  those  hours, 
When  with  the  joy  of  hope  thou  gavest  tliine  ear 
To  my  wild  firstling-lays.    Since  then  my  song 
Hath  sounded  deeper  notes,  such  as  beseem 
Or  that  sad  wisdom  folly  leaves  behind. 
Or  such  as,  tuned  to  these  tumultuous  times. 
Cope  with  the  tempest's  swell ! 

These  various  strains 
Which  I  have  framed  in  many  a  various  mood, 
Accept,  my  Brother !  and  (for  some  perchance 
Will  strike  discordant  on  thy  milder  mind) 
If  aught  of  Error  or  intemperate  Truth 
Should  meet  thine  ear,  think  thou  that  riper  age 
Will  calm  it  down,  and  let  thy  love  forgive  it ! 


INSCRIPTION   FOR  A  FOUNTAIN  ON  A  HEATH. 

This  Sycamore,  oft  musical  with  bees, — 

Such  tents  the  Patriarchs  loved !  O  long  unharm'd 

May  all  its  aged  boughs  o'er-canopy 

The  small  round  basin,  which  this  jutting  stone 

Keeps  pure  from  falling  leaves!  Long  may  the  Spring, 

Quietly  as  a  sleeping  infant's  breath, 

Send  up  cold  waters  to  the  traveller 

With  soft  and  even  pulse  !  Nor  ever  cease 

Yon  tiny  cone  of  sand  its  soundless  dance, 

Which  at  the  bottom,  like  a  fairy's  page, 

As  merry  and  no  taller,  dances  still. 

Nor  wrinkles  the  smooth  surface  of  the  Fount. 

Here  twilight  is  and  coolness  :  here  is  moss, 

A  soft  seat,  and  a  deep  and  ample  shade. 

Thou  mayst  toil  far  and  find  no  second  tree. 

Drink,  Pilgrim,  here  !  Here  rest  I  and  if  thy  heart 

Be  innocent,  here  too  shalt  thou  refresh 

Thy  spirit,  listening  to  some  gentle  sound, 

Or  passing  gale  or  hum  of  murmuring  bees! 


A  TOMBLESS  EPITAPH. 

'T  IS  true,  Idoloclastes  Satyrane ! 

(So  call  him,  for  so  mingling  blame  with  praise, 

And  smiles  with  anxious  looks,  his  earliest  friends, 

Masking  his  birth-name,  wont  to  character 

His  wild-wood  fancy  and  impetuous  zeal) 

'T  is  true  that,  passionate  for  ancient  truths, 

And  honoring  with  religious  love  the  Great 

Of  elder  times,  he  haled  to  excess. 

With  an  unquiet  and  intolerant  scorn, 

The  hollow  puppets  of  a  hollow  age, 

Ever  idolatrous,  and  changing  ever 

Its  worthless  Idols !  Learning,  Power,  and  Time 

(Too  much  of  all)  thus  wasting  in  vain  war 

49 


40 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  fervid  colloquy.    Sickness,  't  is  true, 

"Whole  years  of  weary  days,  besieged  him  close, 

Even  to  the  gates  and  inlets  of  his  life  ! 

But  it  is  true,  no  less,  that  strenuous,  firm. 

And  with  a  natural  gladness,  he  maintain'd 

The  citadel  unconquer'd,  and  in  joy 

Was  strong  to  follow  the  delightful  Muse. 

For  not  a  hidden  Path,  that  to  the  Shades 

Of  the  beloved  Parnassian  forest  leads, 

Lurk'd  undiscover'd  by  him  ;  not  a  rill 

There  issues  from  the  fount  of  Hippocrene, 

But  he  had  traced  it  upward  to  its  source. 

Through  open  glade,  dark  glen,  and  secret  dell. 

Knew  the  gay  wild-flowers  on  its  banks,  and  cuU'd 

Its  med'cinable  herbs.    Yea,  oft  alone, 

Piercmg  the  long-neglected  holy  cave, 

The  haunt  obscure  of  old  Philosophy, 

He  bade  with  lifted  torch  its  starry  walls 

Sparkle  as  erst  they  sparkled  to  the  flame 

Of  odorous  lamps  tended  by  Saint  and  Sage. 

O  framed  for  calmer  times  and  nobler  hearts ! 

O  studious  Poet,  eloquent  for  truth  I 

Philosopher !  contemning  wealth  and  death, 

Yet  docile,  childlike,  full  of  life  and  love  ! 

Here,  rather  than  on  monumental  stone, 

This  record  of  thy  worth  thy  Friend  inscribes. 

Thoughtful,  with  quiet  tears  upon  Ms  cheek. 


THIS  LIME-TREE  BOWER  MY  PRISON. 


In  the  June  of  1797,  some  long-expected  Friends  paid  a  visit 
to  the  Author's  Cottage;  and  on  the  morning  of  their  ar- 
rival, he  met  with  an  accident,  which  disabled  him  from 
walking  during  the  whole  time  of  their  stay.  One  Evening, 
when  they  had  left  him  for  a  few  hours,  he  composed  the 
following  lines  in  the  Garden  Bower. 


Well,  they  are  gone,  and  here  must  I  remain, 
This  Lime-tree  bower  my  prison  I  I  have  lost 
Beauties  and  feelings,  such  as  would  have  been 
Most  svi'eet  to  my  remembrance,  even  when  age 
Had  dimm'd  mine  eyes  to  blindness !  They,  mean- 
while. 
Friends,  whom  I  never  more  may  meet  again. 
On  springy  heath,  along  the  hill-top  edge. 
Wander  in  gladness,  and  wind  down,  perchance, 
To  that  still  roaring  dell,  of  which  I  told  : 
The  roaring  dell,  o'erwooded,  narrow,  deep. 
And  only  speckled  by  the  mid-day  sun  ; 
Where  its  slim  trunk  the  Ash  from  rock  to  rock 
I'lings  arching  like  a  bridge  ; — that  branchless  Ash, 
Unsumi'd  and  damp,  whose  few  poor  yellow  leaves 
JVe'er  tremble  in  the  gale,  yet  tremble  still, 
Farm'd  by  the  waterfall !  and  there  my  friends 
Behold  the  dark-green  file  of  long  lank  w-eeds,* 
That  all  at  once  (a  most  fantastic  sight !) 
Still  nod  and  drip  beneath  the  dripping  edge 
Of  the  blue  clay-stone. 

Now,  my  Friends  emerge 
Beneath  tlie  wide  wide  Heaven — and  view  again 
The  many-steepled  tract  magnificent 
Of  hilly  fields  and  meadows,  and  the  sea. 
With  some  fair  bark,  perhaps,  whose  sails  light  up 


*  The  Asplenium  Scolopendrium,  called  in  some  countries 
the  Adder's  Tongue,  in  others  the  Hart's  Tongue  ;  but  With 
ering  gives  the  Adder's  Tongue  as  tlie  trivial  name  of  the 
Ophioglossura  only. 


The  slip  of  smooth  clear  blue  betvyixt  two  isles 

Of  purple  shadow  !  Yes,  they  wander  on 

In  gladness  all ;  but  thou,  methmks,  most  glad, 

My  gentle-hearted  Charles  !  for  thou  hast  pined 

And  hunger'd  after  Nature,  many  a  year, 

In  the  great  city  pent,  winning  thy  way 

With  sad  yet  patient  soul,  through  evil  and  pair 

And  strange  calamity  !  Ah  !  slowly  sink 

Behind  the  western  ridge,  thou  glorious  Sun  ! 

Shine  in  the  slant  beams  of  the  sinking  orb, 

Ye  purple  heath-flowers!  richlier  burn,  ye  clouds! 

Live  in  the  yellow  light,  ye  distant  groves  ! 

And  kindle,  thou  blue  Ocean !  So  my  Friend, 

Struck  with  deep  joy,  may  stand,  as  I  have  stood, 

Silent  with  swimming  sense  ;  yea,  gazing  round 

On  the  wide  landscape,  gaze  till  all  doth  seem 

Less  gross  than  bodily  ;  and  of  such  hues 

As  veil  the  Almighty  Spirit,  when  yet  he  makes 

Spirits  perceive  liis  presence. 

A  delight 

Comes  sudden  on  my  heart,  and  I  am  glad 
As  I  myself  were  there !  Nor  in  this  bower, 
Tliis  little  lime-tree  bower,  have  I  not  mark'd 
Much  that  has  soothed  me.    Pale  beneath  the  bla/e 
Hung  the  transparent  foliage ;  and  I  watch'd 
Some  broad  and  sunny  leaf,  and  loved  to  see 
The  shadow  of  the  leaf  and  stem  above 
Dappling  its  sunshine  !  And  that  Walnut-tree 
Was  richly  tinged,  and  a  deep  radiance  lay 
Full  on  the  ancient  Ivy,  which  usurps 
Those  fronting  elms,  and  now,  with  blackest  mass. 
Makes  their  dark  branches  gleam  a  lighter  hue 
Through  the  late  twilight :  and  though  now  the  Bai 
Wlieels  silent  by,  and  not  a  Swallow  twitters, 
Yet  still  the  solitary  Humble-Bee 
Sings  in  the  bean-flower !  Henceforth  I  shall  know 
That  Nature  ne'er  deserts  the  wise  and  pure  : 
No  plot  so  narrow,  be  but  Nature  there, 
No  waste  so  vacant,  but  may  well  employ 
Each  faculty  of  sense,  and  keep  the  heart 
Awake  to  Love  and  Beauty !  and  sometimes 
'T  is  well  to  be  bereft  of  promised  good. 
That  we  may  lift  the  soul,  and  contemplate 
With  lively  joy  the  joys  we  caimot  share. 
My  gentle-hearted  Charles !  when  the  last  Rook 
Beat  its  straight  path  along  the  dusky  air 
Homewards,  I  blest  it !  deeming  its  black  wing 
(Now  a  dim  speck,  now  vanishing  in  light) 
Had  cross'd  the  mighty  Orb's  dilated  glory. 
While  thou  stood'st  gazing ;  or  when  all  was  still, 
Flew  creakingt  o'er  thy  head,  and  had  a  charm 
For  thee,  my  gentle-hearted  Charles,  to  whom 
No  sotind  is  dissonant  which  tells  of  Life. 


TO  A  FRIEND 

WHO    HAD     DECLARED    HIS    INTENTION    OF    WRITING 
NO    MORE   POETRY. 

Dear  Charles !  Avhilst  yet  thou  wert  a  babe,  I  ween 
That  Genius  plimged  thee  in  that  wizard  fount 


t  Some  months  after  I  had  written  this  line,  it  gave  me  plea- 
sure to  observe  that  Barlram  had  observed  the  same  circum- 
stance of  the  Savanna  Crane.  "  When  these  Birds  move 
jtheir  wings  in  flight,  their  strokes  are  slow,  moderate  and 

50 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


41 


Hight  Castalie:  aiul  (sureties  of  thy  failh) 

That  Pity  and  Siinphcity  stood  by, 

And  promised  for  thee,  that  thou  shouldst  renounce 

The  world's  low  cares  and  lying  vanities, 

Stedfast  and  rooted  in  the  heavenly  Muse, 

And  wash'd  and  sanctified  to  Poesy. 

Yes thou  wert  plunged,  but  with  forgetful  hand 

Held,  as  by  Thetis  erst  her  warrior  Son  : 

And  with  those  recreant  unbaplizcd  heels 

Thou  'rt  flying  from  thy  bounden  niinisteries — 

So  sore  it  seems  and  burthensome  a  task 

To  weave  unwithering  flowers  !  But  take  thou  heed: 

For  thou  art  vulnerable,  wild-eyed  Boy, 

And  I  have  arrows*  mystically  dipp'd. 

Such  as  may  stop  thy  speed.    Is  thy  Burns  dead  ? 

And  shall  he  die  unwept,  and  sink  to  Earth 

"Without  the  meed  of  one  melodious  t«ar?" 

Thy  Burns,  and  Nature's  own  beloved  Bard, 

Who  to  the  "  Illustrioust  of  his  native  land 

'  So  properly  did  look  for  patronage." 

Ghost  of  Maecenas  !  hide  thy  blushing  face  ! 

They  snatch'd  him  from  the  Sickle  and  the  Plow — 

To  gauge  Ale-Firluns. 

Oh !  for  shame  return ! 
On  a  bleak  rock,  midway  the  Aonian  Mount, 
There  stands  a  lone  and  melancholy  tree. 
Whose  aged  branches  in  the  midnight  blast 
Make  solemn  music  :  pluck  its  darkest  bough, 
Ere  yet  the  unwholesome  night-dew  be  exhaled, 
And  weeping  wreath  it  round  thy  Poet's  tomb. 
Then  in  the  outskirts,  where  pollutions  grow, 
Pick  the  rank  henbane  and  the  dusky  flowers 
Of  night-shade,  or  its  red  and  tempting  fruit. 
These  with  stopp'd  nostril  and  glove-guarded  hand 
Knit  in  nice  intertexture,  so  to  twine 
The  illustrious  brow  of  Scotch  Nobility. 

1796. 


TO  A  GENTLEMAN. 

COMPOSED  ON  THE  NIGHT  AFTER  HIS  RECITATION 
OF  A  POEM  ON  THE  GROWTH  OF  A.N  INDIVIDUAL 
MIND. 

Friend  of  the  Wise  !  and  Teacher  of  the  Good  ! 

Into  my  heart  have  I  received  that  lay 

More  than  historic,  that  prophetic  lay. 

Wherein  (high  theme  by  thee  first  simg  aright) 

Of  the  foundations  and  the  building  up 

Of  a  Human  Spirit  thou  hast  dared  to  tell 

What  may  be  told,  to  the  understanding  mind 

Revealable  ;  and  what  within  tlie  mind, 

By  vital  breathings  secret  as  the  soul 

Of  vernal  growth,  oft  quickens  in  the  heart 

Thoughts  all  too  deep  for  words  ! — 

Theme  hard  as  liigh  ! 
Of  smiles  spontaneous,  and  mysterious  fears 
The  first-born  they  of  Reason  and  twin-birth). 


tegular ;  and  even  when  at  a  considerable  distance  or  high 
above  us,  we  plainly  hear  the  quill  feathers ;  their  shafts  and 
webs  upon  one  another  creak  as  the  joints  or  working  of  a 
vessel  in  a  tempestuous  sea." 

*  Vide  Find.  Olymp.  iii.  1.  156. 

t  Verbatim  from  Burns's  dedication  of  his  Poems  to  the  No- 
iiility  and  Gentry  uf  the  Caledonian  Hunt. 


Of  tides  obedient  to  external  force, 

And  currents  self-determined,  as  might  seem. 

Or  by  some  inner  Power ;  of  moments  awful, 

Now  m  thy  inner  life,  and  now  abroad. 

When    Power   slrcam'd    from    thee,    and   thy  soul 

received 
The  light  reflected,  as  a  light  bestow'd — 
Of  Fancies  fair,  and  milder  hours  of  youth, 
Hyblean  murmurs  of  poetic  thought 
Industrious  in  its  joy,  in  Vales  and  Glens 
Native  or  outland.  Lakes  and  famous  Hills! 
Or  on  the  lonely  High-road,  when  the  Stars 
Were  rising ;  or  by  secret  Mountain-streams, 
The  Guides  and  the  Companions  of  thy  way  ' 

Of  more  than  Fancy,  of  the  Social  Sense 
Distending  wide,  and  Man  beloved  as  Man, 
Where  France  in  all  her  towns  lay  vibrating 
Like  some  becalmed  bark  beneath  the  burst 
Of  Heaven's  immediate  thunder,  when  no  cloud 
Is  visible,  or  shadow  on  the  Main. 
For  thou  wert  there,  thine  own  brows  garlanded. 
Amid  the  tremor  of  a  realm  aglow, 
Amid  a  mighty  nation  jubilant. 
When  from  the  general  heart  of  human-kind 
Hope  sprang  forth  like  a  full-born  Deity ! 

Of  that  dear  Hope  afflicted  and  struck  do^^^l 

So  summon'd  homeward,  thenceforth  calm  and  sure 

From  the  dread  watch-tower  of  man's  absolute  Self, 

With  light  unwaning  on  her  eyes,  to  look 

Far  on — herself  a  glory  to  behold, 

The  Angel  of  the  vision !  Then  (last  strain) 

Of  Dutj',  chosen  laws  controlling  choice. 

Action  and  Joy  ! — An  orphic  song  indeed, 

A  song  divine  of  high  and  passionate  thoughts. 

To  their  own  music  chanted ! 

O  great  Bard ' 
Ere  yet  that  last  strain  dying  awed  the  air. 
With  stedfast  eye  I  vievv'd  thee  in  the  choir 
Of  ever-enduring  men.    The  truly  Great 
Have  all  one  age,  and  from  one  visible  space 
Shed  influence  !  They,  both  in  power  and  act. 
Are  permanent,  and  Time  is  not  with  them, 
Save  as  it  worketh  for  them,  they  in  it. 
Nor  less  a  sacred  roll,  than  those  of  old. 
And  to  be  placed,  as  they,  with  gradual  fame 
Among  the  archives  of  mankind,  thy  work 
Makes  audible  a  linked  lay  of  Truth, 
Of  Truth  profound  a  sweet  continuous  lay. 
Not  learnt,  but  native,  her  own  natural  notes  • 
Ah !  as  I  listen'd  with  a  heart  forlorn. 
The  pulses  of  my  being  beat  anew  : 
And  even  as  life  returns  upon  the  drown'd. 
Life's  joy  rekindling  roused  a  throng  of  pains- 
Keen  Pangs  of  Love,  awakening  as  a  babe 
Turbulent,  with  an  outcry  in  the  heart ; 
And  Fears  self-will'd,  that  shunn'd  the  eye  of  Hopo 
And  Hope  that  scarce  would  know  itself  from  Fear 
Sense  of  past  Youth,  and  Manhood  come  in  vain 
And  Genius  given,  and  knowledge  won  in  vain 
And  all  which  I  had  cull'd  iia  wood-walks  wild 
And  all  which  patient  toil  had  rear'd,  and  all, 
Commune  with  Ihce  had  open'd  out — but  flowers 
Strew'd  on  my  corse,  and  borne  upon  my  bier, 
In  the  same  coUin,  for  the  solf-same  grave ! 

That  way  no  more  !  and  ill  beseems  it  me, 
Wlio  came  a  wclcomer  in  herald's  guise, 
61 


42 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Singing  of  Glory,  and  Futurity, 
To  wander  back  on  such  unhealthful  road, 
Plucking  the  poisons  of  self-harm !  And  ill 
Such  intertwine  beseems  triumphal  wreaths 
Strew'd  before  thy  advancing  ! 

Nor  do  thou, 
Sage  Bard  !  impair  the  memory  of  that  hour 
Of  my  communion  with  thy  nobler  mind 
By  Pity  or  Grief,  already  felt  too  long ! 
IVor  let  my  words  import  more  blame  than  needs. 
The  tumult  rose  and  ceased  :  for  Peace  is  nigh 
Where  Wisdom's  voice  has  found  a  listening  heart. 
Amid  the  howl  of  more  than  wintry  storms. 
The  Halcyon  hears  the  voice  of  vernal  hours 
Already  on  the  wing. 

Eve  following  eve, 
Dear  tranquil  time,  when  the  sweet  sense  of  Home 
Is  sweetest !  moments  for  their  own  sake  hail'd 
And  more  desired,  more  precious  for  thy  song, 
In  silence  Ustening,  like  a  devout  child. 
My  soul  lay  passive,  by  the  various  strain 
Driven  as  in  surges  now  beneath  the  stars, 
With  momentary  Stare  of  my  own  birth, 
Fair  constellated  Foam,*  still  darting  off 
Into  the  darkness ;  now  a  tranquil  sea. 
Outspread  and  bright,  yet  swelling  to  the  Moon. 

And  when — O  Friend !  my  comforter  and  guide  ! 
Strong  in  thyself,  and  powerful  to  give  strength  !- 
Thy  long  sustained  song  finally  closed, 
And  thy  deep  voice  had  ceased — yet  thou  thyself 
Wert  still  before  my  eyes,  and  round  us  both 
That  happy  vision  of  beloved  faces — 
Scarce  conscious,  and  yet  conscious  of  its  close 
I  sate,  my  being  blended  in  one  thought 
(Thought  was  it?  or  Aspiration  ?  or  Resolve?) 
Absorb'd,  yet  hanging  still  upon  the  sound — 
And  when  I  rose,  I  found  myself  in  prayer. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE  : 

A   CONVERSATION   POEM; 

WRITTEN    IN    APRIL,    1798. 

No  cloud,  no  relic  of  the  sunken  day 
Distinguishes  the  West,  no  long  thin  slip 
Of  sullen  light,  no  obscure  trembling  hues. 
Come,  we  will  rest  on  this  old  mossy  bridge  ! 
You  see  the  glimmer  of  the  stream  beneath, 
But  hear  no  murmuring  :  it  flows  silently, 
O'er  its  soft  bed  of  verdure.    All  is  still, 
A  balmy  night !  and  though  the  stars  be  dim, 
Yet  let  us  think  upon  the  vernal  showers 
■  That  gladden  the  green  earth,  and  we  shall  find 
A  pleasure  in  the  dimness  of  the  stars. 
And  hark  !  the  Nightingale  begins  its  song, 


"  Most  musical,  most  melancholy  "t  bird  ! 

A  melancholy  bird  ?  Oh  !  idle  thought ! 

In  nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy. 

But  some  night-wandering  man,  whose  heart  was 

pierced 
With  tlie  remembrance  of  a  grievous  wrong, 
Or  slow  distemjier,  or  neglected  love 
(And  so,  poor  Wretch !  filled  all  things  with  himself 
And  made  all  gentle  sounds  tell  back  the  tale 
Of  his  own  sorrow),  he  and  such  as  he. 
First  named  these  notes  a  melancholy  strain. 
And  many  a  poet  echoes  the  conceit  ,• 
Poet  who  hath  been  building  up  the  rhyme 
When  he  had  belter  far  have  stretch'd  liis  limbs 
Beside  a  brook  in  mossy  forest-dell. 
By  Sun  or  Moon-light,  to  the  influxes 
Of  shapes  and  sounds  and  shifting  elements 
Surrendering  his  whole  spirit,  of  his  song 
And  of  his  frame  forgetfiil !  so  his  fame 
Should  share  in  Nature's  immortality, 
A  venerable  thing !  and  so  his  song 
Should  make  all  Nature  lovelier,  and  itself 
Be  loved  like  Nature  !  But  't  will  not  be  so ; 
And  youths  and  maidens  most  poetical, 
Who  lose  the  deepening  twilights  of  the  spring 
In  ball-rooms  and  hot  theatres,  they  still. 
Full  of  meek  sympathy,  must  heave  their  sighs 
O'er  Philomela's  pity-pleading  strains. 

My  friend,  and  thou,  our  Sister !  we  have  learnt 
A  different  lore  :  wo  may  not  thus  profane 
Nature's  sweet  voices,  always  full  of  love 
And  joyance !  'Tis  the  merry  Nightingale 
That  crowds,  and  hurries,  and  precipitates 
With  fast  thick  warble  his  delicious  notes, 
As  he  were  fearful  that  an  April  night 
Would  be  too  short  for  him  to  utter  forth 
His  love-chant,  and  disburthen  his  full  soul 
Of  all  its  music  I 

And  I  know  a  grove 
Of  large  extent,  hard  by  a  castle  huge. 
Which  the  great  lord  inhabits  not ;  and  so 
This  grove  is  wild  with  tangling  underwood. 
And  the  trim  walks  are  broken  up,  and  grass, 
Thin  grass  and  king-cups  grow  within  the  paths 
But  never  elsewhere  in  one  place  I  knew 
So  many  Nightingales  ;  and  far  and  near, 
In  wood  and  thicket,  over  the  wide  grove, 
They  answer  and  provoke  each  other's  song, 
With  skirmish  and  capricious  passagings, 
.4nd  murmurs  musical  and  swift  jug  jug. 
And  one  low  piping  sound  more  sweet  than  all —   , 
Stirring  the  air  with  such  a  harmony. 
That  should  you  close  your  eyes,  you  might  almost 
Forget  it  was  not  day  !  On  moonlight  bushes, 
Whose  dewy  leaflets  are  but  half  disclosed. 
You  may  perchance  behold  them  on  the  twigs. 
Their  bright,   bright   eyes,   their  eyes   both    bright 

and  fall. 
Glistening,  while  many  a  glow-worm  in  the  shade 
Lights  up  her  lo\e-lorch. 


•  "  A  beautiful  white  cloud  of  foam  at  momentary  intervals 
coursed  by  the  side  of  the  vessel  with  a  roar,  and  little  stars 
of  flame  danced  and  sparkled  and  went  out  in  it:  and  every 
now  and  then  light  detachments  of  this  white  cloud-like  foam 
darted  off  from  the  vessel's  side,  each  with  its  own  small  con- 
.  gtellation,  over  the  sea,  and  scoured  out  of  sight  like  a  Tartar 
:  troop  over  a  wilderness. " — The  Friend,  p.  220. 


t  This  passage  in  Milton  possesses  an  excellence  far  superii  r 
to  that  of  mere  description.  It  is  spoken  in  the  character  of  the 
melancholy.man,  and  has  therefore  a  dramatic  propriety.  The 
author  makes  this  remark,  to  rescue  himself  from  the  chargi> 
of  having  alluded  with  levity  to  a  line  in  Milton  ;  a  charge  than 
which  none  could  be  more  painful  to  him,  except  perhaps  tlm« 
of  having  ridiculed  his  Bible. 

52 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


43 


A  most  geuile  Maid, 
Who  dwellctli  in  her  liospilable  home 
Hard  by  tlie  castle,  and  at  latest  eve 
(Even  like  a  lady  vow'd  and  dedicate 
To  something  more  than  Nature  hi  the  grove) 
Glides  through  the  pathways  ;  she  knows  all  their 

noles, 
That  gentle  IMaid  !  and  oft  a  moment's  space, 
What  time  the  Moon  was  lost  behind  a  cloud, 
Hath  heard  a  pause  of  silence ;  till  the  Moon 
Emerging,  hath  awaken'd  earth  and  sky 
With  one  sensation,  and  these  wakeful  Birds 
Have  all  burst  Ibrih  in  choral  minstrelsy, 
As  if  some  sudden  gale  had  swept  at  once 
A  hundred  airy  harps  I    And  she  hath  watch'd 
Many  a  Aigliiingale  perch'd  giddily 
On  blossomy  twig  still  swinging  from  the  breeze, 
And  to  that  motion  tune  his  wanton  song 
Like  tipsy  joy  that  reels  with  tossing  head. 

Farewell,  O  Warbler  !  till  to-morrow  eve. 
And  you,  my  friends.'  farewell,  a  short  farewell! 
We  have  been  loitering  long  and  pleasantly. 
And  now  for  our  dear  homes. — That  strain  again  ? 
Full  fain  it  would  delay  me !  My  dear  babe, 
Who,  capable  of  no  articulate  sound. 
Mars  all  things  with  his  imitative  lisp. 
How  he  \\ould  place  his  hand  beside  his  ear, 
His  little  hand,  the  small  forefinger  up. 
And  bid  us  listen  !  And  I  deem  it  wise 
To  make  him  Nature's  Play-mate.    He  knows  well 
The  evening-star ;  and  once,  when  he  awoke 
In  most  distressful  mood  (some  inward  pain 
Had  made  up  that  strange  thing,  an  infant's  dream), 
I  hurried  with  him  to  our  orchard-plot. 
And  he  beheld  the  Moon,  and,  hush'd  at  once, 
Suspends  his  sobs,  and  laughs  most  silently. 
While  his  fair  eyes,  that  swam  with  undropp'd  tears 
Did  glitter  in  the  yellow  moon-beam  !  Well ! — 
It  is  a  father's  tale  :    But  if  that  Heaven 
Should  give  me  life,  his  childhood  shall  grow  up 
Familiar  with  these  songs,  that  with  the  night 
He  may  associate  joy  !    Once  more,  farewell. 
Sweet  Nightingale !  Once  more,  my  friends !  farewell. 


FROST  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

The  Frost  performs  its  secret  ministry, 
Unhelp'd  by  any  wind.    The  owlet's  cry 
Came  loud — and  hark,  again !  loud  as  before. 
The  inmates  of  my  cottage,  all  at  rest, 
Have  left  me  to  that  solitude,  which  suits 
Abstruser  musings  :  save  that  at  my  side 
My  cradled  infant  slumbers  peacefully. 
'T  is  calm  indeed  !  so  calm,  that  it  disturbs 
And  vexes  meditation  with  its  strange 
And  extreme  silentness.    Sea,  hill,  and  wood, 
This  populous  village !  Sea,  and  hill,  and  wood, 
With  all  the  numberless  goings  on  of  life, 
Inaudible  as  dreams !  the  thin  blue  flame 
Lies  on  my  low  burnt  fire,  and  quivers  not ; 
Only  that  film,  which  flulter'd  on  the  grate, 
Still  flutters  there,  the  sole  unquiet  thing. 
Methinks,  its  motion  in  this  hush  of  nature 
Gives  it  dim  sympathies  with  me  who  live, 
Making  it  a  companionable  form. 
Whose  puny  flaps  and  freaks  the  idling  Spirit 


By  its  own  moods  interprets,  everywhere 
Echo  or  mirror  seeking  of  itself, 
And  makes  a  toy  of  Thought. 

But  O !  how  oft. 
How  oft,  at  school,  with  most  believing  mind 
Presageful,  have  I  gazed  upon  the  bars. 
To  watch  that  fluttering  stranger  !  and  as  oft 
With  unclosed  lids,  already  had  I  dreamt 
Of  my  sweet  birth-place,  and  the  old  church-to  ik'er 
Whose  bells,  the  poor  man's  only  music,  rang 
From  morn  to  evening,  all  the  hot  Fair-day, 
So  sweetly,  that  they  stirr'd  and  haunted  me 
With  a  wild  pleasure,  falling  on  mine  ear 
Most  like  articulate  sounds  of  things  to  come ! 
So  gazed  I,  till  the  soothing  things,  I  dreamt, 
Lull'd  me  to  sleep,  and  sleep  prolong'd  my  dreams 
And  so  I  brooded  all  the  following  morn. 
Awed  by  the  stern  preceptor's  face,  mine  eye 
Fix'd  with  mock  study  on  my  swimming  book : 
Save  if  the  door  half-open'd,  and  I  snatch'd 
A  hasty  glance,  and  still  my  heart  leap'd  up, 
For  still  I  hoped  to  see  the  stranger's  face. 
Townsman,  or  aunt,  or  sister  more  beloved, 
My  play-mate  when  we  both  were  clothed  alike ! 

Dear  Babe,  that  sleepest  cradled  by  my  side, 
Wbose  gentle  breathings,  heard  in  this  deep  calm. 
Fill  up  the    interspersed  vacancies 
And  momentary  pauses  of  the  thought ! 
My  babe  so  beautiful !  it  thrills  my  heart 
With  tender  gladness,  thus  to  look  at  thee. 
And  think  that  thou  shalt  learn  far  other  lore, 
And  in  far  other  scenes  !  For  I  was  rear'd 
In  the  great  city,  pent  'mid  cloisters  dim. 
And  saw  nought  lovely  but  the  sky  and  stars. 
But  thou,  my  babe  !  shalt  wander  like  a  breeze 
By  lakes  and  sandy  shores,  beneath  the  crags 
Of  ancient  mountain,  and  beneath  the  clouds. 
Which  image  in  their  bulk  both  lakes  and  shores 
And  mountain  crags :  so  shalt  thou  see  and  hear 
The  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligible 
Of  that  eternal  language,  which  thy  God 
Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  teach 
Himself  in  all,  and  all  things  in  himself. 
Great  universal  Teacher  I  he  shall  mould 
Thy  spirit,  and  by  giving  make  it  ask. 

Therefore  all  seasons  sball  be  sweet  to  thee, 
Wliether  the  summer  clothe  the  general  earth 
With  greenness,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and  sing 
Betwixt  the  tuils  of  snow  on  the  bare  branch 
Of  mossy  apple-tree,  while  the  nigh  thatch 
Smokes  in  the  sim-thaw ;   whether  the  eave-dropa 

fall 
Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast, 
Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 
Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles, 
Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  Moon. 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

TOGETHER   WITH   AN   UNFINISHED    POEM 

Thus  far  my  scanty  brain  hath  built  the  rhyme 
Elaborate  and  swelling :  yet  the  heart 
Not  owns  it.    From  thy  spirit-breathing  powers 
8  53 


44 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I  ask  not  now,  my  friend  !  the  aiding  verse, 
Tedious  to  thee,  and  from  my  anxious  thought 
Of  dissonant  mood.    In  fancy  (well  I  know) 
From  business  wand'ring  far  and  local  cares. 
Thou  creepest  round  a  dear-loved  Sister's  bed 
With  noiseless  step,  and  watchest  the  faint  look, 
Soothing  each  pang  with  fond  solicitude, 
And  tenderest  tones  medicinal  of  love. 

I  too  a  Sister  had,  an  only  Sister 

She  loved  me  dearly,  and  I  doted  on  her ! 
To  lier  I  pour'd  forth  all  my  puny  sorrows 
(As  a  sick  patient  in  his  nurse's  arms). 
And  of  the  heart  those  hidden  maladies 
Tliat  shrink  ashamed  from  even  Friendship's  eye. 
Oh  !  I  have  woke  at  midnight,  and  have  wept 
Because  she  was  not  ! — Cheerily,  dear  Charles  ! 
Thou  thy  best  friend  shall  cherish  many  a  year : 
Such  warm  presages  feel  I  of  high  Hope. 
For  not  uninterested  the  dear  maid 
I  've  view'd — her  soul  affectionate  yet  wise, 
Her  polish'd  wit  as  mild  as  lambent  glories, 
That  play  around  a  sainted  infant's  head. 
He  knows  (the  Spirit  that  in  secret  sees. 
Of  whose  omniscient  and  all-spreading  Love 
Aught  to  imjdore*  were  impotence  of  mind) 
That  my  mute  thoughts  are  sad  before  his  throne, 
Prepared,  when  he  his  healing  ray  vouchsafes. 
To  pour  forth  thanksgiving  with  hfted  heart, 
And  praise  Him  Gracious  with  a  Brother's  joy  ! 
December,  1794. 


THE  HOUR  WHEN  WE  SHALL  MEET  AGAIN. 
COMPOSED   DURING    ILLNESS    AND    IN    ABSENCE. 

Dlm  hour  !  that  sleep'st  on  pillowing  clouds  afar, 
O  rise  and  yoke  the  turtles  to  thy  car ! 
Bend  o'er  the  traces,  blame  each  lingering  dove, 
And  give  me  to  the  bosom  of  my  love ! 
My  gentle  love,  caressing  and  carest, 
With  heaving  heart  shall  cradle  me  to  rest ; 
Shed  the  warm  tear-drop  from  her  smiling  eyes, 
Lull  with  fond  woe,  and  med'cine  me  with  sighs : 
While  finely-flushing  float  her  kisses  meek, 
Like  melted  rubies,  o'er  my  pallid  cheek. 
Chill'd  by  the  night,  the  drooping  rose  of  May 
Mourns  the  long  absence  of  the  lovely  day ; 
Young  Day,  returning  at  her  promised  hour. 
Weeps  o'er  the  sorrows  of  her  fav'rite  flower  ; 
Weeps  the  soft  dew,  the  balmy  gale  she  sighs, 
And  darts  a  trembling  lustre  from  her  eyes. 
New  life  and  joy  th'  expanding  flow'ret  feels  : 
His  pitying  Mistress  moiu-ns,  and  mourning  heals ! 


LINES  TO  JOSEPH  COTTLE. 

My  honor'd  friend  !  whose  verse  concise,  yet  clear, 
Tunes  to  smooth  melody  unconquer'd  sense, 
May  your  fame  fadeless  live,  as  "  never-sere" 
The  ivy  wreathes  yon  oak,  whose  broad  defence 


Embow'rs  me  from  noon's  sultry  influence ! 

For,  like  that  nameless  riv'let  stealing  by. 

Your  modest  verse,  to  musing  Quiet  dear. 

Is  rich  with  tints  heaven-borrow'd  :  the  charm'd  eye 

Shall  gaze  undazzled  there,  and  love  the  soften'd  sky. 

Circling  the  base  of  the  Poetic  mount 

A  stream  there  is,  which  rolls  in  lazy  flow 

Its  coal-black  waters  from  Oblivion's  fount : 

The  vapor-poison'd  birds,  that  fly  too  low, 

Fall  with  dead  swoop,  and  to  the  bottom  go. 

Escaped  that  heavy  stream  on  pinion  fleet, 

Beneath  the  Mountain's  lofty-frowning  brow. 

Ere  aught  of  perilous  ascent  you  meet, 

A  mead  of  mildest  charm  delays  th'  unlab'ring  feet 

Not  there  the  cloud-climb'd  rock,  sublime  and  vast, 
That  like  some  giant-king,  o'erglooms  the  hill ; 
Nor  there  the  pine-grove  to  the  midnight  blast 
Makes  solemn  music  !  But  th'  unceasing  rill 
To  the  soft  wren  or  lark's  descending  trill 
Murmurs  sweet  under-song  'mid  jasmin  bowers. 
In  this  same  pleasant  meadow,  at  your  will, 
I  ween,  you  wander'd — there  collecting  flovv'rs 
Of  sober  tint,  and  herbs  of  med'cinable  powers ! 

There  for  the  monarch-murdor'd  Soldier's  tomb 
You  wove  th'  unfinish'd  wreath  of  saddest  hues  ,•* 
And  to  that  holier  chaplett  added  bloom. 
Besprinkling  it  with  Jordan's  cleansing  dews. 

But  lo !  your  Henderson|  awakes  the  Muse 

His  spirit  beckon'd  from  the  mountain's  height ! 
You  left  the  plain  and  soar'd  'mid  richer  views  • 
So  Nature  mourn'd,  when  sank  the  fu^t  day's  light. 
With  stars,  unseen   before,  spangling  her  robe  of 
night! 

Still  soar,  my  friend,  those  richer  views  among, 
Strong,  rapid,  fervent  flashing  Fancy's  beam! 
Virtue  and  Truth  shall  love  your  gentler  song  ; 
But  Poesy  demands  th'  impassion'd  theme  : 
Waked  by  Heaven's  silent  dews  at  eve's  mild  gleam. 
What  balmy  sweets  Pomona  breathes  around  ! 
But  if  the  vext  air  rush  a  stormy  stream. 
Or  Autumn's  shrill  gust  moan  in  p^intive  sound. 
With  fruits    and   flowers    she   loads    the   tempest- 
honor'd  ground. 


*  I  utterly  recant  the  sentiment  contained  in  the  lines 
Of  whose  omniscient  and  all-spreading  love 
Aught  to  implore  were  impotence  of  mind, 
it  being  written  in  Scripture,  "  j9sA-,  and  it  shall  be  given  you," 
and  ray  human  reason  being  moreover  convinced  of  the  pro- 
priety of  oflfering  pelilions  as  well  as  thanksgivings  to  the  Deity. 


IV.  ODES  AND  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS- 

THE  THREE  GRAVES. 
A   FRAGMENT    OF    A   SEXTON'S   TALE. 


[The  Author  haa  published  the  following  humble  fragment, 
encouraged  by  the  decisive  recommendation  of  more  than  one 
of  our  most  celebrated  living  Poets.  The  language  was  in- 
tended to  be  dramatic  ;  that  is,  suited  to  the  narrator ;  and  the 
metre  corresponds  to  the  homeliness  of  the  diction.  It  is  there- 
fore presented  as  the  fragment,  not  of  a  Poem,  but  of  a  com 
mon  Ballad-tale.  Whether  this  is  sufficient  to  justify  the  adop 
tion  of  such  a  style,  in  any  metrical  composition  not  profess 
edly  ludicrous,  the  Author  is  himself  in  some  doubt.  At  all 
events,  it  is  not  presented  as  Poetry,  and  it  is  in  no  way  con- 
nected with  the  Author's  judgment  concerning  Poetic  diction. 
Its  merits,  if  any,  are  exclusively  Psychological.   The  story 


*  War,  a  Fragment.  t  John  the  Baptist,  a  Poem. 

t  Monody  on  John  Henderson. 

54 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


45 


which  must  be  supposed  to  have  been  narrated  in  the  first  and 
second  part*,  is  as  follows. 

Edward,  a  young  farmer,  meets,  at  the  house  of  Ellen,  her 
bosom-friend,  Mary,  and  commences  an  acquaintance,  which 
ends  in  a  mutual  attachment.  With  her  consent,  and  by  the 
advice  of  their  common  friend  Ellen,  he  announces  his  hopes 
and  intentions  to  Mary's  Mother,  a  widow- woman  bordering 
on  her  fortieth  year,  and  from  constant  health,  the  possession 
of  a  competent  property,  and  from  having  had  no  other  children 
but  Mary  and  another  daughter  (the  Father  died  in  their  in- 
fancy), retaining,  for  the  greater  part,  her  personal  attractions 
and  comeliness  of  appearance ;  but  a  woman  of  low  education 
and  violent  temper.  The  answer  which  she  at  once  returned 
to  Edward's  application  was  remarkable — "  Well,  Edward  I 
you  are  a  handsome  young  fellow,  and  you  shall  have  my 
Daughter."  From  this  time  all  tlieir  wooing  passed  under  the 
Mollier's  eye;  and,  inline,  she  became  herself  enamoured  of  her 
future  Son-in-law,  and  practised  every  art,  both  of  endearment 
and  of  calumny,  to  transfer  his  affections  from  her  daughter  to 
herself.  (The  outlines  of  the  Tale  are  positive  facts,  and  of  no 
very  distant  date,  though  the  autlior  has  purposely  altered  the 
names  and  the  scene  of  action,  as  well  as  invented  the  characters 
of  the  parties  and  the  detail  of  the  incidents.)  Edward,  how 
ever,  though  perplexed  by  her  strange  detraction  from  her 
daughter's  good  Qualities,  yet  in  the  innocence  of  his  own  heart 
Btill  mistaking  her  increasing  fondness  for  motherly  affection  ; 
she,  at  length  overcome  by  her  miserable  passion,  after  much 
abuse  of  Mary's  temper  and  moral  tendencies,  exclaimed  with 
violent  emotion — "  O  Edward  1  indeed,  indeed,  she  is  not  fit  for 
you — she  has  not  a  heart  to  love  you  as  you  deserve.  It  is  1 
that  love  you  I  Marry  me,  Edward !  and  I  will  tliis  very  day 
settle  all  my  property  on  you." — The  Lover's  eyes  were  now 
opened ;  and  thus  taken  by  surprise,  whether  from  the  effect 
of  the  horror  which  he  felt,  acting  as  it  were  hysterically  on 
his  nervous  system,  or  that  at  the  first  moment  he  lost  the  sense 
of  the  proposal  in  the  feeling  of  its  strangeness  and  absurdity, 
he  flung  her  from  him  and  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter.  Irritated 
by  this  almost  to  frenzy,  the  woman  fell  on  her  knees,  and  in  a 
loud  voice  that  approached  to  a  scream,  she  prayed  for  a  Curse 
both  on  him  and  on  her  own  Child.  Mary  happened  to  be  in 
the  room  directly  above  them,  heard  Edward's  laugh  and  her 
Mother's  blasphemous  prayer,  and  fainted  away.  He,  hearing 
the  fall,  ran  up  stairs,  and  taking  her  in  his  arms,  carried  her 
off  to  Ellen's  home;  and  after  some  fruitless  attempts  on  her 
part  toward  a  reconciliation  with  her  Mother,  she  was  married 
to  him. — And  here  the  third  part  of  the  Tale  begins. 

I  was  not  led  to  choose  this  story  from  any  partiality  to 
tragic,  much  less  to  monstrous  events  (iJiough  at  the  time  that 
I  composed  the  verses,  somewhat  more  than  twelve  years  ago, 
I  was  less  averse  to  such  subjects  than  at  present),  but  from 
finding  in  it  a  striking  proof  of  the  possible  effect  on  the  imagi- 
nation, from  an  idea  violently  and  suddenly  impres.=ed  on  it.  I 
had  been  reading  Bryan  Edwards's  account  of  the  effect  of  the 
Oby  W'itchcraft  on  the  Negroes  in  the  West  Indies,  and 
Hearne's  deeply  interesting  Anecdotes  of  similar  workings  on 
the  imagination  of  the  Copper  Indians  (those  of  my  readers  who 
have  it  in  their  power  will  be  well  repaid  for  the  trouble  of  re- 
ferring to  those  works  for  the  passages  alluded  to),  and  I  con- 
ceived the  design  of  showing  that  instances  of  this  kind  are  not 
peculiar  to  savage  or  barbarous  tribes,  and  of  illustrating  the 
mode  in  which  the  mind  is  affected  in  these  cases,  and  the  pro- 
press  and  symptoms  of  the  morbid  action  on  the  fancy  from  the 
beginning. 

[The  Tale  is  supposed  to  be  narrated  by  an  old  Sexton,  in  a 
country  churchyard,  to  a  Traveller  whose  curiosity  had  been 
awakened  by  the  appearance  of  three  graves,  close  by  each 
other,  to  two  only  of  which  there  were  grave-stones.  On  the 
first  of  these  were  the  name,  and  dates,  as  usual :  on  thcsecond 
no  name,  but  only  a  date,  and  the  words,  The  Mercy  of  God  is 
infinite.] 


The  grapes  upon  the  vicar's  wall 
Were  ripe  as  ripe  could  be  ; 

And  yellow  leaves  in  sun  and  wind 
Were  falling  from  the  tree. 
F 


On  the  hedge  elms  in  the  narrow  lane 
Still  swung  the  spikes  of  corn  : 

Dear  Lord  I  it  seems  but  yesterday — 
Young  Edward's  marriage-morn. 

Up  through  that  wood  behind  the  church, 
There  leads  from  Edward's  door 

A  mossy  track,  all  over-bough'd 
For  half  a  mile  or  more. 

And  from  their  house-door  by  that  track 
The  Bride  and  Bridegroom  vi  ent  ; 

Sweet  Mary,  though  she  was  not  gay, 
Seem'd  cheerful  and  content. 

But  when  they  to  the  church-yard  came, 

I  've  heard  poor  JMary  say, 
As  soon  as  she  stepp'd  into  the  sun. 

Her  heart  it  died  away. 

And  when  the  vicar  join'd  their  hands, 
Her  limbs  did  creep  and  freeze  ; 

But  when  they  pray'd,  she  thought  she  saw 
Her  mother  on  her  knees. 

And  o'er  the  church-path  they  retum'd — 

I  saw  poor  Mary's  back, 
Just  as  she  stepp'd  beneath  the  boughs 

Into  the  mossy  track. 

Her  feet  upon  the  mossy  track 

The  married  maiden  set : 
That  moment — I  have  heard  her  say — 

She  wish'd  she  could  forget 

The  shade  o'erflush'd  her  limbs  with  heet<   - 

Then  came  a  chill  like  dealh: 
And  when  the  merry  bells  rang  out. 

They  seem'd  to  stop  her  breath. 

Beneath  the  foulest  Mother's  curse 

Ko  child  could  ever  thrive  : 
A  Mother  is  a  Mother  still, 

The  holiest  thing  alive. 

So  five  month's  pass'd  :  the  Mother  still 

Would  never  heal  the  strife  ; 
But  Edward  was  a  loving  man. 

And  Mary  a  fond  wife. 

"  My  sister  may  not  visit  us, 
My  mother  says  her  nay  : 

0  Edward !  you  are  all  to  me, 

1  wish  for  your  sake  I  could  be 

More  lifesome  and  more  gay. 

"  I'm  dull  and  sad  !  indeed,  indeed 

I  know  I  have  no  reason! 
Perhaps  1  am  not  well  in  health, 

And  't  is  a  gloomy  season." 

'Twas  a  drizzly  time — no  ice,  no  snow! 

And  on  the  few  fine  days 
She  stirr'd  not  out,  lest  she  might  meet 

Her  Mother  in  her  ways. 

But  Ellen,  spite  of  mirj'  ways 

And  weather  dark  and  drearj', 
Trudged  every  day  to  Edward's  house. 

And  made  them  all  more  cheer\'. 
55 


46 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Oh!  Ellen  was  a  faithful  Friend, 

More  dear  than  any  Sister! 
As  cheerful  too  as  singing  lark ; 
And  she  ne'er  left  them  till  'twas  dark, 

And  then  they  always  miss'd  her. 

And  now  Ash -Wednesday  came — that  day 

But  few  to  church  repair : 
For  on  that  day  you  know  we  read 

The  Commination  prayer. 

Our  late  old  vicar,  a  kind  man, 

Once,  Sir,  he  said  to  me. 
He  wish'd  that  service  was  clean  out 

Of  our  good  Liturgy. 

The  Mother  vvalk'd  into  the  church — 

To  Ellen's  seat  she  went ; 
Though  Ellen  always  kept  her  church, 

All  church-days  during  Lent. 

And  gentle  Ellen  welcomed  her 
With  courteous  looks  and  mild. 

Tliought  she  "  what  if  her  heart  should  melt 
And  all  be  reconciled  ! " 

The  day  was  scarcely  like  a  day — 
The  clouds  were  black  outright : 

And  many  a  night,  with  half  a  Moon, 
I  've  seen  the  church  more  light. 

The  wind  was  wild  ;  against  the  glass 

The  rain  did  beat  and  bicker; 
The  church-tower  swinging  overhead, 

You  scarce  could  hear  the  vicar ! 

And  then  and  there  the  Mother  knelt. 

And  audibly  she  cried — 
"  Oh  !  may  a  clinging  curse  consume 

This  woman  by  my  side  ! 

"  O  hear  me,  hear  me.  Lord  in  Heaven, 
Although  you  take  my  life — 

0  curse  this  woman,  at  whose  house 
Young  Edward  woo'd  his  wife. 

"  By  night  and  day,  in  bed  and  bower, 

O  let  her  cursed  be  ! ! ! " 
So  having  pray'd,  steady  and  slow. 

She  rose  up  from  her  knee ! 
And  left  the  church,  nor  e'er  again 

The  chttrch-door  enter'd  she. 

1  saw  poor  Ellen  kneeling  still, 

So  pale !  I  guess'd  not  why : 
When  she  stood  up,  there  plainly  was 
A  trouble  in  her  eye. 

And  when  the  prayers  were  done,  we  all 
Came  round  and  ask'd  her  why : 

Giddy  she  seem'd,  and  sure  there  was 
A  trouble  in  her  eye. 

But  ere  she  from  the  church-door  stepp'd, 

She  smiled  and  told  us  why ; 
'  It  was  a  wicked  woman's  curse," 

Quoth  she,  "  and  what  care  I  ? " 


She  smiled,  and  smiled,  and  pass'd  it  off 
Ere  from  the  door  she  stept — 

But  all  agree  it  would  have  been 
Much  better  had  she  wept. 

And  if  her  heart  was  not  at  ease. 
This  was  her  constant  cry — 

"  It  was  a  wicked  woman's  curse- 
God  's  good,  and  what  care  I  ? " 

There  was  a  hurry  in  her  looks, 
Her  struggles  she  redoubled  : 

"  It  was  a  wicked  woman's  curse, 
And  why  should  I  be  troubled  ? " 

These  tears  will  come — I  dandled  her 
When  'twas  the  merest  fairy — 

Good  creature  !  and  she  hid  it  all : 
She  told  it  not  to  Mary, 

But  Mary  heard  the  tale  :  her  arms 
Round  Ellen's  neck  she  threw  ; 

"  O  Ellen,  Ellen,  she  cursed  me. 
And  now  she  hath  cursed  you  ! " 

I  saw  j'oung  Edward  by  himself 

Stalk  fasi  ado\^•n  the  lea. 
He  snatch'd  a  stick  from  every  fence, 

A  twig  from  every  tree. 

He  snapp'd  them  still  with  hand  or  knee 

And  then  away  they  flew  ! 
As  if  with  his  uneasy  limbs 

He  knew  not  what  to  do ! 

You  see,  good  Sir !  that  single  hill  ? 

His  farm  lies  underneath : 
He  heard  it  there,  he  heard  it  all 

And  only  gnash'd  his  teeth. 

Now  Ellen  was  a  darling  love 

In  all  his  joys  and  cares : 
And  Ellen's  name  and  Mary's  name 
Fast  link'd  they  both  together  came, 

Whene'er  he  said  his  prayers. 

And  in  the  moment  of  his  prayers 

He  loved  them  both  alike : 
Yea,  both  sweet  names  with  one  sweet  joy 

Upon  his  heart  did  strike  ! 

He  reach'd  his  home,  and  by  his  looks 

They  saw  his  inward  strife  : 
And  they  clung  round  him  v\'ith  their  arms 

Both  Ellen  and  his  wife. 

And  Mary  could  not  check  her  tears. 

So  on  his  breast  she  bow'd  ; 
Then  Frenzy  melted  into  Grief, 

And  Edward  wept  aloud. 

Dear  Ellen  did  not  weep  at  all. 

But  closelier  did  she  cling, 
And  tum'd  her  face,  and  look'd  as  if 

She  saw  some  frightful  thing. 
56 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


47 


And  once  her  both  arms  suddenly 

PART   IV. 

Round  Mary's  neck  she  flung, 

To  see  a  man  tread  over  graves 

And  her  heart  panted,  and  she  felt 

I  hold  it  no  good  mark ; 

The  words  upon  her  tongue. 

*Tis  wicked  in  the  sun  and  moon, 

And  bad  luck  in  the  dark ! 

She  felt  them  coming,  but  no  power 

Had  she  the  words  to  smother ; 

You  see  that  grave  ?  The  Lord  he  gives, 

And  with  a  kind  of  shriek  she  cried, 

The  Lord,  he  takes  away  : 

"  Oh  Christ !  you  'ro  like  your  Mother !  ' 

0  Sir!  the  child  of  my  old  age 

Lies  there  as  cold  as  clay. 

So  gentle  Ellen  now  no  more 

Could  make  tliis  sad  house  cheery; 

Except  that  grave,  you  scarce  see  one 

And  Mary's  melancholy  ways 

That  was  not  dug  by  me  : 

Drove  Edward  wild  and  weary 

I'd  rather  dance  upon  'em  all 

Than  tread  upon  these  three! 

Lingering  he  raised  his  latch  at  eve 

Though  tired  in  heart  and  limb  • 

"  Ay,  Sexton!  'tis  a  touching  tale," 

He  loved  no  other  place,  and  yet 

You,  Sir !  are  but  a  lad  ; 

Home  was  no  home  to  him. 

This  month  1  'm  in  my  seventieth  year. 

And  still  it  makes  me  sad. 

One  evening  he  took  up  a  book. 

And  nothing  in  it  read  ; 

And  Mary's  sister  told  it  me, 

Then  flung  it  down,  and  groaning,  ened 

For  three  good  hours  and  more ; 

"  Oh  !  Heaven  !  that  I  were  dead 

Though  I  had  heard  it,  in  the  main, 

From  Edward's  self,  before. 

Mary  look'd  up  into  liis  face. 

And  nothing  to  him  said  ; 

Well !  it  pass'd  off!  the  gentle  Ellen 

She  tried  to  smile,  and  on  his  arm 

Did  w^ell  nigh  dote  on  Mary ; 

Mournfully  lean'd  her  head. 

And  she  went  ofiener  than  before, 

And  Mary  loved  her  more  and  more : 

And  he  burst  into  teare,  and  fell 

She  managed  all  the  dairy. 

Upon  his  knees  in  prayer : 

"  Her  heart  is  broke  !  O  God !  my  gnef 

To  market  she  on  market-days. 

It  is  too  great  to  bear ! " 

To  church  on  Sundays  came  ; 

All  seem'd  the  same  :  all  seem'd  so,  Sir ! 

'Twas  such  a  foggy  time  as  makes 

But  all  was  not  the  same ! 

Old  Sextons,  Sir!  like  me. 

Rest  on  their  spades  to  cough ;  the  sprini. 

Had  Ellen  lost  her  mirth?  Oh  !  no! 

Was  late  uncommonly. 

But  she  was  seldom  cheerful ; 

And  Edward  look'd  as  if  he  thought 

And  then  the  hot  days,  all  at  once. 

That  Ellen's  mirth  was  fearful. 

They  came,  we  know  not  how : 

You  look'd  about  for  shade,  when  scarce 

When  by  herself,  she  to  herself 

A  leaf  was  on  a  bough. 

Must  sing  some  merry  rhyme  ; 

Slie  could  not  now  be  glad  for  hours, 

It  happen'd  then  ('twas  in  the  bower 

Yet  silent  all  the  time. 

A  furlong  up  the  wood  ; 

Perhaps  you  know  the  place,  and  yet 

And  when  she  soothed  her  friend,  through  all 

I  scarce  know  how  you  should). 

Her  soothing  words  'twas  plain 

She  had  a  sore  grief  of  her  ovvti, 

No  path  leads  thither,  'tis  not  nigh 

A  haunting  in  her  brain. 

To  any  pasture-plot ; 

But  cluster'd  near  the  chattering  brook. 

And  oft  she  said,  I'm  not  growTi  thin! 

Lone  hollies  mark'd  the  spot. 

And  then  her  WTist  she  spann'd  ; 

And  once,  when  Mary  was  downcast. 

Those  hollies  of  themselves  a  shape 

She  took  her  by  the  hand, 

As  of  an  arbor  took. 

And  gazed  upon  her,  and  at  first 

A  close,  round  arbor ;  and  it  stands 

She  gently  press'd  her  hand ; 

Not  three  strides  from  a  brook. 

Then  harder,  till  her  grasp  at  length 

Within  this  arbor,  which  was  still 

Did  gripe  like  a  convulsion ! 

With  scarlet  berries  hung. 

Alas!  said  she,  we  ne'er  can  be 

Were  these  three  friends,  one  Sunday  mom, 

Made  happy  by  compulsion ! 

Just  as  the  first  bell  rung. 

57 

48 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Tis  sweet  to  hear  a  brook,  'tis  sweet 

To  hear  the  Sabbath-bell, 
'Tis  sweet  to  hear  them  both  at  once, 

Deep  in  a  woody  dell. 

His  limbs  along  the  moss,  his  head 

Upon  a  mossy  heap. 
With  shut-up  senses,  Edward  lay : 
That  brook  e'en  on  a  working  day 

Might  chatter  one  to  sleep. 

And  he  had  pass'd  a  restless  night, 

And  was  not  well  in  health ; 
The  women  sat  down  by  his  side, 

And  talk'd  as  'twere  by  stealth. 

"  The  sxm  peeps  through  the  close  thick  leaves. 

See,  dearest  Ellen !  see  ! 
Tis  in  the  leaves,  a  little  sun, 

No  bigger  than  your  e'e ; 


"  A  tiny  sun,  and  it  has  got 

A  perfect  glory  too ; 
Ten  diousand  threads  and  hairs  of  light, 
Make  up  a  glory,  gay  and  bright, 

Round  that  small  orb,  so  blue.' 


And  then  they  argued  of  those  rays. 

What  color  they  might  be  : 
Says  this,  "  they  're  mostly  green ;"  says  that, 

"  They're  amber-like  to  me." 

So  they  sat  chatting,  while  bad  thoughts 

Were  troubling  Edward's  rest  ; 
But  soon  they  heard  his  hard  quick  pants. 

And  the  thumping  in  his  breast. 


"  A  Mother  too ! "  these  self-same  words 

Did  Edward  mutter  plain  ; 
His  face  was  drawn  back  on  itself. 

With  horror  and  huge  pain. 


Both  groan'd  at  once,  for  both  knew  well 
What  thoughts  were  in  his  mind ; 

When  he  waked  up,  and  stared  like  one 
That  hath  been  just  struck  blind. 


He  sat  upright ;  and  ere  the  dream 

Had  had  time  to  depart, 
'  O  God  forgive  me  !  (he  exclaim'd) 

I  have  torn  out  her  heart." 


Then  Ellen  shriek'd,  and  forthwith  burst 

Into  ungentle  laughter ; 
And  Mary  shiver'd,  where  she  sat, 

And  never  she  smiled  after. 


Carmen  reliquum  in  futurum  terapuB  relegatum.  To-morrow ! 
snd  To-morrow  I  and  To-monow !— 


DEJECTION; 

AN    ODE. 


Late,  late  yestreen,  I  saw  the  new  Moon, 
With  the  old  Moon  in  her  arms  ; 
And  I  fear,  I  fear,  my  Master  dear ! 
We  shall  have  a  deadly  storm. 

Ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spens. 


I. 
Well  !  if  the  Bard  was  weather-wse,  who  made 
The  grand  old  ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
This  night,  so  tranquil  now,  will  not  go  hence 
Unroused  by  winds,  that  ply  a  busier  trade 
Than  those  which  mould  yon  cloud  in  lazy  flakes. 
Or  the  dull  sobbing  draught,  that  moans  and  rakes 
Upon  the  strings  of  this  iEolian  lute, 
Which  better  far  were  mute. 
For  lo !  the  New-moon  winter-bright ! 
And  overspread  with  phantom  light, 
(With  swimming  phantom  light  o'erspread 
But  rimm'd  and  circled  by  a  silver  thread) 
I  see  the  old  Moon  in  her  lap,  foretelling 

The  coming  on  of  rain  and  squally  blast. 
And  oh !  that  even  now  the  gust  were  swelling, 

And  the  slant  night-shower  driving  loud  and  fast 
Those   sounds  which   oft   have   raised   me,   whilst 
they  awed, 
And  sent  my  soul  abroad. 
Might  now  perhaps  their  wonted  impulse  give, 
Might  startle  this  dull  pain,  and  make  it  move  and 
live! 

II. 
A  grief  without  a  pang,  void,  dark,  and  drear, 
A  stifled,  drowsy,  unimpassion'd  grief. 
Which  finds  no  natural  outlet,  no  relief. 
In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear — 

0  Lady !  in  this  wan  and  heartless  mood. 
To  other  thoughts  by  yonder  throstle  woo'd. 

All  this  long  eve,  so  balmy  and  serene, 
Have  I  been  gazing  on  the  western  sky. 

And  its  peculiar  tint  of  yellow  green : 
And  still  I  gaze — and  with  how  blank  an  eye  ! 
And  those  thin  clouds  above,  in  flakes  and  bars. 
That  give  away  their  motion  to  the  stars ; 
Those  stars,  that  glide  behind  them  or  between, 
Now  sparkling,  now  bedimm'd,  but  always  seen- 
Yon  crescent  Moon,  as  fix'd  as  if  it  grew 
In  its  own  cloudless,  starless  lake  of  blue ; 

1  see  them  all  so  excellently  fair, 

I  see,  not  feel,  how  beautiful  they  are ! 

III. 

My  genial  spirits  fail. 

And  what  can  these  avail 
To  lift  the  smothering  weight  from  oflT  my  breast? 

It  were  a  vain  endeavor, 

Though  I  should  gaze  for  ever, 
On  that  green  light  that  lingers  in  the  west : 
I  may  not  hope  from  outward  forms  to  wdn 
The  passion  and  the  life,  whose  fountains  are  within 

IV. 

0  Lady !  we  receive  but  what  we  give. 
And  in  our  life  alone  does  nature  live  : 

58 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


49 


Ours  is  her  wedding-garment,  ours  her  shroud ! 

And  would  we  aught  behold,  of  higher  worth, 
Than  that  inanimate  cold  world  allow'd 
To  the  poor  loveless  ever-anxious  crowd, 

Ah  !  from  the  soul  itself  must  issue  forth, 
A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  cloud 

Enveloping  the  Earth — 
And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there  be  sent 

A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its  own  birth, 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  element  I 

V. 

0  pure  of  heart !  thou  need'st  not  ask  of  me 
What  this  strong  music  in  the  soul  may  be ! 
What,  and  wherein  it  doth  exist, 

This  light,  this  glory,  this  fair  luminous  mist, 
This  beautiful  and  beauty-making  power. 

Joy,  virtuous  Lady  !  Joy  that  ne'er  was  given, 
Save  to  the  pure,  and  in  their  purest  hour. 
Life,    and    Life's    Effluence,    Cloud    at    once    and 

Shower, 
Joy,  Lady !  is  the  spirit  and  the  power. 
Which  wedding  Nature  to  us  gives  in  dower 

A  new  Earth  and  new  Heaven, 
Undreamt  of  by  the  sensual  and  the  proud — 
Joy  is  the  sweet  voice,  Joy  the  luminous  cloud — 

We  in  ourselves  rejoice  ! 
And  thence  flows  all  that  charms  or  ear  or  sight, 

All  melodies  the  echoes  of  that  voice. 
All  colors  a  suffusion  from  that  light 

VI. 

There    was    a  time    when,    though   my  path   was 
rough. 

This  joy  within  me  dallied  with  distress. 
And  all  misfortunes  were  but  as  the  stuff 
Whence  J'ancy  made  me  dreams  of  happiness  : 
For  hope  grew  round  me,  like  the  twining  vine. 
And  fruits,  and  foliage,  not  my  own,  seem'd  mine. 
But  now  afflictions  bow  me  down  to  earth  ; 
Nor  care  I  that  they  rob  me  of  my  mirth. 

But  oh  !  each  visitation 
Suspends  what  nature  gave  me  at  my  birth, 

My  shaping  spirit  of  Imagination. 
For  not  to  think  of  what  I  needs  must  feel, 

But  to  be  still  and  patient,  all  I  tan ; 
And  haply  by  abstruse  research  to  steal 

From  my  own  nature  all  the  natural  Man — 

This  was  my  sole  resource,  my  only  plan  : 
Till  that  which  suits  a  part  infects  the  whole, 
And  now  is  almost  grown  the  habit  of  my  Soul. 

VII. 

Hence,  viper  thoughts,  that  coil  around  my  mind, 
ReaUty's  dark  dream  ! 

1  turn  from  you,  and  listen  to  the  wind. 

Which  long  has  raved  unnoticed.  What  a  scream 
Of  agony  by  torture  lengthen'd  out 
That    lute    sent    forth  !     Thou  Wind,  that  ravest 
without. 

Bare  crag,  or  mountain-taim,*  or  blasted  tree, 
Or  pine-grove  whither  woodman  never  clomb, 
Or  lonely  house,  long  held  the  witches'  home, 

Methinivs  were  fitter  instruments  for  thee. 
Mad  Lutanist !  who  in  this  month  of  showers. 
Of  dark-brown  gardens,  and  of  peeping  flowers, 

•  Taim  is  a  small  lake,  generally,  if  not  always,  applied  to 
the  lakes  up  in  the  mountains,  and  which  are  the  feeders  of 
those  in  the  valleys.  This  address  to  the  Storm-wind  will  not 
appear  extravagant  to  those  who  have  heard  it  at  night,  and 
in  a  mountainous  country. 

5  F2 


Mukest  Devils'  yule,  with  worse  than  wintry  song, 
The  blossoms,  buds,  and  timorous  leaves  among. 

Thou  Actor,  perfect  in  all  tragic  sounds  ! 
Thou  mighty  Poet,  e'en  to  Frenzy  bold  ! 
What  tell'st  thou  now  about  ? 
'T  is  of  the  Rushing  of  an  Host  in  rout. 
With    groans   of  trampled  men,    witli   smarting 
wounds — 
At  once  they  groan  with  pain,  and  shudder  with  the 

cold! 
But  hush  !  there  is  a  pause  of  deepest  silence  ! 

And  all  that  noise,  as  of  a  rushing  crowd. 
With   groans,    and    tremulous   shudderings — all   is 
over —  [loud  ! 

It  tells  another  tale,  with  sounds  less  deep  and 
A  tale  of  less  affright. 
And  temper'd  with  delight. 
As  Otway's  self  had  framed  the  tender  lay, 
'T  is  of  a  little  child 
Upon  a  lonesome  wild. 
Not  far  from  home,  but  she  hath  lost  her  way, 
And  now  moans  low  in  bitter  grief  and  fear. 
And  now  screams  loud,  and  hopes  to  make  her  mother 
hear. 

vin. 

'T  is  midnight,  but  small  thoughts  have  I  of  sleep : 
Full  seldom  may  my  friend  such  vigils  keep ! 
V^isit  her,  gentle  Sleep !  with  wings  of  healing, 

And  may  this  storm  be  but  a  mountain-birth, 
May  all  the  stars  hang  bright  above  her  dwelling, 

Silent  as  though  they  watch 'd  the  sleeping  Earth. 
With  light  heart  may  she  rise. 
Gay  fancy,  cheerful  eyes, 

Joy  lift  her  spirit,  joy  attune  her  voice  : 
To  her  may  all  things  live,  from  Pole  to  Pole 
Their  life  the  eddying  of  her  living  soul  I 

O  simple  spirit,  guided  from  above, 
Dear  Lady !  friend  devoutest  of  my  choice. 
Thus  mayest  thou  ever,  evermore  rejoice. 


ODE  TO  GEORGIANA,  DUCHESS  OF 
DEVONSHIRE, 

ON  TItE    TWENTY-FOURTH    STANZA    IN    HER  "  PASSAGE 
OVER   MOUNT   GOTIIARD." 


And  hail  the  Chapel !  hail  the  Platform  wild  ! 

VVTiere  Tell  directed  the  avenging  Dart, 
With  well-strung  arm,  that  first  presurved  his  Child 

Then  aim'd  the  arrow  at  the  Tyrant's  heart. 


Splendor's  fondly  fostcr'd  child ! 
And  did  you  hail  the  Platform  wild. 

Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 

Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell  ? 
O  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure ! 
Whence  learnt  you  that  heroic  measure  ? 

Light  as  a  dre.im  your  days  their  circlets  ran. 
From  all  that  teaches  Brotherhood  to  Man  ; 
Far,  far  removed!  from  want,  from  hope,  from  fear! 
Enchanting  music  lull'd  your  infant  ear. 
Obeisance,  praises  soothed  your  infant  heart : 

Emblazonments  and  old  ancestral  crests. 
With  many  a  bright  obtrusive  form  of  art, 

Detain'd  your  eye  from  nature  •  stately  vests, 
59 


50 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


That  veiling  strove  to  deck  your  charms  divine, 
Rich  viands,  and  the  pleasurable  wine. 
Were  yours  unearn'd  by  toil ;  nor  could  you  see 
Tlie  unenjoying  toiler's  misery. 
And  yet,  free  Nature's  imcorrupted  child, 
You  hail'd  the  Chapel  and  the  Platform  wild, 
Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 

O  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  ! 

Whence  learnt  you  that  heroic  measure  ? 

There  crowd  your  finely-fibred  frame, 

All  living  faculties  of  bhss  ; 
And  Genius  to  your  cradle  came. 
His  forehead  wreathed  with  lambent  flame. 
And  bending  low,  with  godlike  kiss 
Breathed  in  a  more  celestial  life  ; 
But  boasts  not  many  a  fair  compeer 

A  heart  as  sensitive  to  joy  and  fear  ? 
And  some,  perchance,  might  wage  an  equal  strife, 
Some  few,  to  nobler  being  wrought, 
Co-rivals  in  the  nobler  gift  of  thought. 
Yet  these  delight  to  celebrate 
Jjaurell'd  War  and  plumy  State  ; 
Or  in  verse  and  music  dress 
Tales  of  rustic  happiness — 
Pernicious  Tales !  insidious  Strains ! 
That  steel  the  rich  man's  breast. 
And  mock  the  lot  unblest. 
The  sordid  vices  and  the  abject  pains, 
Which  evermore  must  be 
The  doom  of  Ignorance  and  Penury  ! 
But  you,  free  Nature's  iincorrupted  child. 
You  hail'd  the  Chapel  and  the  Platform  wild, 
Wliere  once  tlie  Austrian  fell 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 

0  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  ! 
Where  learnt  you  that  heroic  measure  ? 

You  were  a  Mother !  That  most  holy  name. 
Which  Heaven  and  Nature  bless, 

1  may  not  vilely  prostitute  to  those 

Whose  Infants  owe  them  less 
Than  the  poor  Caterpillar  owes 
Its  gaudy  Parent  Fly. 
You  were  a  Mother !  at  your  bosom  fed 

The  Babes  that  loved  you.  You,  witli  laughing  eye. 
Each  twilight-thought,  each  nascent  feeling  read, 
AVhich  yon  yourself  created.    Oh  !  delight ! 
A  second  lime  to  be  a  Mother, 

Without  the  Mother's  bitter  groans  : 
Another  thought,  and  yet  another, 
By  touch,  or  taste,  by  looks  or  tones 
O'er  the  growing  Sense  to  roll, 
The  Mother  of  your  infant's  Soul ! 
The  Angel  of  the  Earth,  who,  while  he  guides 

His  chariot-planet  round  the  goal  of  day. 
All  trembling  gazes  on  the  Eye  of  God, 

A  moment  turn'd  his  awful  face  away  ; 
And  as  he  view'd  you,  from  his  aspect  sweet 

New  influences  in  your  being  rose. 
Blest  Intuitions  and  Communions  fleet 

With  living  Nature,  in  her  joys  and  woes ! 
Thenceforth  your  soul  rejoiced  to  see 
The  shrine  of  social  Liberty  ! 
O  beautiful !  O  Nature's  child  ! 
'Twas  thence  you  hail'd  ^he  Platform  wild, 


Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 

O  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure ! 

Thence  learnt  you  that  heroic  measure. 


ODE  TO  TRANQUILLITY. 

Tranquillity  !  thou  better  name 

Than  all  the  family  of  Fame ! 

Thou  ne'er  wilt  leave  my  riper  age  * 

To  low  intrigue,  or  factious  rage  ; 

For  oh  !  dear  child  of  thoughtful  Truth, 

To  thee  I  gave  my  early  youth, 
And  left  the  bark,  and  blest  the  stedfast  shore. 
Ere  yet  the  Tempest  rose  and  scared  me  with  its  roar 

Who  late  and  lingering  seeks  thy  slirine, 
On  him  but  seldom,  power  divine. 
Thy  spirit  rests  !  Satiety 
And  Sloth,  poor  counterfeits  of  thee, 
Mock  the  tired  worldling.    Idle  Hope 
And  dire  Remembrance  interlope. 
To  vex  the  feverish  slumbers  of  the  mind : 
The  bubble  floats  before,  tlie  spectre  stalks  behind. 

But  me  thy  gentle  hand  will  lead 
At  morning  through  the  accustom'd  mead ; 
And  in  the  sultry  summer's  heat 
Will  build  me  up  a  mossy  seat ; 
And  when  the  gust  of  Autumn  crowds 
And  breaks  the  busy  moonlight  clouds. 
Thou  best  the  thought  canst  raise,  the  heart  attune 
Light  as  the  busy  clouds,  calm  as  the  gliding  Moon 

The  feeling  heart,  the  searching  soul. 
To  thee  I  dedicate  the  whole  ! 
And  while  within  myself  I  trace 
The  greatness  of  some  future  race. 
Aloof  with  hermit-eye  I  scan 
The  present  works  of  present  man — 
A  wild  and  dream-like  trade  of  blood  and  guile, 
Too  fooUsh  for  a  tear,  too  wicked  for  a  smile ! 


TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND, 

ON    HIS    PROPOSING   TO    DOMESTICATE    WITH   THE 
AUTHOR. 

COUPOSED  IN  1796. 

A  MOUNT,  not  wearisome  and  bare  and  steep. 

But  a  green  mountain  variously  up-piled. 
Where  o'er  the  jutting  rocks  soft  mosses  creep. 
Or  color'd  lichens  with  slow  oozing  weep ; 

Where  cjpress  and  the  darker  yew  start  wild ; 
And  'mid  the  summer  torrent's  gentle  dash 
Dance  brighten'd  the  red  clusters  of  the  ash ; 

Beneath  whose  boughs,  by  those  still  sounds  bo 
guiled, 
Calm  Pensiveness  might  muse  herself  to  sleep ; 

Till  haply  startled  by  some  fleecy  dam. 
That  rustling  on  the  bushy  clift  above. 
With  melancholy  bleat  of  anxious  love. 

Made  meek  inquiry  for  her  wandering  lamb  • 
60 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


51 


Such  a  green  mountain  't  were  most  sweet  to  climb, 
E  'en  while  the  bosom  ached  witli  loneliness — 
How  more  than  sweet,  if  some  dear  friend  should 
bless 

The  adventurous  toil,  and  up  the  path  sublime 
Now  lead,  now  follow :  the  glad  landscape  round, 
Wide  and  more  wide,-  increasing  without  bound ! 

O  then  't  were  loveliest  sympathy,  to  mark 
The  berries  of  the  half-uprooted  ash 
l)ripping  and  bright ;  and  list  the  torrent's  dash, — 

Beneath  the  cypress,  or  the  yew  more  dark, 
Seated  at  ease,  on  some  smooth  mossy  rock  ; 
In  social  silence  now,  and  now  to  unlock 
The  treasured  heart ;  arm  link'd  in  friendly  arm, 
Save  if  the  one,  his  muse's  witching  charm 
Muttering  brow-bent,  at  unwatch'd  distance  lag ; 

Till  high  o'erhead  his  beckoning  friend  appears, 
And  from  the  forehead  of  the  topmost  crag 

Shouts  eagerly  :  for  haply  there  uprears 
That  shadowing  pine  its  old  romantic  limbs, 

Wliich  latest  shall  detain  the  enamour'd  sight 
Seen  from  below,  when  eve  the  valley  dims. 

Tinged  yellow  with  the  rich  departing  hght ; 

And  haply,  basin'd  in  some  unsunn'd  cleft, 
A  beauteous  spring,  the  rock's  collected  tears, 
Sleeps  shelter'd  there,  scarce  wrinkled  by  tlie  gale ! 

Together  thus,  the  world's  vain  turmoil  left, 
Stretch'd  on  the  crag,  and  shadow'd  by  the  pine. 

And  bending  o'er  the  clear  delicious  fount. 
Ah !  dearest  youth !  it  were  a  lot  divine 
To  cheat  our  noons  in  moralizing  mood. 
While  west-winds  fann'd  our  temples  toil-bedew'd  : 

Then  dowTiwards  slope,  oft  pausing,   from  the 
mount, 
To  some  lone  mansion,  in  some  woody  dale, 
Where  smiling  with  blue  eye,  domestic  bliss 
Gives  this  the  Husband's,  that  the  Brother's  kiss  ! 


Tlius  rudely  versed  in  allegoric  lore, 
The  Hill  of  Knowledge  I  essay'd  to  trace ; 
That  verdurous  hill  with  many  a  resting-place. 
And  many  a  stream,  whose  warbling  waters  pour 

To  glad  and  fertilize  the  subject  plains  ; 
That  hill  with  secret  springs,  and  nooks  imtrod. 
And  many  a  fancy-blest  and  holy  sod, 

Where  Inspiration,  his  diviner  strains 
Low  murmuring,  lay ;  and  starting  from  the  rocks 
Stiff  evergreens,  whose  spreading  foliage  mocks 
Want's  barren  soil,  and  the  bleak  frosts  of  age, 
And  Bigotry's  mad  lire-invoking  rage  I 

O  meek  retiring  spirit !  we  will  climb. 
Cheering  and  cheer'd,  this  lovely  hill  sublime  ; 

And  irom  the  stirring  world  uplifted  high 
(Whose  noises,  faintly  wafted  on  the  whid, 
To  quiet  musings  shall  attune  the  mind, 

And  oft  the  melancholy  theme  supply). 

There,  while  the  prospect  through  the  gazing  eye 

Pours  all  its  healthful  greenness  on  the  soul. 
We'll  smile  at  wealth,  and  learn  to  smile  at  fame, 
Our  hopes,  our  knowledge,  and  our  joys  the  same. 

As  neighboring  fountains  image,  each  the  whole  : 
Then,  when  the  mind  hath  drunk  its  till  of  truth. 

We'll  discipline  the  heart  to  pure  delight. 
Rekindling  sober  Joy's  domestic  flame. 
They  whom  I  love  shall  love  thee.    Honor'd  youth  I 

JVow  may  Heaven  realize  this  vision  bright ! 


LINES  TO  W.  L.  ESQ. 

WHILE   HE   SANG    A    SONG    TO    PURCELL's    MUSIC. 

While  my  young  cheek  retains  its  healthful  hues. 

And  I  have  many  friends  who  hold  me  dear ; 

L !  methinks,  I  would  not  often  hear 

Such  melodies  as  thine,  lest  I  sliould  lose 

All  memory  of  the  wrongs  and  sore  distress,  ' 

For  which  my  miserable  brethren  weep ! 

But  should  uncomforted  misfortunes  steep 
My  daily  bread  in  tears  and  bitterness  ; 
And  if  at  death's  dread  moment  I  should  lie 

With  no  beloved  face  at  my  bed-side. 
To  fix  the  last  glance  of  my  closing  eye, 

Methinks,  such  strains,  breathed  by  my  angel-guide 
Would  make  me  pass  the  cup  of  anguish  by. 

Mix  with  the  blest,  nor  know  that  I  had  died ! 


ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG   MAN  OF  FORTUNE 

WHO    ABANDONED   HIMSELF    TO    AN    INDOLENT   AND 

CAUSELESS    MELANCHOLY. 

Hence  that  fantastic  wantonness  of  woe, 
O  Youth  to  partial  Fortune  vainly  dear ! 

To  plunder'd  Want's  half-shelter'd  hovel  go. 
Go,  and  some  hunger-bitten  Infant  hear 
Moan  haply  in  a  dying  Mother's  ear : 

Or  when  the  cold  and  dismal  fog-damps  brood 

O'er   the    rank   church-yard  with   sere    elm-leaves 
strew'd. 

Pace  round  some  widow's  grave,  whose  dearer  part- 
Was  slaughter'd,  where  o'er  his  uncofhn'd  limbs 

The  flocking  flesh-birds  scream'd  I  Then,  while  thyi 
heart 
Groans,  and  thine  eye  a  fiercer  sorrow  dims, 

Know  (and  the  truth  shall  kindle  thy  young  mind) 

What  Nature  makes  thee  mourn,  she  bids  thee  heal ! 
O  abject!  if  to  sickly  dreams  rcsign'd. 

All  effortless  thou  leave  life's  commonweal 

A  prey  to  Tyrants,  Murderers  of  Mankind. 


SONNET  TO  THE  RIVER  OTTER. 

Dear  native  Brook  !  wild  Streamlet  of  the  West ! 

How  many  various-fated  years  have  past. 

What  happy,  and  what  mournful  hours,  since  last 
I  skimm'd  the  smooth  thin  stone  along  thy  breast. 
Numbering  its  light  leaps  !  yet  so  deep  imprest 
Sink  the  sweet  scenes  of  childhood,  that  mine  eyes 

I  never  shut  amid  tlie  sunny  ray. 
But  straight  with  all  their  tints  thy  waters  rise, 

Thy  crossing  plank,  thy  marge  with  willows  gray. 
And  bedded  sand  that  vein'd  with  various  dyes 
Gleam'd  through  thy  bright  transparence !   On  my 
way, 

Visions  of  childhood !  oft  have  ye  beguiled 
Lone  manhood's  cares,  yet  waking  fondest  sighs  : 

Ah !  that  once  more  I  were  a  careless  child ! 


SONNET. 

composed  on  A  JOURNEY  HOMEWARD  ;  THE  AUTHOR 
HAVING  RECEIVED  INTELLIGENCE  OF  THE  BIRTU 
OF    A    SON,    SEPTEMBER    20,    1796. 

Oft  o'er  my  brain  does  that  strange  fancy  roll 
Which  makes  the  present  (while  the  flash  doth  lasQ 
9  Gl 


52 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Seem  a  mere  semblance  of  some  unknown  past, 
Mix'd  with  such  feelings,  as  perplex  the  soul 
Self-question'd  in  her  sleep ;  and  some  have  said* 

We  lived,  ere  yet  this  robe  of  Flesh  we  wore. 

O  my  sweet  baby !  when  I  reach  my  door. 
If  heavy  looks  should  tell  me  thou  art  dead 
(As  sometimes,  through  excess  of  hope,  I  fear), 
I  tliink  that  I  should  struggle  to  believe 

Tliou  wert  a  spirit,  to  this  nether  sphere 
Sentenced  for  some  more  venial  crime  to  grieve  ; 
Didst  scream,  then  spring  to  meet  Heaven's  quick 
reprieve, 

While  we  wept  idly  o'er  thy  little  bier ! 


SONNET. 


TO    A  FRIEND   WHO    ASKED,    HOW  I  FELT   WHEN   THE 
NURSE   FIRST   PRESENTED   MY    INFANT   TO   ME. 

Charles  !  my  slow  heart  was  only  sad,  when  first 
I  scann'd  that  face  of  feeble  infancy : 

For  dimly  on  my  thoughtful  spirit  burst 
All  I  had  been,  and  all  my  child  might  be  ! 

But  when  I  saw  it  on  its  Mother's  arm. 
And  hanging  at  her  bosom  (she  the  while 
Bent  o'er  its  features  with  a  tearful  smile) 

'Then  I  was  thrill'd  and  melted,  and  most  warm 

Impress'd  a  Father's  kiss  :  and  all  beguiled 
Of  dark  remembrance  and  presageful  fear, 
I  seem'd  to  see  an  angel-form  appear — 

"  'T  was  even  thine,  beloved  woman  mild  ! 

So  for  the  Mother's  sake  the  Child  was  dear, 

-And  dearer  was  the  Mother  for  the  Child. 


THE  VIRGIN'S  CRADLE-HYMN. 

•  COPIED  FROM  A  PRINT  OF  THE  VIRGIN  IN  A  CATHOLIC 
VILLAGE    IN   GERMANY. 

DoRMi,  Jesu  !  Mater  ridet, 
Quas  tarn  dulcem  somnum  videt, 

Dormi,  Jesu  !  blandule  ! 
Si  non  dormis.  Mater  plorat. 
Inter  fila  cantans  orat 

Blande,  veni,  somnule. 


Sleep,  sweet  babe  !  my  cares  beguiling 
Mother  sits  beside  thee  smiling : 

Sleep,  my  darling,  tenderly  I 
If  thou  sleep  not,  mother  mourneth, 
Singing  as  her  wheel  she  turneth  : 

Come,  soft  slumber,  balmily! 


'ON  THE  CHRISTENING  OP  A  FRIEND'S  CHILD. 

This  day  among  the  faithful  placed 

And  fed  with  fontal  manna ; 
O  with  maternal  title  graced 

Dear  Anna's  dearest  Anna! 


*  Hv  Ttov  tinuiv  rj  xpvvn  vpiv  tv  ruSe  rut  avOpoiirivb) 
■  ti&ei  ycveadat. 

Plat,  in  PkcBdoiu 


While  others  wish  thee  wise  and  fair, 

A  maid  of  spotless  fame, 
I'll  breathe  this  more  compendious  prayer — 

Mayst  thou  deserve  thy  name  ! 

Thy  Mother's  name,  a  potent  spell, 

That  bids  the  Virtues  hie 
From  mystic  grove  and  living  cell 

Confest  to  Fancy's  eye  ; 

Meek  Quietness,  without  offence ; 

Content,  in  homespun  kirlle ; 
True  Love ;  and  True  Love's  Innocence, 

White  Blossom  of  the  Myrtle ! 

Associates  of  thy  name,  sweet  Child ! 

These  Virtues  mayst  thou  win ; 
With  Face  as  eloquently  mild 

To  say,  they  lodge  within. 

So  when,  her  tale  of  days  all  flown. 
Thy  Mother  shall  be  miss'd  here  ; 

When  Heaven  at  length  shall  claim  its  own, 
And  Angels  snatch  their  Sister ; 

Some  hoary-headed  Friend,  perchance. 

May  gaze  with  stifled  breath  ; 
And  oft,  in  momentary  trance. 

Forget  the  waste  of  death. 

Ev'n  thus  a  lovely  rose  I  view'd 

In  summer-swelling  pride  ; 
Nor  mark'd  the  bud,  that  green  and  rude 

Peep'd  at  the  Rose's  side. 

It  chanced,  I  pass'd  again  that  way 

In  Autumn's  latest  hour. 
And  wond'ring  saw  the  self-same  spray 

Rich  with  the  self-same  flower. 

Ah  fond  deceit !  the  rude  green  bud 

Alike  in  shape,  place,  name. 
Had  bloom'd,  where  bloom'd  its  parent  stud 

Another  and  the  same ! 


EPITAPH  ON  AN  INFANT. 

Its  balmy  lips  the  Infant  blest 
Relaxing  from  its  Mother's  breast. 
How  sweet  it  heaves  the  happy  sigh 
Of  innocent  Satiety! 

And  such  my  Infant's  latest  sigh ! 
O  tell,  rude  stone !  the  passer-by. 
That  here  the  pretty  babe  doth  lie, 
Death  sang  to  sleep  with  Lullaby. 


MELANCHOLY. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

Stretch'd  on  a  moulder'd  Abbey's  broadest  w,-» 
Where  ruining  ivies  propp'd  the  ruins  steep — • 

Her  folded  arms  wrapping  her  tatter'd  pall. 
Had  Melancholy  mused  herself  to  sleep. 
62 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


5^ 


The  fern  was  press'd  beneath  her  hair, 
The  dark-green  Adder's  Tongue*  was  there ; 
And  still  as  past  the  flagging  sea-gale  weak, 
rhe  long  lank  leaf  bow'd  fluttering  o'er  her  cheek. 

rhat  pallid  cheek  was  flush'd  :  her  eager  look 
Beam'd  eloquent  in  slumber !  Inly  wrought. 
Imperfect  soxmds  her  moving  lips  forsook. 
And  her   bent    forehead  work'd   with    troubled 
thought. 
Strange  was  the  dream 


TELL'S  BIRTH-PLACE. 

IMITATED  FROM  STOLBERG. 

Mark  this  holy  chapel  well ! 
The  Birth-place,  this,  of  William  Tell. 
Here,  where  stands  God's  altar  dread. 
Stood  his  parents'  marriage-bed. 

Here  first,  an  infant  to  her  breast, 
Him  his  loving  mother  prest ; 
And  kiss'd  the  babe,  and  bless'd  the  day, 
A|id  pray'd  as  mothers  use  to  pray : 

"  Vouchsafe  him  health,  0  God,  and  give 
The  Child  thy  servant  still  to  live ! " 
But  God  has  destined  to  do  more 
Through  him,  than  through  an  armed  power. 

God  gave  him  reverence  of  laws, 

Yet  stirring  blood  in  Freedom's  cause — 

A  spirit  to  his  rocks  akin. 

The  eye  of  the  Hawk,  and  the  fire  therein ! 

To  Nature  and  to  Holy  writ 
Alone  did  God  the  boy  commit : 
Where  flash'd  and  roar'd  the  torrent,  oft 
His  soul  found  wings,  and  soar'd  aloft ! 

The  straining  oar  and  chamois  chase 
Had  form'd  his  limbs  to  strength  and  grace : 
On  wave  and  wind  the  boy  would  toss, 
Was  great,  nor  knew  how  great  he  was  ! 

He  knew  not  that  his  chosen  hand, 
Made  strong  by  God,  his  native  land 
Would  rescue  from  the  shameful  yoke 
Of  Slavery the  which  he  broke ! 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

The  Shepherds  went  their  hasty  way, 

And  found  the  lowly  stable-shed 
Where  the  Virgin-Mother  lay : 

And  now  they  check'd  their  eager  tread, 
For  to  the  Babe,  that  at  her  bosom  clung, 
A  Mother's  song  the  Virgin-Mother  sung. 

They  told  her  how  a  glorious  light, 

Slfeaming  from  a  heavenly  throng. 
Around  them  shone,  suspending  night! 
^Vhile,  sweeter  than  a  Mother's  song, 
Blest  Angels  heralded  the  Savior's  birth. 
Glory  to  God  on  high !  and  peace  on  Earth. 


*  A  botanical  mistake.    The  plant  which  tho  poet  here  de- 
Bcribes  ia  called  the  Hart's  Tongue. 


She  listen'd  to  the  tale  divine. 

And  closer  still  the  Babe  she  press'd  ; 
And  while  she  cried,  the  Babe  is  mine! 
The  milk  rush'd  faster  to  her  breast : 
Joy  rose  within  her,  like  a  summer's  mom ; 
Peace,  Peace  on  Earth !  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  bom. 

Thou  Mother  of  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

Poor,  simple,  and  of  low  estate !  _ ; 

That  Strife  should  vanish,  Battle  cease, 
O  why  should  this  thy  soul  elate  ? 

Sweet  Music's  loudest  note,  the  Poet's  story, 

Did'st  thou  ne'er  love  to  hear  of  Fame  and  Glory  1 

And  is  not  War  a  youthful  King, 

A  stately  Hero  clad  in  mail  ? 
Beneath  his  footsteps  laurels  spring ; 
Him  Earth's  majestic  monarchs  hail 
Their  Friend,  their  Play-mate !  and  his  bold  bright  eye 
Compels  the  maiden's  love-confessing  sigh. 

"  Tell  this  in  some  more  courtly  scene, 

To  maids  and  youths  in  robes  of  state ! 
I  am  a  woman  poor  and  mean. 
And  therefore  is  my  Soul  elate. 
War  is  a  ruflian,  all  with  guilt  defiled. 
That  from  the  aged  Father  tears  his  Child ! 

"  A  murderous  fiend,  by  fiends  adored. 

He  kills  the  Sire  and  starves  the  Son ; 
The  Husband  kills,  and  from  her  board 
Steals  all  his  Widow's  toil  had  won ; 
Plunders  God's  world  of  beauty ;  rends  away 
All  safety  from  the  Night,  all  comfort  from  the  Day 

"  Then  wisely  is  my  soul  elate, 

That  Strife  should  vanish.  Battle  cease : 
I  'm  poor  and  of  a  low  estate, 

The  Mother  of  the  Prince  of  Peace. 
Joy  rises  in  me,  like  a  summer's  morn  : 
Peace,  Peace  on  Earth!  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  bom!" 


HUMAN  LIFE, 

ON    THE    DEiVIAL   OF    IMMORTALITY 

If  dead,  we  cease  to  be ;  if  total  gloom 

Swallow  up  life's  brief  flash  for  aye,  we  fare 
As  summer-gusts,  of  sudden  birth  and  doom. 

Whose  sound  and  motion  not  alone  declare, 
But  art  their  uMe  of  being !  If  the  Breath 

Be  Life  itself  and  not  its  task  and  tent, 
If  even  a  soul  like  Milton's  can  know  death , 

O  Man !  thou  vessel,  purposeless,  unmeant. 
Yet  drone-hive  strange  of  phantom  purposes ! 

Surplus  of  Nature's  dread  activity. 
Which,  as  she  gazed  on  some  nigh-finish'd  vase. 
Retreating  slow,  with  meditative  pause, 

She  form'd  with  restless  hands  unconsciously ! 
Blank  accident !  nothing's  anomaly ! 

If  rootless  thus,  thus  substanceless  thy  state. 
Go,  weigh  thy  dreams,  and  be  thy  Hopes,  thy  Fears, 
The  counter-weights ! — Tliy  Laughter  and  thy  Tears 

Mean  but  themselves,  each  fittest  to  create, 
63 


54 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  to  repay  the  other !  Why  rejoices 

Thy  heart  with  hollow  joy  for  hollow  good  ? 

Why  cowl  thy  face  beneath  the  mourner's  hood, 
Why  waste  thy  sighs,  and  thy  lamenting  voices. 

Image  of  image.  Ghost  of  Ghostly  Elf, 
That  such  a  thing  as  thou  feel'st  warm  or  cold ! 
Yet  what  and  whence  thy  gain  if  thou  withhold 

Tliese  costless  shadows  of  thy  shadowy  self? 
Be  sad !  be  glad  !  be  neither !  seek,  or  shun ! 
Thou  hast  no  reason  why  !  Thou  canst  have  none : 
Thy  being's  being  is  contradiction. 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE  GODS. 

IMITATED  FROM  SCHILLER. 

Never,  believe  me, 
Appear  the  Immortals, 
Never  alone : 
Scarce  had  I  welcomed  the  Sorrow-beguiler, 
lacchus !  but  in  came  Boy  Cupid  the  Smiler ; 
Lo !  Phoebus  the  Glorious  descends  from  his  Throne ! 
They  advance,  they  float  in,  the  Olympians  all ! 
With  Divinities  fills  my 
Terrestrial  Hall ! 

How  shall  I  yield  you 
Due  entertainment. 
Celestial  Quire  ? 
Me  rather,  bright  guests !   with  your  wdngs  of  up- 

buoyance 
Bear  aloft  to  your  homes,  to  your  banquets  of  joyance. 
That  the  roofs  of  Olympus  may  echo  my  lyre  I 
Ha !  we  mount!  on  their  pinions  they  waft  up  my  Soul! 

O  give  me  the  Nectar ! 
O  fill  me  the  Bowl ! 
Give  him  the  Nectar! 
Pour  out  for  the  Poet, 
Hebe !  pour  free  ! 
Quicken  his  eyes  with  celestial  dew, 
That  Styx  the  detested  no  more  he  may  view, 
And  like  one  of  us  Gods  may  conceit  him  to  be! 
Thanks,  Hebe  !  I  quaff  it!  lo  Paean,  I  cry! 
The  Wine  of  the  Immortals 
Forbids  me  to  die ! 


ELEGY, 


IMITATED  FROM  ONE  OF  AKENSIDE  S  BLANK  VERSE 
INSCRIPTIONS. 

Near  the  lone  pile  with  ivy  overspread. 

Fast  by  the  rivulet's  sleep-persuading  sound, 

Where  "  sleeps  the  moonlight "  on  yon  verdant  bed — 
O  humbly  press  that  consecrated  ground  ! 

For  there  does  Edmund  rest,  the  learned  swain ! 

And  there  his  spirit  most  delights  to  rove : 
Young  Edmund  !  famed  for  each  harmonious  strain. 

And  the  sore  wounds  of  ill-requited  love. 

Like  some  tall  tree  that  spreads  its  branches  wide. 
And  loads  the  west-wind  with  its  soft  perfume, 

His  manhood  blossoni'd  :  till  the  faithless  pride 
Of  fair  Matilda  sank  him  to  the  tomb. 


But  soon  did  righteous  Heaven  her  guilt  pursue ! 

Where'er  with  wilder'd  steps  she  wander'd  pale, 
Still  Edmund's  image  rose  to  blast  her  view. 

Still  Edmund's  voice  accused  her  in  each  gale. 

With  keen  regret,  and  conscious  guilt's  alarms, 
Amid  the  pomp  of  affluence  she  pined : 

Nor  all  that  lured  her  faith  from  Edmund's  arms 
Could  lull  the  wakeful  horror  of  her  mind. 

Go,  Traveller !  tell  the  tale  with  sorrow  fraught 
Some  tearful  maid,  perchance,  or  blooming  youth 

May  hold  it  m  remembrance  ;  and  be  taught 
That  Riches  cannot  pay  for  Love  or  Trutii. 


KUBLA  KHAN; 

OR,  A  VISION  IN  A  DREAM. 


[The  following  fragment  is  liere  published  at  the  request  of  a 
poet  of  great  and  deserved  celebrity,  and,  as  far  as  the  Author's 
own  opinions  are  concerned,  rather  as  a  psychological  curiosity, 
than  on  the  ground  of  any  supposed  poetic  merits. 

In  the  summer  of  the  year  1797,  the  Author,  then  in  ill  health, 
had  retired  to  a  lonely  farm-house  between  Porlock  and  Linton, 
on  the  Exmoor  confines  of  Somerset  and  Devonshire.  In  con- 
sequence of  a  slight  indisposition,  an  anodyne  had  been  pre- 
scribed, from  the  eftects  of  which  he  fell  asleep  in  his  chair  al 
the  moment  that  he  was  reading  the  following  sentence,  oi 
words  of  the  same  substance,  in  Purchas's  "Pilgrimage;" — 
"  Here  the  Khan  Kubla  commanded  a  palace  to  be  built,  and  a 
stately  garden  thereunto  ;  and  thus  ten  miles  of  fertile  ground 
were  inclosed  with  a  wall."  The  author  continued  for  abou' 
three  hours  in  a  profound  sleep,  at  least  of  the  external  senses, 
during  which  time  he  has  the  most  vivid  confidence  that  he  could 
not  have  composed  less  than  from  two  to  three  hundred  lines ;  if 
that  indeed  can  be  called  composition  in  which  all  the  images 
rose  up  before  him  as  things,  with  a  parallel  production  of  the 
correspondent  expressions,  without  any  sensation,  or  conscious- 
ness of  effort.  On  awaking  he  appeared  to  himself  to  have  a 
distinct  recollection  of  the  whole,  and  taking  his  pen,  ink,  and 
paper,  instantly  and  eagerly  wrote  down  the  lines  that  are  here 
preserved.  At  this  moment  he  was  unfortunately  called  out  by 
a  person  on  business  from  Porlock,  and  detained  by  him  above 
an  hour,  and  on  his  return  to  his  room,  found,  to  his  no  small 
surprise  and  mortification,  that  though  he  still  retained  soriie 
vague  and  dim  recollection  of  the  general  purport  of  the  vision, 
yet,  with  the  exception  of  some  eight  or  ten  scattered  Uncs  and 
images,  all  the  rest  had  passed  away  hke  the  images  on  the 
surface  of  a  stream  iiito  which  a  stone  had  been  cast,  but,  alas : 
without  llie  after  restoration  of  the  latter. 

Then  all  the  charm 
Is  broken — all  that  phantom-world  so  fair 
Vanishes,  and  a  thousand  circlets  spread, 
And  each  misshapes  the  other.    Stay  awhile, 
Poor  youth  !  who  scarcely  darest  lift  up  thine  eyes— 
The  stream  will  soon  renew  its  smoothness,  soon 
The  visions  will  return  1  And  lo,  he  stays, 
And  soon  the  fragments  dim  of  lovely  forms 
Come  trembling  back,  unite,  and  now  once  more 
The  pool  becomes  a  mirror. 
Yet  from  the  still  surviving  recollections  in  his  mind,  the  Author 
has  frequently  purposed  to   finish  for  himself  what  hai  been 
originally,  as  it  were,  given  to  him.    ^afitpov  aiicv  aaia: 
but  the  to-morrow  is  yet  to  come. 

As  a  contrast  to  this  vision,  I  have  annexed  a  fragment  of  a 
very  different  character,  describing  with  equal  fidelity  tho 
dream  of  pain  and  disease. — J^ote  to  the  first  Edition,  181G.] 


In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree  ; 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 

64 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


55 


So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
Willi  walls  and  lowers  were  girdled  round  : 
And  here  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills, 
Where  blossom'd  many  an  incense-bearing  tree  ; 
Ar^d  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Infolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  oh  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover ! 
A  savage  place  I  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover ! 
And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seeth- 
ing. 
As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breatliing, 
A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced : 
Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 
Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 
Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail : 
\nd  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles,  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion. 
Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran. 
Then  reach 'd  the  caverns  measureless  to  man. 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean  : 
And  'raid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice ! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw : 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid. 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  play'd, 

Singing  of  Mount  A  bora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song. 

To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me, 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
''  would  build  that  dome  in  air. 
That  sunny  dome  !  those  caves  of  ice  ! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  crj'.  Beware  !  Beware ! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair  I 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed 
And  drank  the  milk  of  Paradise. 


THE  PAINS  OF  SLEEP. 

Ere  on  my  bed  my  limbs  I  lay, 

It  hath  not  been  my  use  to  pray 

With  moving  lips  or  bended  knees  ; 

But  silently,  by  slow  degrees. 

My  spirit  I  to  Love  compose. 

In  humble  Trust  mine  eye-lids  close. 

With  reverential  resignation, 

No  wish  conceived,  no  thought  express'd  ! 

Only  a  sense  of  supplication, 

A  sense  o'er  all  my  soul  imprest 

That  I  am  weak,  yet  not  unblest. 


Since  in  me,  round  me,  every^vhere, 
Eternal  Strength  and  Wisdom  are. 

But  yester-night  I  pray'd  alotld 

In  anguish  and  in  agony. 

Up-starting  from  the  fiendish  crowd 

Of  shapes  and  thoughis  that  tortured  me  : 

A  lurid  light,  a  trampling  throng, 

Sense  of  intolerable  wrong. 

And  whom  I  scorn'd,  those  only  strong! 

Thirst  of  revenge,  the  powerless  will 

Still  baffled,  and  yet  burning  still ! 

Desire  with  lolhing  strangely  mix'd, 

On  wild  or  hateful  objects  fix'd. 

Fantastic  passions  !  maddening  brawl ! 

And  shame  and  terror  over  all ! 

Deeds  to  be  hid  which  were  not  hid. 

Which  all  confused  I  could  not  know. 

Whether  I  suffer'd,  or  I  did  : 

For  all  seem'd  guilt,  remorse,  or  woe. 

My  own  or  others',  still  the  same 

Life-stifling  fear,  soul-stifling  shame. 

So  two  nights  pass'd :  the  night's  dismay 
Sadden'd  and  stunn'd  the  coming  day. 
Sleep,  the  wide  blessing,  seem'd  to  me 
Distemper's  ^vorst  calamity. 
The  third  night,  when  my  own  loud  scream 
Had  waked  me  from  the  fiendish  dream, 
O'ercome  with  sufferings  strange  and  ■wild, 
I  wept  as  I  had  been  a  child  ; 
And  having  thus  by  tears  subdued 
My  anguish  to  a  milder  mood. 
Such  punishments,  I  said,  were  due 
To  natures  deepliest  stain'd  with  sin  ■ 
For  aye  entempesting  anew 
The  unfathomable  hell  within. 
The  horror  of  their  deeds  to  view. 
To  Iviiow  and  lothe,  yet  wish  and  do  I 
Such  griefs  with  such  men  well  agree. 
But  wherefore,  wherefore  fall  on  me  ? 
To  be  beloved  is  all  I  need. 
And  whom  I  love,  1  love  indeed. 


APPENDIX. 


APOLOGETIC  PREFACE 

TO  "FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGIITER." 
[See  page  26] 

At  the  house  of  a  gentleman,  who  by  the  principles 
and  corresponding  virtues  of  a  sincere  Christian  con- 
secrates a  cultivated  genius  and  the  favorable  acci- 
dents of  birth,  opulence,  and  splendid  connexions,  it 
was  my  good  fortune  to  meet,  in  a  diiuier-party,  with 
more  men  of  celebritj'  in  science  or  jiolite  literature, 
than  are  commonly  found  collected  round  the  same 
table.  In  the  course  of  conversation,  one  of  the  par- 
ty reminded  an  illustrious  Poet,  then  present,  of  some 
versos  which  he  had  recited  that  morning,  and  which 
had  appeared  in  a  newspaper  imder  the  name  of  a 
War-Eclogue,  in  which  Fire,  Famine,  and  Slaughter, 
were  introduced  as  the  speakers.  The  genileman  so 
addressed  replied,  that  he  was  rather  surprised  that 
6.^ 


56 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


none  of  us  should  have  noticed  or  heard  of  the  poem, 
as  it  had  been,  at  the  time,  a  good  deal  talked  of  in 
Scotland.  It  may  be  easily  supposed,  that  my  feel- 
ings were  at  this  moment  not  of  the  most  comforta- 
ble kind.  Of  all  present,  one  only  knew  or  suspect- 
ed me  to  be  the  author :  a  man  who  would  have 
established  himself  in  the  first  rank  of  England's 
living  Poets,  if  the  Genius  of  our  country  had  not 
decreed  that  he  should  rather  be  the  first  in  the  first 
rank  of  its  Philosophers  and  scientific  Benefactors. 
It  appeared  the  general  wish  to  hear  the  lines.  As  my 
friend  chose  to  remain  silent,  I  chose  to  follow  his 
example,  and  Mr.  *****  recited  the  Poem.  Tliis  he 
could  do  with  the  better  grace,  being  known  to  have 
ever  been  not  only  a  firm  and  active  Anti-Jacobin  and 
Anti-Gallican,  but  likewise  a  zealous  admirer  of  Mr. 
Pitt,  both  as  a  good  man  and  a  great  Statesman.  As 
a  Poet  exclusively,  he  had  been  amused  with  the 
Eclogue ;  as  a  Poet,  he  recited  it ;  and  in  a  spirit, 
which  made  it  evident,  that  he  would  have  read  and 
repeated  it  with  tlie  same  pleasure,  had  his  own 
name  been  attached  to  the  imaginary  object  or  agent. 

After  the  recitation,  our  amiable  host  observed, 
that  in  his  opinion  Mr.  *****  had  overrated  the  merits 
of  the  poetry ;  but  had  they  been  tenfold  greater, 
they  could  not  have  compensated  for  that  malignity 
of  heart,  wliich  could  alone  have  prompted  senti- 
ments so  atrocious.  I  perceived  that  my  illustrious 
friend  became  greatly  distressed  on  my  account;  but 
fortimately  I  was  able  to  preserve  fortitude  and  pres- 
ence of  mind  enough  to  take  up  the  subject  without 
exciting  even  a  suspicion  how  nearly  and  painfully 
it  interested  me. 

What  follows,  is  substantially  the  same  as  I  then 
replied,  but  dilated  and  in  language  less  colloquial. 
It  was  not  my  intention,  I  said,  to  justify  the  publi- 
cation, whatever  its  author's  feelings  might  have 
been  at  the  time  of  composing  it.  That  they  are 
calculated  to  call  forth  so  severe  a  reprobation  from 
a  good  man,  is  not  the  worst  feature  of  such  poems. 
Their  moral  deformity  is  aggravated  in  proportion  to 
the  pleasure  which  they  are  capable  of  affording 
to  vindictive,  turbulent,  and  unprincipled  readers. 
Could  it  be  supposed,  though  for  a  moment,  that  the 
author  seriously  wished  what  he  had  thus  wildly  im- 
agined, even  the  •'ttempt  to  palliate  an  inliumanity  so 
monstrous  would  oe  an  insult  to  the  hearers.  But  it 
seemed  to  me  worthy  of  consideration,  whether  the 
mood  of  mind,  and  the  general  state  of  sensations, 
in  which  a  Poet  produces  such  vivid  and  fantastic 
images,  is  likely  to  coexist,  or  is  even  compatible, 
with  that  gloomy  and  deliberate  ferocity  which  a 
serious  wish  to  realize  them  would  presuppose.  It 
had  been  often  observed,  and  all  my  experience 
tended  to  confirm  the  observation,  that  prospects  of 
pain  and  evil  to  others,  and,  in  general,  all  deep  feel- 
ings of  revenge,  are  commonly  expressed  in  a  few 
words,  ironically  tame,  and  mild.  Tlie  mind  luider 
EO  direful  and  fiend-like  an  influence  seems  to  take  a 
morbid  pleasure  in  contrasting  the  intensity  of  its 
wishes  and  feelings,  with  the  slightness  or  levity  of 
the  expressions  by  which  they  are  hinted ;  and  in- 
deed feelings  so  intense  and  solitary,  if  they  were 
not  precluded  (as  in  almost  all  cases  diey  would  be) 
by  a  constitutional  activity  of  fancy  and  association, 
and  by  the  specific  joyousness  combined  with  it, 
would  assuredly  themselves  preclude  such  activity. 
Passion,  in  its  own  quality,  is  the  antagonist  of  ac- 
tion ;  though  in  an  ordinary  and  natural  degree  the 
former  alternates  with  the  latter,  and  thereby  revives 


and  strengthens  it.  But  the  more  intense  and  insane 
the  passion  is,  the  fewer  and  the  more  fixed  are  the 
correspondent  forms  and  notions.  A  rooted  hatred, 
an  inveterate  thirst  of  revenge,  is  a  sort  of  madness, 
and  still  eddies  round  its  favorite  object,  and  exer- 
cises as  it  were  a  perpetual  tautology  of  mind  in 
thoughts  and  words,  which  admit  of  no  adequate 
substitutes.  Like  a  fish  in  a  globe  of  glass,  it  moves 
restlessly  round  and  round  the  scanty  circumference, 
which  it  caiuiot  leave  without  losing  its  vital  ele- 
ment. 

There  is  a  second  character  of  such  imagmary 
representations  as  spring  from  a  real  and  earnest  de- 
sire of  evil  to  another,  which  we  often  see  in  real 
life,  and  might  even  anticipate  from  the  nature  of 
the  mind.  The  images,  I  mean,  that  a  vindictive 
man  places  before  his  imagination,  will  most  often  be 
taken  from  the  realities  of  life  :  they  will  be  images 
of  pain  and  suffering  wliich  he  has  himself  seen  in- 
flicted on  other  men,  and  which  he  can  fancy  him- 
self as  inflicting  on  the  object  of  his  hatred.  I  will 
suppose  that  we  had  heard  at  different  times  two 
common  sailors,  each  speaking  of  some  one  who  had 
wronged  or  offended  him :  that  the  first  with  appa- 
rent violence  had  devoted  every  part  of  his  adversa- 
ry's body  and  soul  to  all  the  horrid  phantoms  and 
fantastic  places  that  ever  Quevedo  dreamt  of,  and 
this  in  a  rapid  flow  of  those  outre  and  wildly-com- 
bined execrations,  which  too  often  with  our  lower 
classes  serve  for  escape-valves  to  carry  off  the  excess 
of  their  passions,  as  so  much  superfluous  steam  that 
would  endanger  the  vessel  if  it  were  retained.  The 
other,  on  the  contrary,  with  that  sort  of  calmness  of 
tone  which  is  to  the  ear  what  the  paleness  of  anger 
is  to  the  eye,  shall  simply  say,  "  If  I  chance  to  be 
made  boatswain,  as  I  hope  I  soon  shall,  and  can  but 
once  get  that  fellow  under  my  hand  (and  1  shall  be 
upon  the  watch  for  him),  I  '11  tickle  his  pretty  skin ! 

I  wont  hurt  him !  oh  no !  I  '11  only  cut  the to 

the  liver.'"  I  dare  appeal  to  all  present,  which  of  the 
two  they  would  regard  as  the  least  deceptive  symp- 
tom of  deliberate  malignity  ?  nay,  whether  it  would 
surprise  them  to  see  the  first  fellow,  an  hour  or  two 
afterward,  cordially  shaking  hands  with  the  very 
man,  the  fractional  parts  of  whose  body  and  soul  he 
had  been  so  charitably  disposing  of;  or  even  perhaps 
risking  his  life  for  him.  What  language  Shakspeare 
considered  characteristic  of  malignant  disposition,  we 
see  in  the  speech  of  the  good-natured  Gratiano,  who 
spoke  "  an  infinite  deal  of  nothing  more  than  any 
man  in  all  Venice  ;" 

Too  wild,  too  rude  and  bold  of  voice ! 

the  skipping  spirit,  whose  thoughts  and  words  recip 
rocally  ran  away  with  each  other  ; 

O  be  thou  damn'd,  inexorable  dog  ' 

And  for  thy  life  let  justice  be  accused ! 

and  the  wild  fancies  that  follow,  contrasted  with  Shy- 
lock's  tranquil  "  I  stand  here  for  law." 

Or,  to  take  a  case  more  analogous  to  the  present 
subject,  should  we  hold  it  either  fair  or  charitable  to 
believe  it  to  have  been  Dante's  serious  wish,  that  all 
the  persons  mentioned  by  him,  (many  recently  de- 
parted, and  some  even  alive  at  the  time),  should  ac- 
tually suffer  the  fantastic  and  horrible  punishments, 
to  which  he  has  sentenced  them  in  his  Hell  and 
Purgatory?  Or  what  shall  we  say  of  the  passages 
in  which  Bishop  Jeremy  Taylor  anticipates  the  state 
of  those  who,  vicious  themselves,  have  been  the 
66 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


57 


cause  of  vice  and  misery  to  their  fellow-creatures  ? 
Could  we  eisdure  for  a  nioincnl  to  think  that  a  spirit, 
like  Bishop  Taylor's,  burning  with  Christian  love ; 
that  a  man  constitutionally  overflowing  with  plea- 
surable Idiidliness  ;  who  scarcely  even  in  a  casual 
illustration  introduces  the  image  of  woman,  child,  or 
bird,  but  he  embalms  the  thought  with  so  rich  a 
tenderness,  as  makes  the  very  words  seem  beauties 
and  iragments  of  poetry  from  a  Euripides  or  Sinio- 
nides ;— can  we  endure  to  think,  that  a  man  so  na- 
tured  and  so  disciplined,  did  at  the  tjme  of  composing 
this  horrible  picture,  attach  a  sober  feeling  of  reality 
10  the  phrases  ?  or  that  he  would  have  described  in 
the  same  tone  of  justification,  in  the  same  luxuriant 
flow  of  phrases,  the  tortures  about  to  be  inflicted  on 
a  living  individual  by  a  verdict  of  the  Star-Chamber? 
or  the  still  more  atrocious  sentences  executed  on  the 
Scotch  anti-prelatists  and  schismatics,  at  the  com- 
mand, and  in  some  instances  under  the  very  eye  of 
the  Duke  of  Lauderdale,  and  of  that  wretched  bigot 
who  afterwards  dishonored  and  forfeited  the  throne 
of  Great  Britain  ?  Or  do  we  not  rather  feel  and  un- 
derstand, that  these  violent  words  were  mere  bubbles, 
flashes  and  electrical  apparitions,  from  the  magic 
caldron  of  a  fervid  and  ebullient  fancy,  constantly 
fuelled  by  an  unexampled  opulence  of  language  ? 

Were  I  now  to  have  read  by  myself  for  the  first 
time  the  Poem  in  question,  my  conclusion,  I  fully 
believe,  would  be,  that  the  writer  must  have  been 
some  man  of  warm  feelings  and  active  fancy ;  that 
he  had  painted  to  himself  the  circumstances  that  ac- 
company war  in  so  many  vivid  and  yet  fantastic 
forms,  as  proved  that  neither  the  images  nor  the 
feelings  were  the  result  of  observation,  or  in  any 
way  derived  from  realities.  I  should  judge,  that  they 
were  the  product  of  his  own  seething  imagination, 
and  therefore  impregnated  with  that  pleasurable  ex 
ullation  which  is  experienced  in  all  energetic  exer- 
tion of  intellectual  power ;  that  in  the  same  mood 
he  had  generalized  the  causes  of  the  war,  and  then 
personified  the  abstract,  and  christened  it  by  the 
name  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  most 
oi'ten  associated  with  its  management  and  measures. 
1  should  guess  that  the  minister  was  in  the  author's 
mind  at  the  moment  of  composition,  as  completely 
a-aaSiii,  di/ai/ioVapKof,  as  Anacreon's  grasshopper,  and 
that  he  had  as  little  notion  of  a  real  person  of  flesh 
and  blood, 

Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb, 

as  Milton  had  in  the  grim  and  terrible  pliantoms  (half 
person,  half  allegory)  which  he  has  placed  at  the 
gates  of  Hell.  I  concluded  by  observing,  that  the 
Poem  was  not  calculated  to  excite  passion  in  any 
mind,  or  to  make  any  impression  except  on  poetic 
readers ;  and  that  from  the  culpable  levity,  betrayed 
at  the  close  of  the  Eclogue  by  the  grotesque  union 
of  epigrammatic  wit  with  allegoric  personification, 
in  the  allusion  to  the  most  fearful  of  thought.s,  I 
should  conjecture  that  the  "  rantin'  Bardie,"  instead 
of  really  believing,  much  less  wishing,  the  fate  spo- 
ken of  in  the  last  line,  in  application  to  any  human 
individual,  would  shrink  front  passing  the  verdict 
even  on  the  Devil  himself,  and  exclaim  with  poor 
Bums, 

But  fare  ye  wcel,  auld  Nickie-benI 
Oh  !  wail  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men' ! 
Ye  aibhns  might — I  dinna  ken — 

Still  hae  a  stake— 


1  'm  wae  to  tliink  upon  yon  don. 

Ev'n  lor  your  sake ! 

I  need  not  say  tliat  these  thoughts,  which  are  here 
dilated,  were  in  such  a  company  only  rapidly  sug- 
gested. Our  kind  host  smiled,  and  with  a  courteous 
compliment  observed,  that  the  defence  was  too  good 
for  the  cause.  My  voice  faltered  a  little,  for  I  was 
somewhat  agitated  ;  though  not  so  much  on  my  own 
account  as  for  the  uneasiness  that  so  kind  and 
friendly  a  man  would  feel  from  the  thought  that  ho 
had  been  the  occasion  of  distressing  me.  At  length 
I  brought  out  these  words :  "  I  must  now  confess, 
Sir !  that  I  am  author  of  that  Poem.  It  was  written 
some  years  ago.  I  do  not  attempt  to  justify  my  past 
self,  young  as  I  then  was  ;  but  as  little  as  1  would 
now  write  a  similar  poem,  so  far  was  I  even  then 
from  imagining,  that  the  lines  would  be  taken  a.s 
more  or  less  than  a  sport  of  fancy.  At  all  events,  if 
I  know  my  own  heart,  there  was  never  a  moment 
in  my  existence  in  which  I  should  have  been  more 
ready,  had  Mr.  Pitt's  person  been  in  hazard,  to  inter- 
pose my  own  body,  and  defend  his  life  at  the  risk  of 
my  own." 

I  have  prefaced  the  Poem  with  this  anecdote,  be- 
cause to  have  printed  it  without  any  remark  might 
well  have  been  understood  as  implying  an  uncondi- 
tional approbation  on  my  part,  and  this  after  many 
years'  consideration.  But  if  it  be  asked  why  T  re- 
published it  at  all  ?  I  answer,  that  the  Poem  had 
been  attributed  at  different  times  to  different  other 
persons ;  and  what  I  had  dared  beget,  I  thought  it 
neither  manly  nor  honorable  not  to  dare  father. 
From  the  same  motives  I  should  have  published 
perfect  copies  of  two  Poems,  the  one  entitled  The 
DeviVs  Thoughts,  and  the  other  The  Two  Round 
Spaces  on  the  Tomh-Stone,  but  that  the  three  first 
stanzas  of  the  former,  which  were  worth  all  the  rest 
of  the  poem,  and  the  best  stanza  of  the  remainder, 
were  written  by  a  friend  of  deserved  celebrity ;  and 
because  there  are  passages  in  both,  which  might 
have  given  ofl^ence  to  the  religious  feelings  of  certain 
readers.  I  myself  indeed  see  no  reason  why  vulgar 
superstitions,  and  absurd  conceptions  that  deform  the 
pure  faith  of  a  Christian,  should  possess  a  greater 
immunity  from  ridicule  than  stories  of  witches,  or 
the  fables  of  Greece  and  Rome.  But  there  are 
those  who  deem  it  profaneness  and  irreverence  to 
call  an  ape  an  ape,  if  it  but  wear  a  monk's  cowl  on 
its  head  ;  and  I  would  rather  reason  with  this  weak- 
ness than  offend  it. 

The  passage  from  Jeremy  Taylor  to  which  I  re- 
ferred, is  found  in  his  second  Sermon  on  Christ's 
Advent  to  Judgment;  which  is  likewise  the  second 
in  his  year's  course  of  sermons.  Among  many  re 
markable  passages  of  the  same  character  in  those 
discourses,  I  have  selected  this  as  the  most  so.  "But 
when  this  Lion  of  the  tribe  of  Judah  shall  appear, 
then  Justice  shall  strike  and  Mercy  sliall  not  hold 
her  hands;  she  shall  strike  sore  strokes,  and  Pity 
shall  not  break  the  blow  As  there  are  treasures  of 
good  things,  so  hath  God  a  treasure  of  wrath  and 
fury,  and  scourges  and  scorpions ;  and  then  shall  be 
produced  the  shame  of  Lust  and  the  malice  of  Envy, 
and  the  groans  of  the  oppressed  and  the  persecutions 
of  the  saints,  and  the  cares  of  Covetousness  and  the 
troubles  of  Ambition,  and  the  indolence  of  traitors 
and  the  violences  of  rebels,  and  the  rage  of  anger  and 
the  uneasiness  of  impatience,  and  the  resllessitess  of. 
67 


58 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


unlawful  desires  ;  and  by  this  time  the  monsters  and 
diseases  will  be  numerous  and  intolerable,  when 
God's  heavy  hand  shall  press  the  sanies  and  the  in- 
tolerableness,  the  obliquity  and  the  unreasonableness, 
the  amazement  and  the  disorder,  the  smart  and  the 
sorrow,  the  guilt  and  the  punishment,  out  from  all 
our  sins,  and  pour  them  mto  one  chalice,  and  mingle 
them  witli  an  infinite  wrath,  and  make  the  wicked 
drink  of  all  the  vengeance,  and  force  it  down  their 
unwilling  throats  with  the  violence  of  devils  and 
accursed  spirits." 

That  this  Tartarean  drench  displays  the  imagina- 
tion rather  than  the  discretion  of  the  compounder; 
that,  in  short,  this  passage  and  others  of  the  kind 
are  in  a  bad  lasle,  few  will  deny  at  the  present  day. 
It  would  doubtless  have  more  behoved  the  good 
bishop  not  to  be  wise  beyond  what  is  written,  on  a 
subject  in  which  Eternity  is  opposed  to  Time,  and  a 
death  threatened,  not  the  negative,  but  the  posilive 
0])positive  of  Life  ;  a  subject,  therefore,  which  must 
of  necessity  be  indescribable  to  the  human  under- 
standing in  our  present  state.  But  I  can  neither  find 
nor  believe,  that  it  ever  occurred  to  any  reader  to 
ground  on  such  passages  a  charge  against  Bishop 
Taylor's  humanity,  or  goodness  of  heart.  I  was 
not  a  little  surprised  therefore  to  find,  in  the  Pur- 
suits of  Literature  and  other  works,  so  horrible  a 
sentence  passed  on  Milton's  moral  character,  for  a 
passage  in  his  prose-writings,  as  nearly  parallel  to 
this  of  Taylor's  as  two  passages  can  well  be  con- 
ceived to  be.  All  his  merits,  as  a  poet  forsooth — all 
the  glory  of  having  written  the  Paradise  Lost,  are 
light  in  the  scale,  nay,  Idck  the  beam,  compared 
with  the  atrocious  malignity  of  heart  expressed  in 
the  offensive  paragraph.  I  remembered,  in  general, 
that  Milton  had  concluded  one  of  his  works  on  Re- 
formation, written  hi  the  fervor  of  his  youthful  im- 
agination, in  a  high  poetic  stram,  that  wanted  metre 
only  to  become  a  lyrical  poem.  I  remembered  that 
in  the  former  part  he  had  formed  to  himself  a  perfect 
ideal  of  human  virtue,  a  character  of  heroic,  disin- 
terested zeal  and  devotion  for  Truth,  Religion,  and 
public  Liberty,  in  Act  and  in  Suffering,  in  the  day 
of  Triumph  and  in  the  hour  of  Martyrdom.  Such 
spirits,  as  more  excellent  than  others,  he  describes 
as  having  a  more  excellent  reward,  and  as  distin- 
guished by  a  transcendent  glory  :  and  this  reward 
and  this  glory  he  displays  and  particularizes  with  an 
energy  and  brilliance  that  announced  the  Paradise 
Lost  as  plainly  as  ever  the  bright  purple  clouds  in 
the  east  announced  the  coming  of  the  sun.  Milton 
then  passes  to  the  gloomy  contrast,  to  such  men  as 
from  motives  of  selfish  ambition  and  the  lust  of  per- 
sonal aggrandizement  should,  against  their  own  light, 
persecute  truth  and  the  true  religion,  and  wilfully 
abuse  the  powers  and  gifts  intrusted  to  them,  to 
bring  vice,  blindness,  misery  and  slavery,  on  their 
native  country,  on  the  very  country  that  had  trusted, 
enriched  and  honored  them.  Such  beings,  after  that 
speedy  and  appropriate  removal  from  their  sphere  of 

.  mischief  which  all  good  and  humane  men  must  of 
course  desire,  will,  he  takes  for  granted  by  parity  of 
reason,  meet  with  a  punishment,  an  ignominy,  and  a 
retahation,  as  much  severer  than  other  wicked  men, 
as  their  guilt  and  its  consequences  were  more  enor- 
mous. His  description  of  this  imaginary  punishment 
presents  more  distinct  pictures  to  the  fancy  than  the 
extract  from  Jeremy  Taylor ;  but  the  thoughts  in  the 
lattef  are  incomparably  more  exaggerated  and  hor- 

.  riiic.    All  this  I  knew ;  but  I  neither  remembered, 


nor  by  reference  and  careful  re-perusal  could  dis 
cover,  any  other  meaning,  either  in  Milton  or  Tajlor 
but  that  good  men  will  be  rewarded,  and  the  impen- 
itent wicked  punished,  in  proportion  to  their  disposi. 
tions  and  intentional  acts  in  this  life  ;  and  that  if  the 
punishment  of  the  least  wicked  be  fearful  beyond 
conception,  all  words  and  descriptions  must  be  so  far 
true,  that  they  must,  fall  short  of  the  punishment  tha*. 
awaits  the  transcendently  wicked.  Had  Milton  stated 
either  his  ideal  of  virtue,  or  of  depravity,  as  an  indi- 
vidual or  individuals  actually  existing?  Certainly  not 
Is  this  representation  worded  historically,  or  only  hy- 
polhetically  ?  Assuredly  the  latter!  Does  he  express 
it  as  his  own  v:ish,  that  after  death  they  should  suffer 
these  tortures  ?  or  as  a  general  consequence,  deduced 
from  reason  and  revelation,  that  such  will  be  their 
fate  ?  Again,  the  latter  only  I  His  wish  is  expressly  con- 
fined to  a  speedy  slop  being  put  by  Providence  to 
their  power  of  indicting  misery  on  others !  But  did  he 
name  or  refer  to  any  persons,  living  br  dead  ?  Kol 
But  the  calumniators  of  Milton  dare  say  (for  what 
will  calumny  not  dare  say?)  that  he  had  Laud  and 
Stafford  in  his  mind,  while  writing  of  remorseless 
persecution,  and  the  enslavement  of  a  free  country, 
from  motives  of  selfish  ambition.  Now,  what  if  a 
stern  anti-prelatist  should  dare  say,  that  in  spealdng 
of  the  insolencies  of  traitors  and  the  violences  of  rebels. 
Bishop  Taylor  must  have  individualized  in  his  mind, 
Ha.mpde."^,  Hollis,  Pvm,  Fa,irfax,  Iretox,  and  Mil- 
ton ?  And  what  if  he  should  take  the  liberty  of  con- 
cluding, that,  in  the  after  description,  the  Bishop  was 
feeding  and  feasting  his  party-hatred,  and  with  those 
individuals  before  the  eyes  of  his  imagination  enjoy- 
ing, trait  by  trait,  horror  after  horror,  the  picture  of 
their  intolerable  agonies  ?  Yet  this  bigot  would  have 
an  equal  right  thus  to  criminate  the  one  good  and 
great  man,  as  these  men  have  to  criminate  the  other. 
Milton  has  said,  and  1  doubt  not  but  that  Taylor  with 
equal  truth  could  have  said  it,  "  that  hi  his  whole 
lite  he  never  spake  against  a  man  even  that  his  sldn 
should  be  grazed."  He  asserted  this  when  one  of  his 
opponents  (either  Bishop  Hall  or  his  nephew)  had 
called  upon  the  women  and  children  in  the  streets 
to  take  up  stones  and  stone  him  (Milton).  It  is 
known  that  Milton  repeatedly  used  his  uiterest  to 
protect  the  royalists ;  but  even  at  a  time  when  all 
lies  would  have  been  meritorious  against  him,  no 
charge  was  made,  no  story  pretended,  that  he  had 
ever  directly  or  indirectly  engaged  or  assisted  in 
their  persecution.  Oh !  methinks  there  are  other  and 
far  better  feelings,  which  should  be  acquired  by  the 
perusal  of  our  great  elder  writers.  When  I  have 
before  me  on  the  same  table,  the  works  of  Hammond 
and  Baxter  :  when  1  reflect  with  what  joy  and  dear 
ness  their  blessed  spirits  are  now  loving  each  other  ■ 
it  seems  a  mournful  thing  that  their  names  should 
be  perverted  to  an  occasion  of  bitterness  among  us, 
who  are  enjoying  that  happy  mean  which  the  human 
TOO-MUCH  on  both  sides  was  perhaps  necessary  to 
produce.  "  The  tangle  of  delusions  which  stifled  and 
distorted  the  growing  tree  of  our  well-being  has  bee 
torn  away  !  the  parasite  w  eeds  that  fed  on  its  ve. 
roots  have  been  plucked  up  with  a  salutary  violenc 
To  us  there  remain  only  quiet  duties,  the  constant 
care,  the  gradual  improvement,  the  cautious  un- 
hazardous labors  of  the  industrious  though  contented 
gardener — to  prune,  to  strengthen,  to  engraft,  and 
one  by  one  to  remove  from  its  leaves  and  fresh 
shoots  the  slug  and  the  caterpillar.  But  far  be 
it  frotn  us  to  undervalue  with  light  and  senseless 
68 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


59 


detraction  the  conscienlious  lianliliood  of  our  jirede- 
cessors,  or  even  to  condemn  in  them  that  vehemence, 
to  which  the  blessings  it  v\on  for  us  leave  us  now 
neither  temptation  or  pretext.  We  antedate  the 
feelings,  in  order  to  criminate  the  authors,  of  our  pres- 
ent Liberty,  Light  and  Toleration."  (TiiE  Friknd, 
p.  54.) 

If  ever  two  great  men  might  seem,  during  their 
who'e  lives,  to  have  moved  in  direct  opposition,  though 
neither  of  them  has  at  any  time  introduced  the 
name  of  the  other,  Milton  and  Jeremy  Taylor  were 
they.  The  former  couuiienced  his  career  by  attack- 
ing the  Church-Liturgy  and  all  set  forms  of  prayer. 
The  latter,  but  far  more  successfully,  by  defending 
both.  Milton's  next  work  was  then  against  the  Pre- 
lacy and  the  then  existing  Church-Government — 
Taylor's  in  vindication  and  -support  of  them.  Milton 
became  more  and  more  a  stern  republican,  or  rather 
an  advocate  for  that  religious  and  moral  aristocracy 
which,  in  his  day,  was  called  republicanism,   and 


even  by  the  Schoolmen  in  subtlety,  agility  and  logic 
wit,  and  unrivalled  by  the  most  rhetorical  of  the 
fathers  in  the  copiousness  and  vividness  of  his  ex- 
pressions and  illustrations.  Here  words  that  con- 
vey feelings,  and  words  that  flash  images,  and  words 
of  abstract  notion,  (low  together,  and  at  once  whirl 
and  rush  onward  like  a  stream,  at  once  rapid  and 
full  of  eddies;  and  yet  still  interfused  here  and  there 
we  see  a  tongue  or  isle  of  smooth  water,  with  some 
picture  in  it  of  earth  or  sky,  landscape  or  living 
group  of  quiet  beauty. 

Differing,  then,  so  widely,  and  almost  contrariant- 
ly,  wherein  did  these  great  men  agree?  wherein 
did  they  resemble  each  other?  In  Genius,  in 
Learning,  in  unfeigned  Piety,  in  blameless  Purity 
of  Life,  and  in  benevolent  aspirations  and  purposes 
for  the  moral  and  temporal  improvement  of  their  fel- 
low-creatures! Both  of  them  wrote  a  Latin  Acci- 
dence, to  render  education  more  easy  and  less  pain- 
ful to  children ;  both  of  them  composed  hymns  and 


which,  even  more  than  royalism  itself,  is  the  direct   psalms  proportioned  to  the  capacity  of  common  con- 
antipode  of  modern  jacobinism.  Taylor,  as  more  and   gregations ;  both,  nearly  at  the  same  time,  set  the 


more  sceptical  concerning  the  fitness  of  men  in  general 
for  power,  became  more  and  more  attached  to  the 
prerogatives  of  monarchy.  From  Calvinism,  with  a 
still  decreasing  respect  for  Fathers,  Councils,  and  for 
Church- Antiquity  in  general,  Milton  seems  to  have 
ended  in  an  indifference,  if  not  a  dislike,  to  all  forms 
of  ecclesiastic  government,  and  to  have  retreated 
wholly  into  the  inward  and  spiritual  church-commu- 
nion of  his  own  spirit  with  the  Light,  that  lighteth 
every  man  that  cometh  into  the  world.  Taylor,  with 
a  growing  reverence  for  authority,  an  increasing 
sense  of  the  insufficiency  of  the  Scriptures  without 
the  aids  of  tradition  and  the  consent  of  authorized 
inttTpreters,  advanced  as  far  in  his  approaches  (not 
indeed  to  Popery,  but)  to  Catholicism,  as  a  conscien- 
tious minister  of  the  English  Church  could  well  ven- 
tv.re.  Milton  would  be,  and  would  utter  the  same, 
to  all,  on  all  occasions:  he  would  tell  the  truth,  the 
whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  Taylor 
would  become  all  things  to  all  men,  if  by  any 
means  he  might  benefit  any;  hence  he  availed  him- 
self, in  his  popular  writings,  of  opinions  and  repre- 
sentations which  stand  often  in  striking  contrast  with 
the  doubts  and  convictions  expressed  in  his  more 
philosophical  works.  He  appears,  indeed,  not  too 
severely  to  have  blamed  that  management  of  truth 
{istam  falsilalem  dispensalivam)  authorized  and  ex- 
emjilified  by  almost  all  the  fathers :  Integrum  omnino 
Doiioribus  el  coetus  Christiani  antistibns  esse,  tit  dolos 
vei  seiit,  falsa  veris  intermisceant  et  imprimis  religionis 
hostes  fallant,  dummodo  veritalis  commodis  el  ittilitali 
inservianl. 

The  same  antithesis  might  be  carried  on  with  the 
elements  of  their  several  intellectual  powers.  Mil- 
ton, austere,  condensed,  imaginative,  supporting  his 
truth  by  direct  enunciations  of  lofty  moral  senti- 
ment and  by  distinct  visual  representations,  and  in 
the  same  spirit  overwhelming  what  he  deemed  false- 
hood by  moral  denunciation  and  a  succession  of  pic- 
tures appalling  or  repulsive.  In  his  prose,  so  many 
metaphors,  so  many  allegorical  miniatures.  Taylor, 
eminently  discursive,  accumulative,  and  (to  use  one 
of  his  own  words)  agglomeralive  ;  still  more  rich  in 
images  than  Milton  himself,  but  images  of  Fancy, 
and  presented  to  the  common  and  passive  eye,  rather 
than  to  the  eye  of  the  imagination.  Whether  sup- 
porting or  assailing,  he  makes  his  way  either  by  ar- 
gument or  by  appeal*  to  the  affections,  unsurpassed 


lorious  example  of  publicly  recommending  and  sup- 
porting general  Toleration,  and  the  Liberty  both  of 
the  Pulpit  and  the  Press !  In  the  writings  of  neither 
shall  we  find  a  single  sentence,  like  those  meek 
deliverances  to  God's  mercy,  with  which  Laud  ac- 
companied his  votes  for  the  mutilations  and  lothe- 
sorae  dungeoning  of  Leighton  and  others ! — nowhere 
such  a  pious  prayer  as  we  find  in  Bishop  Hall's 
memoranda  of  liLs  own  Life,  concerning  the  subtle 
and  witty  Atlieist  that  so  grievously  perplexed  and 
gravelled  him  at  Sir  Robert  Drury's,  till  he  prayed  to 
the  Lord  to  remove  him,  and  behold !  his  prayers 
were  heard;  lor  shortly  afterward  this  Philistine 
combatant  went  to  London,  and  there  perished  of 
the  plague  in  great  misery !  In  short,  nowhere  shall 
we  find  the  least  approach,  in  the  lives  and  writings 
of  John  Milton  or  Jeremy  Taylor,  to  that  guarded 
gentleness,  to  that  sighing  reluctance,  with  which 
the  holy  Brethren  of  the  Inquisition  deliver  over  a 
condemned  heretic  to  the  civil  magistrate,  recom- 
mending him  to  mercy,  and  hoping  that  the  magis- 
trate will  treat  the  erring  brother  with  all  possible 
mildness  ! — the  magistrate,  who  too  well  knows  what 
would  be  his  own  fate,  if  he  dared  offend  them  by 
acting  on  their  recommendation. 

The  opportimity  of  diverting  the  reader  from  my- 
self to  characters  more  worthy  of  his  attention,  has 
led  me  far  beyond  my  first  intention  ;  but  it  is  not 
unimportant  to  expose  the  false  zeal  which  has  occa- 
sioned these  attacks  on  our  elder  patriots.  It  has 
been  too  much  the  fashion,  first  to  personify  the 
Church  of  England,  and  then  to  speak  of  different 
individuals,  who  in  different  ages  have  been  rulers 
in  that  church,  as  if  in  some  strange  way  they  con- 
stituted its  personal  identity.  Why  should  a  clergy- 
man of  the  present  day  feel  interested  in  the  defence 
of  Laud  or  Sheldon  ?  Surely  it  is  sufficient  for  the 
warmest  partisan  of  our  establishment,  that  he  can 
assert  with  truth, — when  our  Church  persecuted,  it 
was  on  mistaken  principles  held  in  common  by  all 
Christendom  ;  and,  at  all  events,  far  less  culpable 
was  this  intolerance  in  the  Bishoi)s,  who  were  main- 
taining the  existing  laws,  than  the  persecuting  spirit 
afterwards  showTi  by  their  successful  opponents,  who 
had  no  such  excuse,  and  who  should  have  been 
taught  mercy  by  their  own  sufferings,  and  wisdom  by 
the  utter  failure  of  the  experiment  in  their  owti  case. 
We  can  say,  that  our  Church,  apostolical  in  its  faith, 
10  69 


60 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


primitive  in  its  ceremonies,  unequalled  in  its  liturgical 
forms ;  that  our  Church,  which  has  kindled  and  dis- 
played more  bright  and  burning  lights  of  Genius  and 
Learning,  than  all  other  Protestant  churches  since 
the  Reformation,  was  (with  the  single  exception  of 
the  times  of  Land  and  Sheldon)  least  intolerant, 
when  all  Christians  unhappily  deemed  a  species  of 
•  Intolerance  their  religious  duty ;  that  Bishops  of  our 
church  were  among  the  first  that  contended  against 
this  error;  and  finally,  that  since  the  Reformation, 
when  tolerance  became  a  fashion,  the  Church  of 


England,  in  a  tolerating  age,  has  shown  herself  emi 
nently  tolerant,  and  far  more  so,  both  in  Spirit  and  in 
fact,  that  many  of  her  most  bitter  opponents,  who 
profess  to  deem  toleration  itself  an  insult  on  the 
rights  of  mankind  !  As  to  myself,  who  not  only  know 
the  Church-Establishment  to  be  tolerant,  but  who 
see  in  it  the  greatest,  if  not  the  sole  safe  bulwark  of 
Toleration,  I  feel  no  necessity  of  defending  or  pal- 
liating oppressions  under  the  two  Charleses,  in  order 
to  exclaim  with  a  full  and  fervent  heart,  esto  pfr 

PETUA ! 


Kfit  Mimt  of  tlie  Ancient  J^atiner* 

IN  SEVEN  PARTS. 


Facile  credo,  plures  esse  Naturas  invisibiles  quam  visibiles  in  rerum  universitate.  Sed  horum  cranium 
familiam  quis  nobis  enarrabit  ?  et  gradus  et  cognationes  et  discrimina  et  singulorum  munera?  Quid 
a^unt  ?  qiiiB  loca  habitant  ?  Harum  rerum  notitiam  semper  ambivit  ingenium  humanum,  nunquam 
attigit.  Juvat.inteiea,  non  diffiteor,  quandoquein  animo,  tanquam  in  tabula,  majorisetmeliorismundi 
imaginem  contemplari :  ne  mens  assuefac'ta  hodievniE  vit03  minutiis  se  contraliat  nimis,  et  tola  subsidat 
in  pusillas  cogitationes.  Sed  veritati  interea  invigilandum  est,  modusque  servandus,  ut  carta  ab 
incertis,  diem  a  nocte,  distinguamus.— T.  Burnet  :  Archaol.  Phil.  ■p.  68. 


An  ancient  Mari- 
ner meeteth  three 
gallants  bidden  to 
a  wedding-feast, 
and  detaineth 
one. 


PART  I. 
It  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 
And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three  : 
"  By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glitter- 
ing eye, 
Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 

"  The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  open'd 

wide. 
And  I  am  next  of  kin  ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set : 
Mayst  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand : 

"  There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he. 

"  Hold  off!  unhand  me,  gray-beard 

loon ! " 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holdshim  with  his  glittering  eye — 
The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still, 
And  listens  like  a  three-years'  child ; 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone, 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear  ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  mariner. 

The  ship  was  cheer'd,   the  harbor 

clear'd, 
Merrily  did  we  drop 
Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill. 
Below  the  light-house  top. 

The  Mariner  fells  The  Sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 

how  the  ship  sail-  Qut  of  the  sea  came  he ! 

ed  southward  ^^j  j^^  ^'^^^^^  ^,j-   j^j  ^^^  ^^  ^y^^    -^^ 

with  a  good  wind  ,,,     ^   ,  •    .     .- 

and  fair  «-eather.  Went  down  mto  tne  sea. 

tili  It  reached  the  ^^.  ,  ,  ,  .  ,  , 

Ijfla  Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon 

The  Wedding-Guest   here  beat  his 

breast; 
For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 


The  wedding- 
guest  is  spell- 
bound by  the  eye 
of  the  old  seafar- 
ing man,  and  con- 
strained to  hear 
his  tale. 


The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall.     The  wedding- 
Red  as  a  rose  is  she  ;  {"^^^^  ^^^^^^  ^'^^ 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes  the  Mariner  con- 
The  merry  minstrelsy.  tinueth  his  tale. 

The   Wedding-Guest    he    beat   his 

breast. 

Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

And  now  the  storm-blast  came,  and  xhe  ship  drawn 
he  by  a  storm  toward 

Was  tyrannous  and  strong  :  ""e  south  pole 

He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings. 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dripping  prow. 
As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 
Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe. 
And  forward  bends  his  head, 
The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roar'd  the 

blast, 
And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and 

snow, 
Aud  it  grew  wondrous  cold ; 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by. 
As  green  as  emerald. 

And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts  The  land  of  ice. 

Did  send  a  dismal  sheen:  a"d  "f"  f^aff"' 

Nor  shapes   of  men  nor  beasts  we  ZZl\Z\t:: 

ken —  to  be  seen. 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there. 

The  ice  was  all  around  : 

It  crack'd  and  growl'd,  and  roar'd  anu 

howl'd. 
Like  noises  in  a  swound  ! 


At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross : 
Thorough  the  fog  it  came  ; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul. 
We  hail'd  it  in  God's  name. 

70 


Till  a  great  sea- 
bird,  called  the 
Albatross,  came 
throusb  the  snow 
fo?,  and  was  re- 
ceived with  great 
joy  and  bospitai 
ity 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


61 


Ami  lo  !    the  Al- 
batross proveth 
a  bird  of  good 
omen,  and  I'ollow- 
eth  the  sihip  as  it 
returned   north- 
ward through  fog 
and  floating  ice. 


The  ancient  Mari- 
ner inhospitably 
killelh  the  pious 
bird  of  good 
omen. 


It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  Hew. 
The  ice  did  spht  with  a  thunder-fit ; 
The  helmsman  stecr'd  us  tlirough  ! 

And  a  good  soulh-wind  sprung  up 

behind  ; 
The  Albatross  did  follow, 
And  every  day,  for  food  or  play. 
Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo ! 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud. 
It  perch'd  for  vespers  nine ; 
Wliiles   all  the   night,  through  fog- 
smoke  white, 
Glimmer'd  the  white  moon-shine. 

"  God  save  thee,  ancient  Mariner ! 
From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee 

thus! 
Why  look'st   thou  so  ? " — With  my 

cross-bow 
I  shot  the  Albatross. 

PART  II. 

The  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right : 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  dov\Ti  into  the  sea. 

And  the  good  south-wind  still  blew 

behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow. 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo ! 


Day  after  day,  day  after  day. 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Water,  water,  everywhere. 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink  : 
Water,  water,  everywhere, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot :  O  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night ; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Btimt  green,  and  blue  and  white. 

And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  spirit  that  plagued  us  so  ; 


And  the  Alba- 
tross begins  to  bo 
avenged. 


A  spirit  liad  fol- 
lowed them :  one 
ofthe  invisible  in- 


ancient  Mariner, 
for  killing  the  bird 
of  good-luck. 


His  shipmates  cry  And  I  had  done  an  hellish  thing, 
out  against  the      And  it  would  work  'em  woe : 

For  all  averr'd,  I  had  kill'd  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

All  wretch  !  said  they,  the  bird  to 
slay. 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow ! 

But  when  the  fog  Nor  dim   nor  red,   like   God's  owti 


cleared  olT,  they 


head, 


and  thus  make  , ,   t  ,     i  ,  -.i,  11      1  •    1 

themselves  ac-      f  hen  all  averr  d,  I  had  kill  d  the  bird 
complices  in  the    That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 
*^'^""^'  'T  was  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to 

slay 
That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 


The  fair  breeze 
continues  ;  the 
ship  enters  the 


The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam 
flew, 
racifi'c'ocean  and  The  furrow  foUow'd  free  ; 
sails  northward.    We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
even  till  it  reach-  jnto  that  silent  sea. 
eg  tlie  Line. 

The  ship  hath       Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt 

been  suddenly  down, 

beca-med.  'T  was  sad  as  sad  could  be  ; 

And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea  ! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 
G2 


Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  follow'd  us  habitants  of  this 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow.        S^M  tulf 

nor  angels ;  con- 
cerning whom  the  learned  Jew,  Josephus,  and  the  Platonic 
Constantinopolitan,  Michael  Psellus.  may  be  consulted.  They 
are  very  numerous,  and  there  is  no  climate  or  element  without 
one  or  more. 

And    every   tongue,    through   utter 

drought, 
Was  wither'd  at  the  root  ; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 


Ah  !  well-a-day !  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 


The  shipmates,  in 
their  sore  distress 
would  fain  throw 
the  whole  guilt  on 
the  ancient  Mar- 
iner: — in  sign 
whereof  they 
hang  tiie  dead 
sea-bird  round 
his  neck. 


The  ancient  Jla- 
riner  belioldeth  a 
sign  in  the  ele- 
ment afar  off 


PART  III 

There  pass'd  a  weary  time.     Each 

throat 
Was  parch'd,  and  glazed  each  eye. 
A  weary  time  !  a  weary  time  ! 
How  glazed  each  weary  eye. 
When  looking  westward,  I  beheld 
A  something  in  the  sky. 

At  first  it  seem'd  a  little  speck, 
And  then  it  seem'd  a  mist ; 
It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist ! 
And  still  it  near'd  and  near'd  : 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite. 
It  plunged  and  tack'd  and  veer'd. 


With   throats  unslaked,   with  black  At  its  nearer  ap- 

lips  baked,  P™'^^'''  'l  =f  ■"- 

.,,.  t  1  1        1  -1  eth  him  to  be  a 

We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail ;  g|,ip  ;   and  at  a 

Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  dear  ransom  he 

gtood  •  freeth  his  speech 

I  bit  my  arm,  I  siick'd  the  blood, 
And  cried,  A  sail !  a  sail ! 

71 


from  the  bonds  o» 
thirst. 


62 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


With  throats  unslaked,  with  black 

lips  baked, 
Agape  they  heard  me  call ; 
A  flash  of  joy.      Gramercy  !  they  for  joy  did  grin, 

And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 

And  horror  Tol-     gee!  see!  (I  cried)  she  tacks  no  more! 

.ows:  for  can  a  be  ^^^^^^^  ,^  ^.^^.^  ^^^  ^.^^j 

a  ship,  that  comes  ' 

onward  without    Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 

wind  or  tide  1        She  Steadies  with  upright  keel ! 

The  western  wave  was  all  a  flame. 
The  day  was  well-nigh  done. 
Almost  upon  the  western  wave 
Rested  the  broad  bright  Sun ; 
When  that  strange  shape  drove  sud- 
denly 
Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 


It  seemeth  him 
but  the  skeleton 
of  a  ship. 


And  its  ribs  are 
seen  as  bars  on 
the  face  of  the 
setting  Sun. 

The  spectre- 
woman  and  her 
death-mate,  and 
no  other  onboard 
the  skeleton-ship. 
Like  vessel,  like 
crew ! 


Death,  and  Life- 
in-Death  have 
diced  for  the 
ship's  crew,  and 
she  (the  latter') 
winneth  the  an- 
cient Mariner. 

No  twilight 
within  the  courts 
of  the  sun. 


At  (he  rising  of 
Jie  moon, 


And  straight  the   Sun  was  fleck'd 

with  bars, 
(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace  !) 
As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate   he 

peer'd 
With  broad  and  burning  face. 

Alas  !  (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat 

loud) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the 

Sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres  ? 

Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the 

Sun 
Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate  ; 
And  is  that  woman  all  her  crew  ? 
Is  that  a  De.\th,  and  are  there  two  ? 
Is  Death  that  woman's  mate  ? 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were 

free. 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold  : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy. 
The  Night-Mare  Life-in-Death  was 

she, 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

Tlie  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 
And  the  twain  were  casting  dice  ; 
"  The  game  is  done  !  I've  won,  I've 

won ! " 
Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

The  Sun's  rim  dips ;  the  stars  rush 

out: 
At  one  stride  comes  the  Dark ; 
With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea 
Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

We  listen'd  and  look'd  sideways  up ! 
Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup, 
My  life-blood  seem'd  to  sip ! 
The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the 

night. 
The  steersman's    face  by  his  lamp 

gleam'd  white  ; 
From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip- 
Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 
The  horned  Moon,  with  one  bright 

star 
Within  the  nether  tip. 


One    after  one,  by   the  star-dogged  One  after  au 
Moon,  other. 

Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh. 

Each  tum'd  his  face  ^vith  a  ghastly 
pang, 

And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

Four  times  fifty  living  men  His  shipmates 

(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan),         drop  down  dead 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump. 
They  dropp'd  down  one  by  one. 

The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly, —  But  Life-in- 
They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe  !  Death  begins  hei 

And  every  .soul,  it  pass'd  me  by  work  on  the  an- 

Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow  !      '='^"'  *!"'""• 

PART  IV. 

"  I  FEAR  thee,  ancient  Mariner !  The  wedding- 

T  /-        .1        ,  •           1        II  guest  feareth  that 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand  •'  a  spirit  is  talking 

And   thou   art  long,   and  lank,  and  to  him ; 

brown. 
As  is  the  ribb'd  sea-sand.* 

"  I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye. 
And  thy  skinny  hand  so  brown." — 
Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  Wedding- 
Guest  ! 
This  body  dropt  not  down. 

Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone. 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea ! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

The  many  men,  so  beautiful ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie  : 

And    a    thousand    thousand    slimy 

things 
Lived  on  ;  and  so  did  I. 

I  look'd  upon  the  rotting  sea, 
And  drew  my  eyes  away ; 
I  look'd  upon  the  rotting  deck. 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

I  look'd  to  Heaven,  and  tried  to  pray ; 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gnsh'd, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat  ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea 

and  the  sky. 
Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye 
And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  But  the  curse  liv' 

limbs  ^'h  '*"■  h'™  '"  'he 

TVT          »      '         1    J- J  .1.  r  eye  of  the  dead 

Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they ;  [me  ^g„_ 

The  look  with  which  they  look'd  on 
Had  never  pass'd  away. 

An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  Hell 
A  spirit  from  on  high ; 


But  the  ancient 
Mariner  assureth 
him  of  his  bodily 
life,  and  proceed- 
eth  to  relate  his 
horrible  penance. 


He  despiseth  the 
creatures  of  tho 
calm. 


And  envieth  that 
they  should  live, 
and  so  many  lie 
dead. 


*  For  the  two  last  lines  of  this  stanza,  I  am  indebted  to  Mr. 
Wordsworth.  It  was  on  a  delightful  walk  from  Nether  Stowey 
to  Dulverton,  with  him  and  his  sister,  in  the  Autumn  of  1797 
that  this  Poem  was  planned,  and  in  part  composed. 

72 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


63 


But  oh !  more  horrible  than  that 
Is  a  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye  ! 
Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  tliat 

curse. 
And  yet  I  could  not  die. 


The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky, 
And  nowliere  did  abide  : 
Softly  she  was  going  up, 
And  a  star  or  two  beside — 


.n  his  loneliness 
and  fixedness  he 
ycarnetii  towards 
Die  journeying 
Moon,  and  the 
stars  that  still  so- 
journ, yet  still  move  onward  ;  and  everywhere  the  blue  sky 
belonss  to  them,  and  is  their  appointed  rest,  and  their  native 
country  and  their  own  natural  liomes,  which  they  enter  unan- 
nounced, as  lords  that  are  certainly  expected,  and  yet  there  is 
a  silent  joy  at  their  arrival. 

Her  beams  bemock'd  the  sultry  main. 

Like  April  hoar-frost  spread  ; 

But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow 

lay, 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 
A  still  and  awful  red. 


By  the  light  of 
the  Moon  he  be- 
holdeth  God's 
creatures  of  the 
great  calm. 


Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watch'd  the  water-snakes  : 

They  moved  in  traclis   of   shining 

white, 
And  when  they  rear'd,  the  elfish  light 
Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 
I  watch'd  their  rich  attire  : 
Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 
They  coil'd  and  swam  ;  and  every 

tra^k 
Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 


Their  oeauty  and  O  happy  living  things  !  no  tongue 
their  happiness,      ^heir  beauty  might  declare  : 

A  spring  of  love  gush'd  from  my 
heart, 
He  blesseth  them   And  I  bless'd  them  unaware  : 
in  his  heart.  g^^.^  ^^  j.jj^j  ^^^^^  j^^j.  ^^jj^.  ^^  ^^^^ 

And  I  bless'd  them  unaware. 

The  spell  begins    The  self-same  moment  I  could  pray  ; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 

PART  V. 
Oh  Sleep !  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole  ! 
To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given! 
She    sent    the    gentle    sleep    from 

Heaven, 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 

By  grace  of  the  The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 

holy  Mother,  the  -j^^j  j^^^  ^^  ^        remain'd,      [dew  ; 

ancient  Mariner  -    ,  ,         ?  '  ,,,  t      .    ' 

is  refreshed  witli  I  dreamt  that  they  were  fill  d  with 

rain.  And  when  I  awoke,  it  rain'd. 

My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold. 
My  garments  all  were  dank ; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still  ray  body  drank. 

I   moved,  and    could    not   feel   my 

limbs : 
I  was  so  light — almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep, 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 


He  heareth 
sounds  and  seelh 
strange  sights 
and  comniotioDg 
in  the  sky  and 
the  element. 


And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind  : 
It  did  not  come  anear ; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails. 
That  were  so  tliin  and  sere. 

The  upper  air  burst  into  life ! 
And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen. 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about! 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more 

loud. 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge ; 
And  the  rain  pour'd  down  from  one 

black  cloud  ; 
The  Moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and 

still 

The  Moon  was  at  its  side  : 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 
A  river  steep  and  wide. 


The  loud  wind  never  reach'd  the  The  bodies  of  the 
g}jjp  ship's  crew  are 

Yet  now  'the  ship  moved  on !  '"ZZ^-  '""^  "'« 

,.,■  ,,      ,,  ship  moves  OQ- 

Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  Moon 

The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 

They  groan'd,  they  stirr'd,  they  all 

uprose,     '     - 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes ; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

The    helmsman    steer'd,    the    ship 

moved  on , 
Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew ; 
The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 
Wliere  they  were  wont  to  do  ,• 
They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless 

tools 
— We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee  : 
The  body  and  I  pull'd  at  one  rope, 
But  he  said  nought  to  me. 


"I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner!" 

Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-guest ! 

'T  was  not  those  souls  that  fled  in 

pain. 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest : 

For  when  it  dawTi'd — they  dropp'd 

their  arms. 
And  cluster'd  round  the  mast ; 
Sweet  sounds   rose   slowly  through 

their  mouths. 
And  from  their  bodies  pass'd. 

Arotmd,   aroimd,    flew   each    sweet 

sound. 
Then  darted  to  the  Sun  ; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 
Now  mix'd,  now  one  by  one. 

■73 


But  not  by  the 
souls  of  the  men. 
nor  by  daemons  of 
earth  or  middle 
air,  but  by  a 
blessed  troop  of 
angelic  spirits, 
sent  down  by  the 
invocation  of  the 
guardian  saint. 


64 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  lonesome 
spirit  from  the 
Bouth-pola  carries 
on  the  ship  as  far 
as  the  line,  in 
obedience  to  the 
angelic  troop,  but 
still   rcquireth 
vengeance. 


ThePolar  Spirit's 
fellow  daemons, 
the  invisible  in- 
habitants of  the 
element,  take  part 
in  his  wrong ; 
and  two  of  them 
relate,  one  to  the 
other,  that  pen- 
ance long  and 
heavy  for  the  an- 
cient Mariner 
hath  been  accord- 
ed to  the  Polar 
Spirit,  who  re- 
lurneth   south- 
ward. 


Sometimes,  a-drooping  from  the  sky, 
I  heard  the  sky-lark  sing ; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are. 
How  they  seem'd  to  fill  the  sea  and 

air, 
With  their  sweet  jargoning ! 

And  now  't  was  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute  ; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song. 
That  makes  the  Heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased  ;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  Jime, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe : 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 
The  spirit  slid  :  and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 
The  sails  at  noon  left  oflT  their  tune, 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast. 
Had  fix'd  her  to  the  ocean : 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir. 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her 

length 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 

Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go. 
She  made  a  sudden  bound  : 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head. 
And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 
I  have  not  to  declare  ; 
But  ere  my  living  life  retum'd, 
I  heard  and  in  my  soul  discern'd 
Two  VOICES  in  the  air. 

"  Is  it  he  ? "  quoth  one,  "  Is  this  the 

man  ? 
By  him  who  died  on  cross. 
With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 
The  harmless  Albatross. 

"  The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 

In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 

He  loved  the  bird  that  loved   the 

man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow." 

The  other  was  a  softer  voice. 

As  soft  as  honey-dew : 

Quoth  he,  "  The  man  hath  penance 

done, 
And  penance  more  will  do." 


PART  VI. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

But  tell  me,  tell  me  !  speak  again. 
Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so 

fast? 
What  is  the  ocean  doing  ? 

SECOND    voice. 

Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 
The  OCEAN  hath  no  blast  ; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast — 

If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go ; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see  !  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him. 

FIRST  voice. 
But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast. 
Without  or  wave  or  wind  ? 

second  voice. 
The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly !   more  high,  more 

high! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated  : 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go. 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated. 

I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

As  in  a  gentle  weather : 

'T  was  night,  calm  night,  the  Moon 

was  high  ; 
The  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  together  on  the  deck. 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter : 
All  fix'd  on  me  their  stony  eyes. 
That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 

The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  thev 

died. 
Had  never  pass'd  away : 
I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs, 
Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

And  now  this  spell  was  snapt :  once 

more 
I  view'd  the  ocean  green. 
And  look'd  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 
Of  what  had  else  been  seen— 

Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And  having  once  turn'd  round  walks 

on, 

And  turns  no  more  his  head  ; 
Because  he  knows,  a  frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me, 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made  : 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea. 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

74 


The  Mariner  hath 
been  cast  into  a 
trance ;  for  the 
angelic  power 
causeth  the  ves- 
sel to  drive  north 
ward  faster  than 
human  life  coula 
endure 


The  supernatura 
motion  is  retard- 
ed ;  the  Mariner 
awakes,  and  his 
penance  begins 
anew. 


The  curse  is  fi 
nally  expiated. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


65 


It  raised  my  hair,  it  fann'd  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring — 
It  mingled  strangely  witli  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship. 
Yet  she  sail'd  softly  too : 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

And  the  ancient    Oh  !  dream  of  joy !  is  this  indeed 
Mariner  hehold-    -phe  light-house  top  I  see  ? 
eth  h.i  native  j    ,j^j^  ^^^  J^;^  ,   -^  ^^j^  jj^g  ]^^y.  j 

country.  ,     ,  .        .  »       i 

Is  this  mme  own  countree  ? 

We  drifted  o'er  the  harbor  bar, 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 

0  let  me  be  awake,  my  God ! 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

The  harbor-bay  was  clear  as  glass, 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn ! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 
And  the  shadow  of  the  moon. 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no 

less 
That  stands  above  the  rock : 
The  moonlight  steep'd  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent 
light, 
The  angelic  epir-  Till,  rising  from  the  same, 
its  leave  the  full  many  shapes  that  shadows  were, 

dead  bodies,  j^  crimson  colors  came. 

A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were  : 

1  turn'd  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 
Oh,  Christ '  what  saw  I  there  ! 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat ; 
And,  by  the  holy  rood  ! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man. 
On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph  band,  each  waved  his 

hand  : 
It  was  a  heavenly  sight ! 
They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land 
Each  one  a  lovely  light ; 

This  seraph  band,  each  waved  his 

hand. 
No  voice  did  they  impart — 
No  voice ;  but  oh  !  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars, 
I  heard  the  Pilot's  cheer ; 
My  head  was  tum'd  perforce  away, 
And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

The  Pilot  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 
I  heard  them  coming  fast : 
Dear  Lord  in  Heaven !  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast 

I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice  : 
It  is  the  Hermit  good ! 


He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He'll   shrive  my   soul,  he'll   wash 

away 
The  Albatross's  blood. 

PART  VII. 

This  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood  The  Hermit  of 
Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea.  ^^  Wood. 

How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

He  kneels  at  mom,  and  noon,  and 

eve — 
He  hath  a  cushion  plump : 
It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

The  skiff-boat  near'd :  I  heard  them 

talk, 
"  Why  this  is  strange,  I  trow ! 
Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and 

fair, 
That  signal  made  but  now  ? " 

"  Strange,  by  my  faith !"  the  Hermit  Approacheth  the 
sai  J Bhip  with  wonder 

"  And  they  answer  not  our  cheer ! 
The  planks  look   warp'd!    and  see 

those  sails. 
How  thin  they  are  and  sere ! 
I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 
Unless  perchance  it  were 

"  Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 
My  forest-brook  along ; 
When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf 

below. 
That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young." 

"  Dear  Lord  I  it  hath  a  fiendish  look — 
(The  Pilot  made  reply,) 
I  am  a-fear'd  " — "  Push  on,  push  on ! " 
Said  the  Hermit  cheerily. 

Tlie  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  srirr'd  ; 
The  Ijoat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on,  The  ship  suddenlj 

Still  louder  and  more  dread :  sinketh. 
It  rcach'd  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay ; 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

Stunn'd  by  that  loud   and  dreadful  The  ancient  Ma 
soimd  riner  is  saved  in 

TiTi_-  V    1    '       1  .  the  Pilot's  boat 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days 

drown'd 
My  body  lay  afloat ; 
But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  foiand 
Within  the  Pilot's  boat. 

Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

7  . 


66 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I  moved  my  lips — the  Pilot  shriek'd, 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit ; 
The  holy  Hermit  raised  his  eyes, 
And  pray'd  where  he  did  sit. 

I  took  the  oars :  the  Pilot's  boy, 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 

Laugh'd  loud  and  long,  and  all  the 

while 
His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 
"  Ha !  ha ! "  quoth  he, "  full  plain  I  see. 
The  Devil  knows  how  to  row." 

And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 

I  stood  on  the  firm  land ! 

The  Hermit  stepp'd  forth  from  the 

boat. 
And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

"  0  shrive  me,  shrive  me,  holy  man ! " 

The  Hermit  cross'd  his  brow. 

"  Say  quick,"  quoth  he,  "  I  bid  thee 

say 
— What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ? " 

Forthwith   this  frame  of  mine  was 

wrench'd 
With  a  woful  agony, 
Wliich  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale ; 
And  then  it  left  me  free. 


And  ever  and        Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 

anon  througliout    That  agony  reUims  : 

And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told. 
This  heart  within  me  bums. 


The  ancient  Ma- 
sner  earnestly  en- 
flreateth  the  Her- 
Tait  to  shrive  him  ; 
and  the  penance 
of  life  falls  on 
bim. 


bis  future  life  an 
agony  constrain- 
eth  him  to  travel 
from  land  to  land, 


I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land  ; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech  ; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me  : 
To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 

What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that 

door! 
The  wedding-guests  are  there : 


But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bride-maids  singing  are  : 
And  hark !  the  little  vesper-bell, 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer. 

O  Wedding-Guest!  this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea : 
So  lonely  't  was,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

O  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me. 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 
With  a  goodly  company  I — 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk. 
And  all  together  pray. 
While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 
Old    men,   and    babes,   and    loving 

friends. 
And  youths  and  maidens  gay  ! 

Farewell,  farewell!  but  this  I  tell 
To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us. 
He  made  and  loveth  all. 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright. 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar. 
Is  gone :  and  now  the  Wedding-Guest 
Turn'd  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been 

stunn'd. 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn, 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 


And  to  teach,  by 
his  own  example, 
love  and  rever- 
ence to  all  things 
that  God  made 
and  loveth. 


€firC.^tat)0L 


PREFACE.* 


The  first  part  of  the  following  poem  was  vn-itten  in 
the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  ninety- 
seven,  at  Stovvey  in  the  county  of  Somereet.  The 
second  part,  after  my  return  from  Germany,  in  the 
year  one  thousand  eight  hundred,  at  Keswick,  Cum- 
berland. Since  the  latter  date,  my  poetic  powers 
have  been,  till  very  lately,  in  a  state  of  suspended 
animation.  But  as,  in  my  veiy  first  conception  of  the 
tale,  I  had  the  whole  present  to  my  mind,  with  the 
•wholeness,  no  less  than  with  the  loveliness  of  a 
vision,  I  trust  that  I  shall  yet  be  able  to  embody  in 
verse  the  three  parts  yet  to  come. 

It  is  probable,  that  if  the  poem  had  been  finished 


*  To  the  edition  of  1816. 


at  either  of  the  former  periods,  or  if  even  the  first 
and  second  part  had  been  pubhshed  in  the  year  1800, 
the  impression  of  its  originality  would  have  been 
much  greater  than  I  dare  at  present  expect.  But 
for  this,  I  have  only  my  own  indolence  to  blame. 
The  dates  are  mentioned  for  the  exclusive  purpose 
of  precluding  charges  of  plagiarism  or  servile  imi- 
tation from  myself  For  there  is  amongst  us  a  set  of 
critics,  who  seem  to  hold,  that  every  possible  thought 
and  image  is  traditional ;  who  have  no  notion  that  there 
are  such  things  as  fountains  in  the  world,  small  as 
well  as  great ;  and  who  would  therefore  charitably 
derive  every  rill  they  behold  flowing,  from  a  perfora- 
tion made  in  some  other  man's  tank.  I  am  confident, 
however,  that  as  far  as  the  present  poem  is  concerned, 
the  celebrated  poets  whose  writings  I  might  be  sus- 
pected of  having  imitated,  either  in  particular  pas- 
sages, or  in  the  tone  and  the  spirit  of  the  whole, 
would  be  among  the  first  to  vindicate  me  from  the 
76 


CHRISTABEL. 


07 


charge,  and  who,  on  any  striking  coincidence,  would 
permit  me  to  address  them  in  this  doggrel  version  of 
two  monkish  Latin  hexameters. 

'T  U  mine  and  it  is  likewise  yours ; 
But  an'  if  this  will  not  do. 
Let  it  be  mine,  good  friend  I  for  I 
Am  the  poorer  of  the  two. 

I  have  only  to  add  that  the  metre  of  the  Christa- 
bel  is  not,  properly  speaking,  irregular,  though  it 
may  seem  so  from  its  being  founded  on  a  new  prin- 
ciple :  namely,  that  of  counting  in  each  line  the  ac- 
cents, not  the  syllables.  Though  the  latter  may  vary 
from  seven  to  twelve,  yet  in  each  line  the  accents 
will  be  found  to  be  only  four.  Nevertheless  this  oc- 
casional variation  in  number  of  syllables  is  not  in- 
troduced wantonly,  or  for  the  mere  ends  of  conveni- 
ence, but  in  correspondence  with  some  transition,  in 
the  nature  of  the  imagery  or  passion. 


CHRISTABEL. 


PART  I. 

"T  IS  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle  clock, 
And  the  owls  have  awaken'd  the  crowing  cock ; 

Tu-whit ! Tu-whoo ! 

And  hark,  again!  the  crowing  cock, 
How  drowsily  it  crew. 

Sir  Leoline,  the  Baron  rich, 

Hath  a  toothless  mastiff]  which 

From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 

Maketh  answer  to  the  clock. 

Four  for  the  quarters,  and  twelve  for  the  hour ; 

Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower, 

Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over-loud  ,- 

Some  say,  she  sees  my  lady's  shroud. 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark  ? 
The  night  is  chilly,  but  not  dark. 
The  thin  gray  cloud  is  spread  on  high, 
It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sky. 
The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full; 
And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 
The  night  is  chill,  the  cloud  is  gray : 
'Tis  a  month  before  the  month  of  May, 
And  the  Spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 

Whom  her  father  loves  so  well. 

What  makes  her  in  the  wood  so  late, 

A  furlong  from  the  castle  gate  ? 

She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 

Of  her  own  betrothed  knight ; 

And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 

For  the  weal  of  her  lover  that 's  far  away 

She  stole  along,  she  nothing  spoke. 

The  sighs  she  heaved  were  soft  and  low, 

And  naught  was  green  upon  the  oak, 

But  moss  and  rarest  misletoe  : 

She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak-tree, 

And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 


The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly, 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel ' 

It  moan'd  as  near,  as  near  can  be. 

But  what  it  is,  she  cannot  tell. — 

On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be. 

Of  the  huge,  broad-breasted,  old  oak-tree. 

The  night  is  chill ;  the  forest  bare  ; 

Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak  ? 

There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 

To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 

From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek — 

There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 

The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 

That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can, 

Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high. 

On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the  sky. 

Hush,  beating  heart  of  Christabel ! 
Jesu,  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 
She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak, 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 
What  sees  she  there  ? 

There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 

Drest  in  a  silken  robe  of  white, 

That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone : 

The  neck  that  made  that  white  robe  wan. 

Her  stately  neck,  and  arms,  were  bare ; 

Her  blue-vein'd  feet  unsandall'd  were. 

And  wildly  glitter'd  here  and  there 

The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 

I  guess,  'twas  frightful  there  to  see 

A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she — 

Beautiful  exceedingly ! 

Mary  mother,  save  me  now ! 

(Said  Christabel),  And  w  ho  art  thou  ? 

The  lady  strange  made  answer  meet. 

And  her  voice  was  faint  and  sweet : — 

Have  pity  on  my  sore  distress, 

I  scarce  can  speak  for  weariness : 

Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  and  have  no  fear ! 

Said  Christabel,  How  earnest  thou  here  ? 

And  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  faint  and  swee^ 

Did  thus  pursue  her  answer  meet : — 


My  sire  is  of  a  noble  line. 
And  my  name  is  Geraldine : 
Five  warriors  seized  me  yestermom. 
Me,  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn  : 
They  choked  my  cries  with  force  and  fright. 
And  tied  me  on  a  palfrey  white. 
The  palfrey  was  as  fleet  as  wind, 
And  they  rode  furiously  behind. 
They  spurr'd  amain,  their  steeds  were  white;. 
And  once  we  cross 'd  the  shade  of  night 
As  sure  as  Heaven  shall  rescue  me, 
I  have  no  thought  what  men  they  be  f 
Nor  do  I  know  how  long  it  is 
(For  I  have  lain  entranced  I  wis) 
Since  one,  the  tallest  of  the  five. 
Took  me  from  the  palfrey's  back, 
A  weary  woman,  scarce  alive. 
Some  mutter'd  words  his  comrades  spoke". 
He  placed  me  underneath  this  oak, 
11  77 


68 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


He  swore  they  would  return  with  haste : 
Whither  they  went  I  cannot  tell — 
I  thouglit  I  heard,  some  minutes  past, 
Sounds  as  of  a  castle-bell. 
Stretch  forth  thy  hand  (thus  ended  she), 
And  help  a  wretched  maid  to  flee. 

Then  Christabel  stretch'd  forth  her  hand, 

And  comforted  fair  Geraldine  : 

O  well,  bright  dame  !  may  you  command 

The  service  of  Sir  Leoline  ; 

And  gladly  our  stout  chivalry 

Will  he  send  forth  and  friends  withal, 

To  guide  and  guard  you  safe  and  free 

Home  to  your  noble  father's  hall. 

She  rose ;  and  forth  with  steps  they  pass'd 

That  strove  to  be,  and  were  not,  fast. 

Her  gracious  stars  the  lady  blest, 

And  thus  spake  on  sweet  Christabel : 

All  our  household  are  at  rest, 

The  hall  as  silent  as  the  cell ; 

Sir  Leoline  is  weak  in  health, 

And  may  not  well  awaken'd  be. 

But  we  will  move  as  if  in  stealth ; 

And  I  beseech  your  courtesy. 

This  night,  to  share  your  couch  with  me. 

They  cross'd  the  moat,  and  Christabel 
'  Took  the  key  that  fitted  well ; 
A  little  door  she  open'd  straight, 
All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate  ; 
The  gate  that  was  iron'd  within  and  without, 
WTiere  an  army  in  battle  array  had  march'd  out. 
The  lady  sank,  belike  through  pain. 
And  Christabel  with  might  and  main 
Lifted  her  up,  a  weary  weight. 
Over  the  threshold  of  the  gate  : 
Then  the  lady  rose  again. 
And  moved,  as  she  were  not  in  pain. 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear. 
They  cross'd  the  court :  right  glad  they  were. 
And  Christabel  devoutly  cried 
To  the  lady  by  her  side. 
Praise  we  the  Virgin  all  divine 
Who  hath  rescued  thee  from  thy  distress ! 
Alas,  alas  !  said  Geraldine, 
I  cannot  speak  for  weariness. 
So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 
■  They  cross'd  the  court :  right  glad  they  were. 

Outside  her  kennel,  the  mastiff"  old 
Lay  fast  asleep,  in  moonshine  cold. 
The  mastiff  old  did  not  awake. 
Yet  she  an  angry  moan  did  make ! 
And  what  can  ail  the  mastiff"  bitch  ? 
Never  till  now  she  utter'd  yell 
Beneath  the  eye  of  Christabel. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  owlet's  scritch: 
For  what  can  ail  the  mastiff"  bitch  ? 

They  pass'd  the  hall,  that  echoes  still, 
Pass  as  lightly  as  you  will ! 
The  brands  were  flat,  the  brands  were  dying, 
Amid  their  ovm  white  ashes  lying : 


But  when  the  lady  pass'd,  there  came 

A  tongue  of  light,  a  fit  of  flame  j 

And  Christabel  saw  the  lady's  eye. 

And  nothing  else  saw  she  thereby. 

Save  the  boss  of  the  shield  of  Sir  Leoline  tall, 

Wliich  hung  in  a  murky  old  niche  in  the  wall. 

0  softly  tread  !  said  Christabel, 

My  father  seldom  sleepeth  well. 

Sweet  Christabel  her  feet  doth  bare  ; 
And,  jealous  of  the  listening  air. 
They  steal  their  way  from  stair  to  stair : 
Now  in  glimmer,  and  now  in  gloom — 
And  now  they  pass  the  Baron's  room, 
As  still  as  death  with  stifled  breath ! 
And  now  have  reach'd  her  chamber-door ; 
And  now  doth  Geraldine  press  down 
The  rushes  of  the  chamber  floor. 

The  moon  shines  dim  in  the  open  air. 
And  not  a  moonbeam  enters  here. 
But  they  without  its  light  can  see 
The  chamber  carved  so  curiously. 
Carved  with  figures  strange  and  sweet, 
All  made  out  of  the  carver's  brain, 
For  a  lady's  chamber  meet  : 
The  lamp  with  twofold  silver  chain 
Is  fasten'd  to  an  angel's  feet. 

Tlie  silver  lamp  burns  dead  and  dim ; 

But  Christabel  the  lamp  will  trim. 

She  trimm'd  the  lamp,  and  made  it  bright. 

And  left  it  swinging  to  and  fro, 

While  Geraldine,  in  wretched  plight 

Sank  down  upon  the  floor  below. 

0  weary  lady,  Geraldine, 

1  pray  you,  drink  this  cordial  wine  ! 
It  is  a  v\dne  of  virtuous  powers  ; 
My  mother  made  it  of  wild  flowers. 

And  will  your  mother  pity  me. 
Who  am  a  maiden  most  forlorn  ? 
Christabel  answer' d — Woe  is  me ! 
She  died  the  hour  that  I  was  born. 
I  have  heard  the  gray-hair'd  friar  tell. 
How  on  her  death-bed  she  did  say. 
That  she  should  hear  the  castle-bell 
Strike  twelve  upon  my  wedding-day. 

0  mother  dear  !  that  thou  wert  here ! 

1  would,  said  Geraldine,  she  were ! 

But  soon,  with  alter'd  voice,  said  she — 
"  Off",  wandering  mother  !  Peak  and  pine  ! 
I  have  power  to  bid  thee  flee. " 
Alas !  what  ails  poor  Geraldine  ? 
Why  stares  she  with  unsettled  eye  ? 
Can  she  the  bodiless  dead  espy  ? 
And  why  with  hollow  voice  cries  she, 
"  Off",  woman,  oflT!  this  hour  is  mine — 
Though  thou  her  guardian  spirit  be, 
Off;  woman,  oflf!  'tis  given  to  me." 

Tlien  Christabel  knelt  by  the  lady's  side. 
And  raised  to  heaven  her  eyes  so  blue — 
Alas  !  said  she,  this  ghastly  ride — 
Dear  lady!  it  hath  wflder'd  you! 

78 


CHRIST  ABEL. 


The  lady  wiped  her  moist  cold  brow, 
And  faintly  said,  "  'T  is  over  now  ! " 

Again  the  wild-flower  wine  she  drank : 
Her  fair  large  eyes  'gan  glitter  bright, 
And  from  the  floor  whereon  she  sank, 
The  lofty  lady  stood  upright ; 
She  was  most  beautiful  to  see. 
Like  a  lady  of  a  far  countree. 

And  thus  the  lofty  lady  spake — 
All  they,  who  live  in  the  upper  sky, 
Do  love  you,  holy  Christabel ! 
And  you  love  them,  and  for  their  sake 
And  for  the  good  which  me  befell. 
Even  I  in  my  degree  will  try. 
Fair  maiden !  to  requite  you  well. 
But  now  unrobe  yourself;  for  I 
Must  pray,  ere  yet  in  bed  I  lie. 

Quoth  Christabel,  So  let.it  be  ! 
And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveUness. 

But  through  her  brain  of  weal  and  woe 
So  many  thoughts  moved  to  and  fro, 
That  vain  it  were  her  lids  to  close ; 
So  half-way  from  the  bed  she  rose, 
And  on  her  elbow  did  recline 
To  look  at  the  Lady  Geraldine. 

Beneath  the  lamp  the  lady  bow'd. 
And  slowly  roU'd  her  eyes  around ; 
Then  drawing  in  her  breath  aloud. 
Like  one  that  shudder'd,  she  vuibound 
The  cincture  from  beneath  her  breast : 
Her  silken  robe,  and  inner  vest, 
Dropt  to  her  feet,  and  full  in  view. 
Behold  !  her  bosom  and  half  her  side 
A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell ! 
O  shield  her !  shield  sweet  Christabel 

Yet  Geraldine  nor  speaks  nor  stirs  ; 
Ah  !  what  a  stricken  look  was  hers ! 
Deep  from  within  she  seems  half-way 
To  lift  some  weight  with  sick  assay. 
And  eyes  the  maid  and  seeks  delay ; 
Then  suddenly  as  one  defied 
Collects  herself  in  scorn  and  pride. 
And  lay  down  by  the  Maiden's  side ! — 
And  in  her  arms  the  maid  she  took, 

Ah  well-a-day ! 
And  with  low  voice  and  doleful  look 
These  words  did  say 
In  the  touch  of  this  bosom  there  worketh  a  spell. 
Which  is  lord  of  thy  utterance,  Christabel ! 
Thou  knowest  to-night,  and  wilt  know  to-morrow 
This  mark  of  my  shame,  this  seal  of  my  sorrow  ; 
But  vainly  thou  warrest, 

For  tliis  is  alone  in 
Thy  power  to  declare. 

That  in  the  dim  forest 
Thou  heardest  a  low  moaning, 
H 


And  foundest  a  bright  lady,  surpassingly  fair : 

And  didst  bring  her  home  with  thee  in  love  and  in 

charity, 
To  shield  her  and  shelter  her  from  the  damp  air. 

THE  CONCLUSION  TO  PART  I. 

It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 
The  lady  Christabel,  when  she 
Was  praying  at  the  old  oak-tree. 

Amid  the  jagged  shadows 

Of  mossy  leafless  boughs. 

Kneeling  in  the  moonhght, 

To  make  her  gentle  vows  ; 
Her  slender  palms  together  prest. 
Heaving  sometimes  on  her  breast ; 
Her  face  resign'd  to  bliss  or  bale — 
Her  face,  O  call  it  fair,  not  pale ! 
And  both  blue  eyes  more  bright  than  clear, 
Each  about  to  have  a  tear. 


With  open  eyes  (ah  woe  is  me  !) 
Asleep,  and  dreaming  fearfully. 
Fearfully  dreaming,  yet  I  wis. 
Dreaming  that  alone,  which  is — 
O  sorrow  and  shame !  Can  this  be  she. 
The  lady,  who  knelt  at  the  old  oak-tree  ? 
And  lo  !  the  worker  of  these  harms. 
That  holds  the  maiden  in  her  arms, 
Seems  to  slumber  still  and  mild. 
As  a  mother  with  her  child. 


A  star  hath  set,  a  star  hath  risen, 
O  Geraldine  !  since  arms  of  thine 
Have  been  the  lovely  lady's  prison. 
O  Geraldine !  one  hour  was  thine — 
Thou  'st  had  thy  will !  By  tairn  and  riU, 
The  night-birds  all  that  hour  were  still. 
But  now  they  are  jubilant  anew, 
From  cliflT  and  tower,  tu-whoo  !  tu-whoo ! 
Tu-whoo !  tu-whoo  !  from  wood  and  fell ! 


And  see  !  the  lady  Christabel 
Gathers  herself  from  out  her  trance ; 
Her  limbs  relax,  her  countenance 
Grows  sad  and  soft ;  the  smooth  thin  lids 
Close  o'er  her  eyes  ;  and  tears  she  sheds- 
Large  tears  that  leave  the  lashes  bright! 
And  oft  the  while  she  seems  to  smile 
As  infants  at  a  sudden  light ! 


Yea,  she  doth  smile,  and  she  doth  weep, 
Like  a  youthful  hermitess, 
Beauteous  in  a  wilderness, 
Who,  praying  always,  prays  in  sleep, 
And,  if  she  move  unquietly. 
Perchance,  't  is  but  the  blood  so  free, 
Comes  back  and  tingles  in  her  feet. 
No  doubt,  she  hath  a  vision  sweet : 
What  if  her  guardian  spirit 't  were. 
What  if  she  knew  her  mother  near  ? 
But  this  she  knows,  in  joys  and  woes, 
That  saints  will  aid  if  men  will  call : 
For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all ! 
79 


70 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


PART  II. 

Each  matin-bell,  the  Baron  saith, 
Knells  us  back  to  a  world  of  death. 
These  words  Sir  Leoline  first  said, 
When  he  rose  and  found  his  lady  dead : 
These  words  Sir  Leoline  will  say. 
Many  a  mom  to  his  dying  day ! 

And  hence  the  custom  and  law  began, 
That  still  at  dawn  the  sacristan. 
Who  duly  pulls  the  heavy  bell, 
Five-and-forty  beads  must  tell 
Between  each  stroke — a  warning  knell, 
Which  not  a  soul  can  choose  but  hear 
From  Bratha  Head  to  Wyndermere. 

Saith  Bracy  the  bard,  So  let  it  knell ! 
And  let  the  drowsy  sacristan 
Still  count  as  slowly  as  he  can ! 
There  is  no  lack  of  such,  I  ween, 
As  well  fill  up  the  space  between. 
In  Langdale  Pike  and  Witch's  Lair 
And  Dungeon-ghyll  so  foully  rent, 
With  ropes  of  rock  and  bells  of  air 
Three  sinful  sextons'  ghosts  are  pent. 
Who  all  give  back,  one  after  t'  other. 
The  death-note  to  their  living  brother ; 
And  oft  too,  by  the  knell  offended. 
Just  as  their  one  !  two  I  three  I  is  ended, 
The  devil  mocks  the  doleful  tale 
With  a  merry  peal  from  Borrowdale. 

The  air  is  still !  through  mist  and  cloud 
That  merry  peal  comes  ringing  loud  ; 
And  Geraldine  shakes  off  her  dread, 
And  rises  lightly  from  the  bed ; 
Puts  on  her  silken  vestments  white, 
And  tricks  her  hair  in  lovely  plight. 
And,  nothing  doubting  of  her  spell, 
Awakens  the  lady  Christabel. 
''  Sleep  you,  sweet  lady  Christabel  ? 
I  trust  that  you  have  rested  well." 

And  Christabel  awoke  and  spied 

The  same  who  lay  down  by  her  side — 

O  rather  say,  the  same  whom  she 

Raised  up  beneath  the  old  oak-tree  ! 

Nay,  fairer  yet !  and  yet  more  fair ! 

For  she  belike  hath  drunken  deep 

Of  all  the  blessedness  of  sleep  ! 

And  while  she  spake,  her  looks,  her  air 

Such  gentle  thankfulness  declare, 

That  (so  it  seem'd)  her  girded  vests 

Grew  tight  beneath  her  heaving  breasts. 

"  Sure  I  have  sinn'd,"  said  Christabel, 

"  Now  Heaven  be  praised  if  all  be  well ! 

And  in  low  faltering  tones,  yet  sweet. 

Did  she  the  lofty  lady  greet 

With  such  perplexity  of  mind 

As  dreams  too  lively  leave  behind. 

So  quickly  she  rose,  and  quickly  array'd 
Her  maiden  lirabs,  and  having  pray'd 
That  He,  who  on  the  cross  did  groan. 
Might  wash  away  her  sins  unknown. 


She  forthwith  led  fair  Geraldine 
To  meet  her  sire.  Sir  Leoline. 

The  lovely  maid  and  the  lady  tall 
Are  pacing  both  into  the  hall. 
And,  pacing  on  through  page  and  groc«\. 
Enter  the  Baron's  presence-room. 

The  Baron  rose,  and  while  he  prest 
His  gentle  daughter  to  his  breast. 
With  cheerful  wonder  in  his  eyes 
The  lady  Geraldine   espies. 
And  gave  such  welcome  to  the  same. 
As  might  beseem  so  bright  a  dame ! 

But  when  he  heard  the  lady's  tale. 
And  when  she  told  her  father's  name, 
Why  wax'd  Sir  Leohne  so  pale. 
Murmuring  o'er  the  name  again. 
Lord  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine  ? 

Alas !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth ; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth  , 
And  constancy  Uves  in  realms  above. 
And  life  is  thorny  ;  and  youth  is  vain  : 
And  to  be  WTOth  with  one  we  love, 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divine, 
With  Roland  and  Sir  Leoline. 
Each  spake  words  of  high  disdain 
And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother ; 
They  parted — ne'er  to  meet  again  I 
But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining — 
They  stood  aloof  the  scars  remaining. 
Like  cliffs  which  had  been  rent  asunder ; 
A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between. 
But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder. 
Shall  wholly  do  away„  I  ween. 
The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been 
Sir  Leoline,  a  moment's  space, 
Stood  gazing  on  the  damsel's  face  ■ 
And  the  youthful  Lord  of  Tryermaine 
Came  back  upon  his  heart  again. 

0  then  the  Baron  forgot  his  age  ! 

His  noble  heart  swell'd  high  with  rage ; 

He  swore  by  the  wounds  in  Jesu's  side. 

He  would  proclaim  it  far  and  wide 

With  trump  and  solemn  heraldry, 

That  they,  who  thus  had  wrong'd  the  dame 

Were  base  as  spotted  infamy ! 

"  And  if  they  dare  deny  the  same. 

My  herald  shall  appoint  a  week, 

And  let  the  recreant  traitors  seek 

My  tourney  court — that  there  and  then 

1  may  dislodge  their  reptile  souls 
From  the  bodies  and  forms  of  men ! " 
He  spake  :  his  eye  in  lightning  rolls ! 

For  the  lady  was  ruthlessly  seized;  and  he  kerui  d 
In  the  beautiful  lady  the  child  of  his  friend  I 

And  now  the  tears  were  on  his  face. 
And  fondly  in  his  arms  he  took 
Fair  Geraldine,  who  met  the  embrace. 
Prolonging  it  with  joyous  look. 

80 


CHRISTABEL. 


71 


Which  when  she  \new'd,  a  vision  fell 

Tpon  the  soul  of  Christabel, 

The  vision  of  fear,  the  touch  and  pain ! 

yhe  shrunk  and  shudder'd,  and  saw  again — 

(Ah,  woe  is  me  !  Was  it  for  thee, 

Thou  gentle  maid !  such  sights  to  see  1) 

Again  she  saw  that  bosom  old. 

Again  she  felt  that  bosom  cold, 

And  drew  in  her  breath  with  a  hissing  sound : 

Whereat  the  knight  turn'd  wildly  round. 

And  nothing  saw  but  his  own  sweet  maid 

^\'ith  eyes  upraised,  as  one  that  pray'd. 

The  touch,  the  sight,  had  pass'd  away, 
And  in  its  stead  that  vision  blest, 
'Which  comforted  her  after-rest, 
AVhile  in  the  lady's  arms  she  lay, 
Had  put  a  rapture  in  her  breast, 
And  on  her  lips  and  o'er  her  eyes 
Spread  smiles  hke  light ! 

With  new  surprise, 
"  'What  ails  then  my  beloved  child  ? " 
The  Baron  said — His  daughter  mild 
Made  answer,  "All  will  yet  be  well!" 
I  ween,  she  had  no  power  to  tell 
Aught  else :  so  mighty  was  the  spell. 

Yet  he,  who  saw  this  Geraldine, 
Had  deem'd  her  sure  a  thing  divine. 
Such  sorrow  with  such  grace  she  blended. 
As  if  she  fear'd  she  had  offended 
Sweet  Christabel,  that  gentle  maid  ! 
And  with  such  lowly  tones  she  pray'd. 
She  might  be  sent  without  delay 
Home  to  her  father's  mansion. 

"Nay! 
Nay,  by  my  soul ! "  said  Leoline. 
"  Ho !  Bracy  the  bard,  the  charge  be  thine : 
Go  thou,  with  music  sweet  and  loud. 
And  take  two  steeds  with  trappings  proud, 
And  take  the  youth  whom  thou  lovest  best 
To  bear  thy  harp,  and  learn  thy  song, 
And  clothe  you  both  in  solemn  vest. 
And  over  the  mountains  haste  along. 
Lest  wandering  folk,  that  are  abroad. 
Detain  you  on  the  valley  road. 
And  when  he  has  cross'd  the  Irthing  flood, 
My  merry  bard !  he  hastes,  he  hastes 
Up  Knorren  Moor,  through  Halegarth  wood. 
And  reaches  soon  that  castle  good 
Which  stands  and  threatens  Scotland's  wastes. 

"*  Bard  Bracy,  bard  Bracy !  your  horses  are  fleet, 

Ye  must  ride  up  the  hall,  your  music  so  sweet. 

More  loud  than  your  horses'  echoing  feet ! 

And  loud  and  loud  to  Lord  Roland  call. 

Thy  daughter  is  safe  in  Langdale  hall ! 

Thy  beautiful  daughter  is  safe  and  free — 

Sir  Leoline  greets  thee  thus  through  me. 

He  bids  thee  come  without  delay 

With  all  thy  numerous  array  ; 

And  take  thy  lovely  daughter  home  : 

And  he  will  meet  thee  on  the  way 


With  all  his  numerous  array. 
White  Willi  their  panting  palfreys'  foam; 
And  by  mine  honor  I  I  will  say, 
That  1  repent  me  of  the  day 
'When  I  spake  words  of  high  disdain 
To  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine  ! 
— For  since  that  evil  hour  hath  flown, 
Many  a  summer's  sun  haih  shone ; 
Yet  ne'er  found  I  a  friend  again 
Like  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine." 

The  Lady  fell,  and  clasp'd  his  knees, 
Her  face  upraised,  her  eyes  o'erflovving  ; 
And  Bracy  replied,  with  faltering  voice, 
Her  gracious  hail  on  all  bestowing ; — 
Thy  words,  thou  sire  of  Christabel, 
Are  sweeter  than  my  harp  can  tell ; 
Yet  might  I  gain  a  boon  of  thee, 
This  day  my  journey  should  not  be, 
So  strange  a  dream  hath  come  to  me , 
That  I  had  vow'd  with  music  loud 
To  clear  yon  wood  from  thing  unblest, 
Warn'd  by  a  vision  in  my  rest ! 
For  in  my  sleep  I  saw  that  dove, 
That  gentle  bird,  whom  thou  dost  love. 
And  call'st  by  thy  own  daughter's  name^ 
Sir  Leoline  !  1  saw  the  same. 
Fluttering,  and  uttering  fearful  moan, 
Among  the  green  herbs  in  the  forest  alone. 
Which  when  I  saw  and  when  I  heard, 
I  wonder'd  what  might  ail  the  bird : 
For  nothing  near  it  could  I  see. 
Save  the  grass  and  green  herbs  underneath  tho 
old  tree. 

And  in  my  dream,  methought,  I  went 
To  search  out  what  might  there  be  found  ; 
And  what  the  sweet  bird's  trouble  meant 
That  thus  lay  fluttering  on  the  ground. 
I  went  and  peer'd,  and  could  descry 
No  cause  for  her  distressful  cry ; 
But  yet  for  her  dear  lady's  sake 
I  stoop'd,  methought,  the  dove  to  take. 
When  lo !  I  saw  a  bright  green  snake 
Coil'd  around  its  wings  and  neck. 
Green  as  the  herbs  on  which  it  couch'd. 
Close  by  the  dove's  its  head  it  crouch'd ! 
And  with  the  dove  it  heaves  and  stirs. 
Swelling  its  neck  as  she  svvell'd  hers ! 
I  woke ;  it  was  the  midnight  hour, 
The  clock  was  echoing  in  the  tower; 
But  though  my  slumber  was  gone  by, 
This  dream  it  would  not  pass  away — 
It  seems  to  live  upon  my  eye ! 
And  thence  I  vow'd  this  self-same  day, 
With  music  strong  and  saintly  song 
To  wander  through  the  forest  bare, 
Lest  aught  unholy  loiter  there. 

Thus  Bracy  said  :  the  Baron,  the  while, 
Half-Ustening  heard  him  wth  a  smile  ;  f 

Then  turn'd  to  Lady  Geraldine,  ( 

His  eyes  made  up  of  wonder  and  love  ; 
And  said  in  courtly  accents  fine, 
Sweet  Maid  !  Lord  Roland's  beauteous  dove. 
With  arms  more  strong  than  harp  or  song, 
81 


72 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thy  sire  and  I  will  crush  the  snake ! 
Hekiss'd  her  forehead  as  he  spake, 
And  Geraldine  in  maiden  wise, 
Casting  down  her  large  bright  eyes, 
AVith  blushing  cheek  and  courtesy  fine 
She  turn'd  her  from  Sir  Leoline ; 
Softly  gathering  up  her  train, 
That  o'er  her  right  arm  fell  again ; 
And  folded  her  arms  across  her  chest, 
And  couch'd  her  head  upon  her  breast, 

And  look'd  askance  at  Christabel 

Jesu,  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 

A  snake's  small  eye  blinks  dull  and  shy, 

And  the  lady's  eyes  they  shrunk  in  her  head, 

Each  shrunk  up  to  a  serpent's  eye, 

And  with  somewhat  of  malice  and  more  of  dread, 

At  Christabel  she  look'd  askance  : — 

One  moment — and  the  sight  was  fled ! 

But  Christabel,  in  dizzy  trance 

Stumbling  on  the  unsteady  ground, 

Shudder'd  aloud,  with  a  hissing  sound ; 

And  Geraldine  again  turn'd  round. 

And  like  a  thing,  that  sought  relief. 

Full  of  wonder  and  full  of  grief. 

She  roll'd  her  large  bright  eyes  divine 

Wildly  on  Sir  Leoline. 

The  maid,  alas !  her  thoughts  are  gone, 
She  nothing  sees — no  sight  but  one  ! 
The  maid,  devoid  of  guile  and  sin, 
I  know  not  how,  in  fearful  wise 
So  deeply  had  she  drunken  in 
That  look,  those  shrunken  serpent  eyes. 
That  all  her  features  were  resign'd 
To  this  sole  image  in  her  mind : 
And  passively  did  imitate 
That  look  of  dull  and  treacherous  hate ! 
And  thus  she  stood,  in  dizzy  trance, 
Still  picturing  that  look  askance 
With  forced,  unconscious  sympathy 

Full  before  her  father's  view 

As  far  as  such  a  look  could  be. 
In  eyes  so  innocent  and  blue. 
And  when  the  trance  was  o'er,  the  maid 
Paused  awhile,  and  inly  pray'd : 
Then  falling  at  the  Baron's  feet, 
"  By  my  mother's  soul  do  I  entreat 
That  thou  this  woman  send  away ! " 
She  said :  and  more  she  could  not  say ; 
For  what  she  laiew  she  could  not  tell, 
O'ermaster'd  by  the  mighty  spell. 

WTiy  is  thy  cheek  so  wan  and  wild, 
Sir  Leoline  ?  Thy  only  child 
Lies  at  thy  feet,  thy  joy,  thy  pridOi 
So  fair,  so  innocent,  so  mild  5 


The  same,  for  whom  thy  lady  died. 

0  by  the  pangs  of  her  dear  mother, 
Tliink  tliou  no  evil  of  thy  child ! 
For  her,  and  thee,  and  for  no  other, 
She  pray'd  the  moment  ere  she  died  ; 
Pray'd  that  the  babe  for  whom  she  died 
Might  prove  her  dear  lord's  joy  and  pride ! 

"That  prayer  her  deadly  pangs  beguiled. 

Sir  Leoline ! 
And  wouldst  thou  wrong  thy  only  child, 

Her  child  and  thine  ? 

Within  the  Baron's  heart  and  brain 
If  thoughts  like  these  had  any  share. 
They  oidy  swell'd  his  rage  and  pain, 
And  did  but  work  confusion  there. 
His  heart  was  cleft  with  pain  and  rage. 
His  cheeks  they  quiver'd,  his  eyes  were  wild, 
Dishonor'd  thus  in  his  old  age  ; 
Dishonor'd  by  his  only  cliild, 
And  all  his  hospitality 
To  the  insulted  daughter  of  his  friend 
By  more  than  woman's  jealousy 
Brought  thus  to  a  disgraceful  end- 
He  roU'd  his  eye  with  stern  regard 
Upon  the  gentle  minstrel  bard. 
And  said  in  tones  abrupt,  austere, 
Why,  Bracy !  dost  thou  loiter  here  ? 

1  bade  thee  hence !  The  Bard  obey'd  ; 
And,  turning  from  his  own  sweet  maid. 
The  aged  Imight,  Sir  Leohne, 

Led  forth  the  lady  Geraldine  ! 

THE  CONCLUSION  TO  PART  II. 

A  LITTLE  child,  a  limber  elf, 

Singing,  dancing  to  itself, 

A  fairy  thing  w  ith  red  round  cheeks 

That  always  finds  and  never  seeks. 

Makes  such  a  vision  to  the  sight 

As  fills  a  father's  eyes  with  Ught ; 

And  pleasures  flow  in  so  thick  and  fast 

Upon  his  heart,  that  he  at  last 

Must  needs  express  his  love's  excess 

With  words  of  unmeant  bitterness. 

Perhaps  'tis  pretty  to  force  together 

Thoughts  so  all  unlike  each  other ; 

To  mutter  and  mock  a  broken  charm. 

To  dally  with  wrong  that  does  no  harm. 

Perhaps  'tis  tender  too  and  pretty 

At  each  wild  word  to  feel  within 

A  sweet  recoil  of  love  and  pity. 

And  what,  if  in  a  world  of  sin 

(O  sorrow  and  shame  should  this  be  true) ! 

Such  giddiness  of  heart  and  brain 

Comes  seldom  save  from  rage  and  pain, 

So  talks  as  it's  most  used  to  do. 

82 


REIMORSE. 


7S 


itrmovi^r; 

A  TRAGEDY,  IN  FIVE  ACTS. 


DRAMATIS  PERSON.f:. 


Marquis  Valdez,  Father  to  the  two  brothers,  and 

Domia  Teresa's  Guardian. 
Don  Alvar,  the  eldest  son. 
Don  Ordonio,  the  youngest  son. 
MoNViEDRO,  a  Dominican  and  Inquisitor. 
ZuLiMEZ,  the  failhfid  attendant  on  Alvar. 
Isidore,  a  Moresco  Chieftain,  ostensibly  a  Christian. 
Familiars  of  the  Inquisition. 
Naomi. 

Moors,  Servants,  etc. 
Donna  Teresa,  an  Orphan  Heiress. 
AiHADRA,  Wife  to  Isidore. 

Time.  Tlie  reign  of  Philip  II.,  just  at  the  close  of 
the  ci\il  ^^ars  against  the  ISIoors,  and  during  the 
heat  of  the  persecution  which  raged  against  them, 
shortly  after  the  edict  which  forbade  the  wearing 
of  Moresco  apparel  under  pain  of  death. 


REMORSE. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

The  Sea  Shore  on  the  Coast  of  Granada. 

Do.\  Alvar,  ivrapt  in  a  Boat-cloal;  and  Zulijiez 
(o  Moresco),  both  as  just  landed 

ZULIMEZ. 

No  sound,  no  face  of  joy  to  welcome  us ! 

alvar. 
My  faithful  Zuliiiiez,  for  one  brief  moment 
Let  me  forget  my  anguish  and  their  crimes. 
If  aught  on  earth  demand  an  unmix'd  feeling, 
'Tis  surely  this — after  long  years  of  exile. 
To  step  forth  on  firm  land,  and  gazing  round  us. 
To  hail  at  once  oiu-  countrj%  and  our  birth-place. 
Hail,  Spain !  Granada,  hail !  once  more  I  press 
Thy  sands  with  filial  awe,  land  of  my  fathers ! 

ZULIMEZ. 

Then  claim  your  rights  in  it !  O,  revered  Don  Alvar, 

Yet,  yet  give  up  your  all  too  gentle  purpose. 

It  is  too  hazardous !  reveal  yourself. 

And  let  the  guilty  meet  the  doom  of  guilt ! 

alvar. 
Remember,  Zulimez!  I  am  his  brother: 
Injured,  indeed  !  O  deeply  injured!  yet 
Ordonio's  brother. 

ZULIMEZ. 

Nobly-minded  Alvar  I 
This  sure  but  gives  his  guilt  a  blacker  dye. 

alvar. 
The  more  behoves  it,  I  should  rouse  within  him 
Remorse !  that  I  should  save  him  from  himself. 
H2 


ZULIMEZ. 

Remorse  is  as  the  heart  in  which  it  grove's : 
If  that  be  gentle,  it  drops  balmy  dews 
Of  true  repentance ;  but  if  proud  and  gloomy, 
It  is  a  poison-tree  that,  pierced  to  the  inmost, 
Weeps  only  tears  of  poison. 

ALVAR. 

And  of  a  brother. 
Dare  I  hold  this,  improved  ?  nor  make  one  eflbrt. 
To  save  him  ? — Hearmc,  friend !  I  have  yet  to  tell  thee 
That  this  same  life,  which  he  conspired  to  take. 
Himself  once  rescued  from  the  angry  flood, 
And  at  the  imminent  hazard  of  his  own. 
Add  too  my  oath — 

ZULIMEZ. 

You  have  thrice  told  already 
The  years  of  absence  and  of  secrecy. 
To  which  a  forced  oath  bound  you :  if  in  truth 
A  subom'd  murderer  have  the  power  to  dictate 
A  binding  oath — 

ALVAR. 

My  long  captivity 
Left  me  no  choice  :  the  veiy  Wish  too  languish'd 
With  the  fond  Hope  that  nursed  it ;  the  sick  babe 
Droop'd  at  the  bosom  of  its  famish'd  mother 
But  (more  than  all)  Teresa's  perfidy ; 
The  assassin's  strong  assurance,  when  no  interest. 
No  motive  could  have  tempted  him  to  falsehood : 
In  the  first  pangs  of  his  awaken'd  conscience, 
^\Tien  with  abhorrence  of  his  own  black  purpose 
The  murderous  weapon,  pointed  at  my  breast. 
Fell  from  his  palsied  hand — 

ZULIMEZ. 

Hea\'y  presumption ! 

ALVAR. 

It  weigh'd  not  with  me — Hark !  I  will  tell  thee  all : 
As  we  pass'd  by,  I  bade  thee  mark  the  base 
Of  yonder  cliff — 

ZULIMEZ. 

Tliat  rocky  seat  you  mean, 
Shaped  by  the  billows  ? — 

ALVAR. 

There  Teresa  met  me, 
The  morning  of  the  day  of  my  departure. 
We  were  alone :  the  purple  hue  of  dawn 
Fell  from  the  kindling  east  aslant  upon  us. 
And,  blending  with  the  blushes  on  her  cheek, 
Sutfused  the  tear-drops  there  with  rosy  light. 
There  seem'd  a  glory  romid  us,  and  Teresa 
The  angel  of  the  vision !  [  Then  with  agitation 

Hadst  thou  seen 
How  in  each  motion  her  most  iiuiocent  soul 
Beam'd  forth  and   brighten'd,  thou  thyself  wouldst 

tell  me. 
Guilt  is  a  thing  impossible  in  her ! 
She  must  be  innocent ! 

ZULIMEZ  (tmth  a  sigh). 

Proceed,  my  L'jrd ! 
83 


74 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


ALVAR. 

A  portrait  which  she  had  procured  by  stealth 

(For  ever  then  it  seems  her  heart  foreboded 

Or  knew  Ordonio's  moody  rivalry), 

A  portrait  of  herself  with  thrilling  hand 

She  tied  around  my  neck,  conjuring  me 

With  earnest  prayers,  that  I  would  keep  it  sacred 

To  my  own  knowledge :  nor  did  she  desist, 

Till  she  had  won  a  solemn  promise  from  me. 

That  (save  my  own)  no  eye  should  e'er  behold  it 

Till  my  return.     Yet  this  the  assassin  knew. 

Knew  that  which  none  but  she  could  have  disclosed. 

ZULLMEZ. 

A  damning  proof! 

ALVAR. 

My  own  life  wearied  me ! 
And  but  for  the  imperative  Voice  within. 
With  mine  own  hand  I  had  tlirown  off  the  burthen. 
That  Voice,  which  quell'd  me,  calm'd  me:  and  I 

sought 
The  Belgic  states  :  there  joiniji  the  better  cause  ; 
And  there  too  fought  as  one  that  courted  death! 
Wounded,  I  fell  among  the  dead  and  dying, 
In  death-hke  trance  :  a  long  imprisormient  follow'd. 
The  fullness  of  my  anguish  by  degrees 
^Vaned  to  a  meditative  melancholy  ; 
And  still,  the  more  I  mused,  my  soul  became 
More  doubtful,  more  perplex'd;  and  still  Teresa, 
Night  after  night,  she  visited  my  sleep. 
Now  as  a  saintly  sufferer,  wan  and  tearful. 
Now  as  a  saint  in  glory  beckoning  to  me ! 
Yes,  still,  as  in  contempt  of  proof  and  reason, 
I  cherish  the  fond  faith  that  she  is  guiltless ! 
Hear  then  my  fix'd  resolve  :  I  '11  linger  here 
In  the  disguise  of  a  Moresco  chieftain. — 
The  Moorish  robes  ? — 

ZULIMEZ. 

All,  all  are  in  the  sea-cave, 
Some  furlong  hence.     I  bade  our  mariners 
Secrete  the  boat  there. 

ALVAR. 

Above  all,  the  picture 
Of  the  assassination — 

ZULLMEZ. 

Be  assured 
That  it  remains  uninjured. 

ALVAR. 

Thus  disguised, 
I  will  first  seek  to  meet  Ordonio's — wife! 
If  possible,  alone  too.     This  was  her  wonted  walk. 
And  this  the  hour ;  her  words,  her  very  looks 
Will  acquit  her  or  convict. 

ZULIMEZ. 

Will  they  not  know  you  ? 

ALVAR. 

With  your  aid,  friend,  I  shall  unfearingly 
'  Trust  the  disguise ;  and  as  to  my  complexion, 
My  long  imprisonment,  the  scanty  food, 

■  This  scar, — and  toil  beneath  a  burning  sun. 
Have  done  already  half  the  business  for  us. 
Add  too  my  youth,  when  last  we  saw  each  other. 
Manhood  has  swoln  my  chest,  and  taught  my  voice 
A  hoarser  note — Besides,  they  think  me  dead  : 
And  what  the  mind  believes  impossible, 

The  bodily  sense  is  slow  to  recogoize. 

ZULIiMEZ. 

■  'Tis  yours,  Sir,  to  command ;  mine  to  obey. 


Now  to  the  cave  beneath  the  vaulted  rock, 
Wliere  having  shaped  you  to  a  Moorish  chieflain, 
I  wUl  seek  our  mariners ;  and  in  the  dusk 
Transport  whate'er  we  need  to  the  small  dell 
In  the  Alpuxarras — there  where  Zagri  lived. 

ALVAR. 

I  know  it  well :  it  is  the  obscurest  haiuit 

Of  all  the  mountains —  [Both  stand  listening 

Voices  at  a  distance ! 
Let  us  away !  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  11, 


Enter  Teresa  and  Valdez. 

,    TERESA. 

I  hold  Ordonio  dear ;  he  is  your  son 
And  Alvar's  brother. 

VALDEZ. 

Love  him  for  himself, 
Nor  make  the  living  wretched  for  the  dead. 

TERESA. 

I  mourn  that  you  should  plead  in  vain,  Lord  Valdez; 
But  heaven  hath  heard  my  vow,  and  I  remain 
Faithful  to  Alvar,  be  he  dead  or  living. 

VALDEZ. 

Heaven  knows  with  what  delight  I  saw  your  loves, 
And  could  my  heart's  blood  give  him  back  to  thee, 
I  would  die  smiling.     But  these  are  idle  thoughts ; 
Thy  dying  father  comes  upon  my  soul 
With  that  same  look,  with  which  he  gave  thee  to  me, 
I  held  thee  in  my  arms  a  powerless  babe. 
While  thy  poor  mother  with  a  mute  entreaty 
Fix'd  her  faint  eyes  on  mine.     Ah  not  for  this. 
That  I  should  let  thee  feed  thy  soul  with  gloom, 
And  with  slow  anguish  wear  away  thy  hfe, 
The  victim  of  a  useless  constancy. 
I  must  not  see  thee  wretched. 

TERESA. 

There  are  w'oes 
Ill-barter'd  for  the  garishness  of  joy ! 
If  it  be  wretched  with  an  untired  eye 
To  watch  those  skiey  tints,  and  tliis  green  ocean ; 
Or  in  the  sultry  hour  beneath  some  rock, 
My  hair  dishevell'd  by  the  pleasant  sea-breeze, 
To  shape  sweet  visions,  and  live  o'er  again 
All  past  hours  of  delight !  If  it  be  wretched 
To  watch  some  bark,  and  fancy  Alvar  there, 
To  go  through  each  minutest  circumstance 
Of  the  blest  meeting,  and  to  frame  adventures 
Most  terrible  and  strange,  and  hear  him  tell  them ; 
*  (As  once  I  knew  a  crazy  Moorish  maid 
Who  drest  her  in  her  buried  lover's  clothes. 
And  o'er  the  smooth  spring  in  the  mountain  cleft 
Hung  with  her  lute,  and  play'd  the  self-same  tune 
He  used  to  play,  and  listen'd  to  the  shadow 
Herself  had  made) — if  this  be  wretchedness. 
And  if  indeed  it  be  a  wretched  thing 
To  trick  out  mine  own  death-bed,  and  imagine 
That  I  had  died,  died  just  ere  his  return  ! 
Then  see  liim  listening  to  my  constancy, 
Or  hover  round,  as  he  at  midnight  oft 


•  Here  Valdez  bends  back,  and  smifes  at  her  wildness, 
which  Teresa  noticing,  checks  her  enthusiasm,  and  in  a  sooth- 
ing half-playful  tone  and  manner,  apologizes  for  her  fancy 
by  the  Uttle  tale  in  the  parenthesis. 

84 


REMORSE. 


75 


Sits  on  my  grave  and  gazes  at  the  moon  ; 

Or  haply,  in  some  more  fantastic  mood, 

To  he  in  Paradise,  and  with  choice  flowers 

Build  up  a  hower  where  he  and  I  might  dwell, 

And  there  to  wait  his  coming  !  O  my  sire ! 

My  Alvar's  sire  !  if  this  be  w  retchedness 

Tiiat  eats  away  the  life,  what  were  it,  think  you, 

If  in  a  most  assured  reality 

lie  should  return,  and  see  a  brother's  infant 

Suiile  at  him  from  my  arms  ? 

Oh,  what  a  thought !  {Clasping  her  forehead. 

VALDEZ.  » 

A  thought?  even  so!  mere  thought!  an  empty  thought. 

The  very  week  he  promised  his  return 

TERESA  [ahruptly). 
Was  it  not  then  a  busy  joy  ?  to  see  him. 
After  those  three  years'  travels !  we  had  no  fears — 
The  frequent  tidings,  the  ne'er-failing  letter. 
Almost  endear'd  liis  absence !  Yet  the  gladness. 
The  tumult  of  our  joy !  \Vhat  then  if  now 

VALDEZ. 

0  power  of  j'outh  to  feed  on  pleasant  thoughts, 
Spite  of  conviction !  I  am  old  and  heartless ! 
Yes,  I  am  old — I  have  no  pleasant  fancies — 
Hectic  and  unrefrcsh'd  with  rest — 

TERESA  {with  great  letiderness) 

My  father ! 

VALDEZ. 

TTie  sober  truth  is  all  too  much  for  me  ! 

1  see  no  sail  which  brings  not  to  my  mind 

The  home-bound  bark  in  which  my  son  was  captured 
By  the  Algerine — to  perish  with  his  captors ! 

TERESA. 

Oh  no !  he  did  not ! 

VALDEZ. 

Captured  in  sight  of  land  ! 
From  yon  hill  point,  nay,  from  our  castle  watch-tower 
We  might  have  seen 

TERESA.  ' 

His  capture,  not  his  death. 

VALDEZ. 

Alas !  how  aptly  thou  fbrgett'st  a  tale 

Thou  ne'er  didst  wish  to  learn !  my  brave  Ordonio 

Saw  both  the  pirate  and  his  prize  go  down. 

In  the  same  storm  that  baffled  his  own  valor. 

And  thus  twice  snatch'd  a  brother  from  his  hopes : 

Grallant  Ordonio !  {pauses ;  then  tenderly).    0  beloved 

Teresa ! 

Wouldst  thou  best  prove  thy  faith  to  generous  Alvar, 
And  most  delight  his  spirit,  go,  make  thou 
His  brother  happy,  make  his  aged  father 
Sink  to  the  grave  in  joy. 

TERESA. 

For  mercy's  sake. 
Press  me  no  more  !  I  have  no  power  to  love  him. 
His  proud  forbidding  eye,  and  his  dark  brow, 
Cliill  me  like  dew  damps  of  the  unwholesome  night 
My  love,  a  timorous  and  tender  flower, 
Closes  beneath  his  touch. 

VALDEZ. 

You  wrong  him,  maiden  I 
You  wrong  him,  by  my  soul  I  Nor  was  it  well 
To  character  by  such  unkindly  phrases 
The  stir  and  workings  of  that  love  for  you 
Which  he  has  toil'd  to  smother,     'T  was  not  well, 
Nor  is  it  grateful  in  you  to  forget 


His  wounds  and  perilous  voyages,  and  how 

With  an  heroic  fearlessness  of  danger 

He  roam'd  the  coast  of  Afric  for  your  Alvar. 

It  was  not  well — You  have  moved  me  even  to  tears. 

TERESA. 

Oh  pardon  me.  Lord  Valdez !  pardon  me ! 

It  was  a  foolish  and  ungrateful  speech, 

A  most  ungrateful  speech !  But  I  am  hurried 

Beyond  myself,  if  I  but  hear  of  one 

Who  aims  to  rival  Alvar.     Were  we  not 

Born  in  one  day,  like  twins  of  the  same  parent  ? 

Nursed  in  one  cradle  ?  Pardon  me,  my  father ! 

A  six  years'  absence  is  a  heavy  thing. 

Yet  still  the  hope  survives 

VALDEZ  {looking  forward). 
Hush!  'tis  Monviedro. 

TERESA 

The  Inquisitor!  on  what  new  scent  of  blood  ? 

Enter  Monviedro  with  Alhadra. 

MONVIEDRO  {having  first  made  his  obeisance  to 
Valdez  and  Teresa). 

Peace  and  the  truth  be  with  you !  Good  my  Lord, 
My  present  need  is  with  your  son. 

{Looking  forward. 
We  have  hit  the  time.    Here  comes  he !  Yes,  'tis  he. 

Enter  from  the  opposite  side  Don  Ordonio. 

My  Lord  Ordonio,  this  Moresco  woman 
(Alhadra  is  her  name)  asks  audience  of  you. 

ORDONIO. 

Hail,  reverend  father!  what  may  be  the  business? 

MONVIEDRO. 

My  Lord,  on  strong  suspicion  of  relapse 

To  his  false  creed,  so  recently  abjured. 

The  secret  servants  of  the  inquisition 

Have  seized  her  husband,  and  at  my  command 

To  the  supreme  tribunal  would  have  led  him, 

But  that  he  made  appeal  to  you,  my  Lord, 

As  surety  for  his  soundness  in  the  faith. 

Though  lessen'd  by  experience  what  small  trust 

The  asseverations  of  these  Moors  deserve. 

Yet  still  the  deference  to  Ordonio's  name. 

Nor  less  the  wish  to  prove,  with  what  high  honor 

The  Holy  Church  regards  her  faithful  soldiers, 

Thus  far  prevail'd  with  me  that 

ORDONIO. 

Reverend  father, 
I  am  much  beholden  to  your  high  opinion, 
Which  so  o'erprizes  my  light  services. 

{Then  to  Alhadra 
I  would  that  I  could  serve  you ;  but  in  truth 
Your  face  is  new  to  me. 

monviedro. 

My  mind  foretold  me. 
That  such  would  be  the  event.  In  truth.  Lord  Valdez. 
'Twas  little  probable,  that  Don  Ordonio, 
That  your  illustrious  son,  who  fought  so  bravely 
Some  four  years  since  to  quell  these  rebel  Moors, 
Should  prove  the  patron  of  this  infidel ! 
The  guarantee  of  a  Moresco's  faith  ! 
Now  I  return. 

ALHADRA. 

My  Lord,  my  husband's  name 
Is  Isidore.  (Ordonio  starts.) — You  may  remember  it 
13  85 


76 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Three  years  ago,  three  years  this  very  week, 
You  left  him  at  Almeria. 

MONVIEDRO. 

Palpably  false ! 
This  very  week,  three  years  ago,  my  Lord 
(You  needs  must  recollect  it  by  your  wound), 
You  were  at  sea,  and  there  engaged  the  pirates, 
The  murderers  doubtless  of  your  brother  Alvar ! 

[Teresa  looks  at  Monviedro  with  disgust  and 
horror.   Ordonio's  appearance  to  be  collected 
from  wliat  follows. 
monviedro  {to  Valdez,  and  pointing  at  Ordonio). 
What !  is  he  ill,  my  Lord  ?  how  strange  he  looks  ! 

valdez  (angrily). 
You  press'd  upon  him  too  abruptly,  father, 
The  fate  of  one,  on  whom,  you  know,  he  doted. 

ordonio  [starting  as  in  sudden  agitation). 

0  Heavens !  I  ?  I — doted  ?  {then  recovering  himself). 

Yes !  I  doted  on  him. 
[Ordonio  walks  to  the  end  of  the  stage, 
Valdez  follows,  soothing  him. 

TERESA  {her  eye  following  Ordonio). 

1  do  not,  can  not,  love  him.     Is  my  heart  hard  ? 
Is  my  heart  hard  ?  that  even  now  the  thought 
Should  force  itself  upon  me  ? — Yet  I  feel  it ! 

monviedro. 
The  drops  did  start  and  stand  upon  his  forehead  ! 
I  will  return.     In  very  truth,  I  grieve 
To  have  been  the  occasion.    Ho  !  attend  me,  woman ! 

ALHADRA  {tO  TeRESA). 

0  gentle  lady !  make  the  father  stay. 
Until  my  Lord  recover.     I  am  sure. 

That  he  will  say  he  is  my  husband's  friend. 

TERESA. 

Stay,  father !  stay !  my  Lord  will  soon  recover. 

ordonio  {as  they  return,  to  Valdez). 
Strange,  that  this  Monviedro 
Should  have  the  power  so  to  distemper  me ! 

VALDEZ. 

Nay,  'twas  an  amiable  weakness,  son ! 

MONVIEDRO. 

My  Lord,  I  truly  grieve 

ORDONIO. 

Tut !  name  it  not. 
A  sudden  seizure,  father !  think  not  of  it. 
As  to  this  woman's  husband,  I  do  know  him. 

1  know  him  well,  and  that  he  is  a  Christian. 

MONVIEDRO. 

I  hope,  my  Lord,  your  merely  human  pity 
Doth  not  prevail 

ORDONIO. 

'Tis  certain  that  he  vias  a  Catholic; 

What  changes  may  have  happen'd  in  three  years, 

I  cannot  say ;  but  grant  me  this,  good  father : 

Myself  I'll  sift  him :  if  I  find  him  sound. 

You  '11  grant  me  your  authority  and  name 

To  liberate  his  house. 

MONVIEDRO. 

Your  zeal,  my  Lord, 
And  your  late  merits  in  this  holy  warfare. 
Would  authorize  an  ampler  trust — you  have  it. 

ORDONIO. 

I  will  attend  you  home  within  an  hour. 

VALDEZ. 

Meantime,  return  with  us  and  take  refreshment. 


ALHADRA. 

Not  till  my  husband 's  free  !  I  may  not  do  it 
I  will  stay  here. 

TERESA  {aside). 
Who  is  this  Isidore  ? 

VALDEZ. 

Daughter ! 

TERESA. 

With  your  permission,  my  dear  Lord, 

I  '11  loiter  yet  awhile  t'  enjoy  the  sea  breeze. 

[Exeunt  Valdez,  Monviedro,  and  Ordonio 

ALHADRA. 

Hah !  there  he  goes !  a  bitter  curse  go  with  him, 
A  scathing  curse ! 

{Then  as  if  recollecting  herself  and  with  a  timid  look) 
You  hate  him,  don't  you,  lady  ? 
TERESA  {perceiving  that  Alhadra  is  conscious  she  has 

spoken  imprudently). 
Oh  fear  not  me  !  my  heart  is  sad  for  you. 

ALHADRA. 

These  fell  inquisitors  !  these  sons  of  blood ! 
As  I  came  on,  his  face  so  madden'd  me. 
That  ever  and  anon  I  clutch'd  my  dagger 
And  half  unsheathed  it 

TERESA. 

Be  more  calm,  I  pray  you 

ALHADRA. 

And  as  he  walked  along  the  narrow  path 

Close  by  the  mountain's  edge,  my  soul  grew  eager ; 

'T  was  with  hard  toil  I  made  myself  remember 

That  his  Familiars  held  my  babes  and  husband. 

To  have  leapt  upon  him  with  a  tiger's  plunge, 

And  hurl'd  him  down  the  rugged  precipice, 

0,  it  had  been  most  sweet ! 

TERESA. 

Hush !  hush  for  shame  ! 
Where  is  your  woman's  heart  ? 

ALHADRA. 

O  gentle  lady ! 
You  have  no  skill  to  guess  my  many  wrongs. 
Many  and  strange !  Besides  {ironically),  I  am  a  Chris- 
tian, 
And  Christians  never  pardon — 'tis  their  faith! 

TERESA. 

Shame  fall  on  those  who  so  have  shown  it  to  thee ! 

ALHADRA. 

I  know  that  man ;  'tis  well  he  knows  not  me. 
Five  years  ago  (and  he  was  the  prime  agent). 
Five  years  ago  the  holy  brethren  seized  me. 

TERESA. 

What  might  your  crime  be  ? 

ALHADRA. 

I  was  a  Moresco ! 
They  cast  me,  then  a  young  and  nursing  mother. 
Into  a  dungeon  of  their  prison-house, 
Wliere  was  no  bed,  no  fire,  no  ray  of  light, 
No  touch,  no  sound  of  comfort !  "The  black  air, 
It  was  a  toil  to  breathe  it !  when  the  door. 
Slow  opening  at  the  appointed  hour,  disclosed 
One  human  countenance,  the  lamp's  red  flame 
Cower'd  as  it  enter'd,  and  at  once  sunk  down. 
Oh  miserable !  by  that  lamp  to  see 
My  infant  quarrelling  with  the  coarse  hard  bread 
Brought  daily  :  for  the  little  wretch  was  sickly — 
My  rage  had  dried  away  its  natural  food. 
In  darkness  I  remain'd — the  dull  bell  coimting, 
86 


REMORSE. 


77 


Which  haply  told  me,  that  all  the  all-cheering  Sun 

Was  rising  on  our  garden.     Wien  I  dozed, 

My  infant's  moanings  mingled  with  my  slumbers 

And  waked  me. — If  you  were  a  mother,  Lady, 

I  should  scarce  dare  to  tell  you,  that  its  noises 

And  pee\-ish  cries  so  fretted  on  my  brain 

Tliat  I  have  struck  the  imiocent  babe  hi  anger. 

TEKES.\. 

0  Heaven !  it  is  too  horrible  to  hear. 

ALHADRA. 

AVTiat  was  it  then  to  suffer  ?  'Tis  most  right 
That  such  as  you  should  hear  it. — Know  you  not, 
WTiat  Nature  makes  you  mourn,  she  bids  you  heal  ? 
Great  Evils  ask  great  Passions  to  redress  them, 
And  Wliirlwinds  fithest  scatter  Pestilence. 

TERESA. 

You  were  at  length  released  ? 

ALHADRA. 

Yes,  at  length 

1  saw  the  blessed  arch  of  the  whole  heaven ! 

'T  was  the  first  time  my  infant  smileil.     No  more — 

For  if  I  dwell  upon  that  moment,  Lady, 

A  trance  comes  on  which  makes  me  o'er  again 

All  I  then  was — my  knees  hang  loose  and  drag. 

And  ray  hp  falls  with  such  an  idiot  laugh. 

That  you  would  start  and  shudder ! 

TERESA. 

But  your  husband — 

ALHADRA. 

A  month's  Lmprisorunent  would  lull  him.  Lady. 

TERESA. 

Alas,  poor  man ! 

ALHADRA. 

He  hath  a  lion's  courage. 
Fearless  in  act,  but  feeble  in  endurance ; 
Unfit  for  boisterous  times,  vilh  gentle  heart 
He  worships  Nature  in  the  hiil  ana  valley. 
Not  knowing  what  he  loves,  but  loves  it  all — 

Enter  Alvak  disguised  as  a  Moresco,  and  in  Moorish 
garments. 

TERESA. 

Know  you  that  stately  Moor  ? 

ALHADRA. 

I  know  him  not : 
But  doubt  not  he  is  some  Moresco  chieftain, 
\VTio  hides  himself  among  the  Alpuxarras. 

TERESA. 

The  Alpuxarras  ?    Does  he  know  his  danger. 
So  near  this  seat  ? 

ALHADRA. 

He  wears  the  Moori.sh  robes  too. 
As  in  defiance  of  the  royal  edict. 

[Alhadra  advances  to  Alvar,  v:ho  has  walked  to 
the  back  of  the  stage  near  the  rocks.  Teresa 
drops  her  veil. 

ALHADRA 

Gallant  Moresco !  An  inquisitor, 

Monviedro,  of  knowni  hatred  to  our  race 

ALVAR  {interrupting  her). 
You  have  mistaken  me.     I  am  a  Christian. 

ALHADRA. 

He  deems,  that  we  are  plotting  to  ensnare  him': 
Speak  to  him.  Lady — none  can  hear  you  speak, 
And  not  believe  you  innocent  of  guile. 


TERESA. 

If  aught  enforce  you  to  concealment.  Sir 

ALHADRA. 

He  trembles  strangely. 

[Alvar  sinks  down  and  hides  his  face  in  his  role. 

TERESA. 

See,  we  have  disturb'd  liim. 

[Appnxiches  nearer  to  him. 
I  pray  you  think  us  friends — uncowl  your  face, 
For  you  seem  faint,  and  the  night  breeze  blows  healing 
I  pray  you  think  us  friends ! 

ALVAR  (raising  his  head). 

Calm,  very  calm ! 
'Tis  all  too  tranquil  for  reality! 
And  she  spoke  to  me  \\ith  her  innocent  voice. 
That  voice,  that  innocent  voice !   She  is  no  traitresj 

TERESA. 

Let  us  retire.  (Haughtily  to  Alhadra). 

[They  advance  to  the  front  of  the  Stage. 
alhadra  {with  scorn). 
He  is  indeed  a  Christian. 

ALVAR  (aside). 
She  deems  me  dead,  yet  wears  no  mourning  gannent! 
Why  should   my  brother's — wife — wear  mourning 
gannents  ? 

[To  Teresa. 
Your  pardon,  noble  dame  !  that  I  disturb'd  you : 
I  had  just  started  from  a  frightful  dream. 

TERESA. 

Dreams  tell  but  of  the  Past,  and  yet,  'tis  said. 
They  prophesy — 

ALVAR. 

The  Past  lives  o'er  again 
In  its  effects,  and  to  the  guilty  spirit 
The  ever-frowning  Present  is  its  image. 

TERESA. 

Traitress!  (Then  aside). 

What  sudden  spell  o'ermasters  me  ? 
Why  seeks  he  me,  shunning  the  Moorish  woman  ? 
[Teresa  looks  round  uneasily,  but  grodttally  be 

comes  attentive  as  Alvar  proceeds  in  the 

next  speech. 

ALVAR. 

I  dreamt  I  had  a  friend,  on  whom  I  leant 
With  blindest  trust,  and  a  betrothed  maid. 
Whom  I  was  wont  to  call  not  mine,  but  me ; 
For  mine  own  self  seem'd  nothing,  lacking  her. 
This  maid  so  idolized  that  trusted  friend 
Dishonor'd  in  my  absence,  soul  and  body  I 
Fear,  following  guilt,  tempted  to  blacker  guilt. 
And  murderers  were  subom'd  against  ray  life. 
But  by  ray  looks,  and  most  impassion'd  words, 
I  roused  the  virtues  that  are  dead  in  no  man, 
Even  in  the  assassins'  hearts !  they  made  their  terra 
And  thank'd  me  for  redeeming  them  from  murder. 

ALHADRA. 

You  are  lost  in  thought :  hear  him  no  more,  sweet  Lady 

TERESA. 

From  mom  to  night  I  am  myself  a  dreamer. 
And  slight  things  bring  on  me  the  idle  mood ! 
Well,  Sir,  what  happen'd  then  ? 

ALVAR. 

On  a  rude  rock, 
A  rock,  methought,  fast  by  a  grove  of  firs, 
Whose  thready  leaves  to  the  low  breathing  gal© 
Made  a  soft  soiuid  most  like  the  distant  ocean, 

87 


78 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I  stay'd  as  though  the  hour  of  death  were  pass'd, 
And  I  were  sitting  in  the  world  of  spirits — 
For  all  things  seem'd  unreal !  There  I  sate — 
The  dews  fell  clammy,  and  the  night  descended, 
Black,  sultry,  close  !  and  ere  the  midnight  hour, 
A  storm  came  on,  mingling  all  sounds  of  fear, 
Tliat  woods,  and  sky,  and  mountains,  seem'd  one 

havoc. 
The  second  flash  of  lightning  show'd  a  tree 
Hard  by  me,  newly  scathed.     I  rose  tumultuous  : 
IVIy  soul  work'd  high,  I  bared  my  head  to  the  storm. 
And,  with  loud  voice  and  clamorous  agony. 
Kneeling  I  pray'd  to  the  great  Spirit  that  made  me, 
Pray'd  that  Remorse  might  fasten  on  their  hearts. 
And  cling  with  poisonous  tooth,  inextricable 
As  the  gored  lion's  hite  ! 

TERESA  {shuddering). 

A  fearful  curse ! 

ALHADRA  {fiercely). 
But  dreamt  you  not  that  you  return'd  and  kill'd  them? 
Dreamt  you  of  no  revenge  ? 

ALVAR  {his  voice  trembling,  and  in  tones  of  deep  distress). 

She  would  have  died. 
Died  in  her  guilt — perchance  by  her  owti  hands  ! 
And  bending  o'er  her  self-inflicted  wounds, 
I  might  have  met  the  evil  glance  of  frenzy, 
And  leapt  myself  into  an  unblest  grave  ! 
1  pray'd  for  the  punishment  that  cleanses  hearts: 
For  still  I  loved  her ! 

ALHADRA. 

And  you  dreamt  all  this  ? 

TERESA. 

My  soul  is  fidl  of  visions  all  as  wild ! 

ALHADRA. 

There  is  no  room  in  this  heart  for  puling  love-tales. 
TERESA  {lifts  up  her  veil,  and  advances  to  Alvar). 
Stranger,  farewell !  I  guess  not  who  you  are, 
Nor  why  you  so  address'd  your  tale  to  me. 
Your  mien  is  noble,  and,  I  own,  perplex'd  me 
With  obscure  memory  of  something  past. 
Which  still  escaped  my  efforts,  or  presented 
Tricks  of  a  fancy  pamper'd  with  long  wishing. 
If,  as  it  sometimes  happens,  our  rude  startling 
Whilst  your  full  heart  was  shaping  out  its  dream, 
Drove  you  to  this,  your  not  ungentle  wildness — 
You  have  my  sympathy,  and  so  farewell ' 
But  if  some  imdiscover'd  wrongs  oppress  you. 
And  you  need  strength  to  drag  them  into  light, 
The  generous  Valdez,  and  my  Lord  Ordonio, 
Have  arm  and  will  to  aid  a  noble  sufferer ; 
Nor  shall  you  want  my  favorable  pleading. 

[Exeunt  Teresa  ayid  Alhadra. 

ALVAR  {alone). 
'Tis  strange !  It  cannot  be!  my  Lord  Ordonio ! 
Her  Lord  Ordonio !  Nay,  I  wUl  not  do  it ! 
I  cursed  him  once — and  one  curse  is  enough  ! 
How  bad  she  look'd,  and  pale  !  but  not  like  guilt — 
And  her  calm  tones — sweet  as  a  song  of  mercy ! 
If  the  bad  spirit  retain'd  his  angel's  voice. 
Hell  scarce  were  HeU.     And  why  not  irmocent  ? 
Who  meant  to  murder  me,  might  well  cheat  her  ? 
But  ere  she  married  him,  he  had  stain'd  her  honor ; 
Ah  !  there  I  am  hamper'd.     What  if  this  were  a  lie 
Framed  by  the  assassin  ?  Who  should  tell  it  him. 
If  it  were  truth  ?  Ordonio  would  not  tell  him. 
Yet  why  one  lie  ?  all  else,  I  know,  was  truth. 


No  start,  no  jealousy  of  stirring  conscience  ! 
And  she  referr'd  to  me — fondly,  methought ! 
Could  slie  walk  here  if  she  had  been  a  traitress  ? 
Here,  where  we  play'd  together  in  our  childhood  ? 
Here,  where  we  plighted  vows  ?    where  her  cold 

cheek 
Received  my  last  kiss,  when  with  suppress'd  feelings 
She  had  fainted  in  my  arms?  It  cannot  be! 
'Tis  not  in  Nature  I  I  will  die,  believing 
That  I  shall  meet  her  where  no  evil  is, 
No  treachery,  no  cup  dash'd  from  the  lips. 
I'll  haunt  this  scene  no  more !  live  she  in  peace  ! 
Her  husband — ay,  her  husband  !  May  this  angel 
New  mould  lus  canker'd  heart !  Assist  me,  Heaven, 
That  I  may  pray  for  my  poor  guilty  brother!     [Exit. 


ACT  IL 

SCENE  L 

A  wild  and  mountainous  Country.  Ordonio  and  Isi- 
dore are  discovered,  supposed  at  a  little  distance 
from  Isidore's  house. 

ORDOiMO. 

Here  we  may  stop :  your  house  distinct  in  view, 
Yet  we  secured  from  hstenere. 

ISIDORE. 

Now  indeed 
My  house !  and  it  looks  cheerful  as  the  clusters 
Basking  in  siuishine  on  yon  vine-clad  rock. 
That  over-brows  it !  Patron !  Friend  !  Preserver ! 
Thrice  have  you  saved  my  life.     Once  in  the  battle 
You  gave  it  me :  next  rescued  me  from  suicide, 
When  for  my  follies  I  was  made  to  wander. 
With  mouths  to  feed,  and  not  a  morsel  for  them 
Now,  but  for  you,  a  dungeon's  shmy  stones 
Had  been  my  bed  and  pillow. 

ORDONIO. 

Good  Isidore ! 

Why  this  to  me  ?  It  is  enough,  you  know  it 

ISIDORE. 

A  common  trick  of  Gratitude,  my  Lord, 
Seeking  to  ease  her  own  full  heart 

ORDONIO. 

Enough, 
A  debt  repaid  ceases  to  be  a  debt. 
You  have  it  in  your  power  to  serve  me  greatly. 

ISIDORE. 

And  how,  my  Lord  ?  I  pray  you  to  name  the  thing. 
I  would  cUmb  up  an  ice-glaz'd  precipice 
To  pluck  a  weed  you  fancied ! 

ORDONIO  {with  embarrassment  and  hesitation). 

Why — that — Lady— 

ISIDORE. 

'Tis  now  three  years,  my  Lord,  since  last  I  saw  you 
Have  you  a  son,  my  Lord  ? 

ORDONIO. 

O  miserable —         [Aside 
Isidore !  you  are  a  man,  and  know  mankind. 
I  told  you  what  I  wish'd — now  for  the  truth ! — 
She  lov'd  the  man  you  kill'd. 

ISIDORE  {looleing  as  suddenly  alarmed). 

You  jest,  my  Lord  ? 

ORDONIO. 

And  till  his  death  is  proved,  she  will  not  wed  me. 


REMORSE. 


79 


ISIDORE. 

You  sport  with  me,  my  Lord  ? 

ORDONIO. 

Come,  come !  this  foolery 
Lives  only  in  thy  looks :  thy  heart  disowns  it ! 

ISIDORE. 

I  can  bear  this,  and  any  tiling  more  grievous 

From  you,  my  Lord — but  how  can  I  serve  you  here  ? 

ORDONIO. 

Why,  you  can  utter  with  a  solenm  gesture 

Oracular  sentences  of  deep  no-meaning, 

Wear  a  quaint  garment,  make  mysterious  antics — 

ISIDORE. 

I  am  dull,  my  Lord  !  I  do  not  comprehend  you. 

ORDONIO. 

In  blunt  terms,  you  can  play  the  sorcerer. 
She  hath  no  faith  in  Holy  Church,  't  is  true  : 
Her  lover  school'd  her  in  some  newer  nonsense ! 
Yet  still  a  tale  of  spirits  works  upon  her. 
She  is  a  lone  enthusiast,  sensitive, 
Shivers,  and  cannot  keep  the  tears  in  her  eye  : 
And  such  do  love  the  marvellous  too  well 
Kot  to  believe  it.     We  will  wind  up  her  fancy 
With  a  strange  music,  that  she  knows  not  of — 
With  fumes  of  frankincense,  and  mummerj-, 
Then  leave,  as  one  sure  token  of  his  death, 
That  portrait,  which  from  off  the  dead  man's  neck 
I  bade  thee  take,  tlie  trophy  of  thy  conquest. 

ISIDORE. 

Will  that  be  a  sure  sign  ? 

ORDONIO. 

Beyond  suspicion. 
Fondly  caressing  him,  her  favor'd  lover 
(By  some  base  spell  he  had  bewitch'd  her  senses), 
She  whisper'd  such  dark  fears  of  me,  forsooth. 
As  made  this  heart  pour  gall  into  my  veins. 
And  as  she  coyly  bound  it  round  his  neck. 
She  made  him  promise  silence ;  and  now  holds 
The  secret  of  the  existence  of  this  portrait, 
Known  only  to  her  lover  and  herself. 
But  I  had  traced  her,  stolen  unnoticed  on  them, 
And  misuspected  saw  and  heard  the  whole. 

ISIDORE. 

But  now  I  should  have  cursed  the  man  who  told  me 
You  could  ask  aught,  my  Lord,  and  I  refuse — 
But  tliis  I  cannot  do. 

ORDONIO. 

\\'here  lies  your  scruple  ? 

ISIDORE  {with  stammering). 

Wliy — why,  my  Lord  ! 
You  know  you  told  me  that  the  lady  loved  you. 
Had  loved  you  with  incautious  tenderness ; 
That  if  the  young  man,  her  betrothed  husband, 
Returned,  yourself,  and  she,  and  the  honor  of  both 
Must  perish.  Now,  though  with  no  tenderer  scruples 
Than  those  which  being  native  to  the  heart, 
Than  those,  my  Lord,  which  merely  being  a  man — 

ORDONIO  {aloud,  though  to  express  Jiis  contempt 
he  speaks  in  the  third  person). 
This  fellow  is  a  Man — he  kill'd  for  hire 
One  whom  he  knew  not,  yet  has  lender  scruples  I 

[Then  turning  to  Isidore. 
These  doubts,  these  fears,  thy  whine,  thy  stammer- 
ing— 
Pish,  fool !  thou  blunder'st  through  the  book  of  guilt, 
Spelling  thy  villany. 


ISIDORE. 

My  Lord — my  Lord, 
I  can  bear  much — yes,  very  much  from  you ! 
But  there's  a  point  where  sufferance  is  meanness : 
I  am  no  villain — never  kill'd  for  hire — 
My  gratitude 

ORDONIO. 

O  ay — your  gratitude  ! 
'T  was  a  well-sounding  word — what  have  you  d« 
with  it? 

ISIDORE. 

Who  proffers  his  past  favors  for  my  virtue — 
ORDONIO  (with  bitter  scorn). 

Virtue  !^ 

ISIDORE. 

Tries  to  o'erreach  me — is  a  very  sharper. 
And  should  not  speak  of  gratitude,  my  Lord. 
I  knew  not  't  was  your  brother ! 

ORDONIO  {alarmed). 

And  who  told  yoi 

ISIDORE. 

He  himself  told  me. 

ORDONIO. 

Ha !  you  talk'd  with  him  ! 
And  those,  the  two  Morescoes  who  were  with  you  ? 

ISIDORE. 

Both  fell  in  a  night-brawl  at  Malaga. 
ORDONIO  {in  a  low  voice). 

My  brother— 

ISIDORE. 

Yes,  my  Lord,  I  could  not  tell  you .' 

I  thrust  away  the  thought — it  drove  me  wild. 

But  listen  to  me  now — I  pray  you  listen 

ORDONIO. 

Villain !  no  more  I  I  '11  hear  no  more  of  it. 

ISIDORE. 

My  Lord,  it  much  imports  your  future  safety 
That  you  should  hear  it. 

ORDONIO  {turning  off  from  Isidore.) 
Am  not  /  a  Man ! 
'Tis  as  it  should  be  I  tut — the  deed  itself 
Was  idle,  and  these  after-pangs  still  idler! 

ISIDORE. 

We  met  liim  in  the  very  place  you  mention'd. 
Hard  by  a  grove  of  firs — 

ORDONIO. 

Enough — enough — 

ISIDORE. 

He  fought  us  valiantly,  and  wounded  all ; 
In  fine,  compell'd  a  parley. 

ORDONIO  {sighing,  as  if  lost  in  thought). 
Alvar !  brother ' 

ISIDORE. 

He  offer'd  me  his  purse — 

ORDONIO  {with  eager  su^cion). 
Yes? 
ISIDORE  {indignantly). 

Yes — I  spum'd  it.— 
He  promised  us  I  know  not  what — in  vain.' 
Then  with  a  look  and  voice  that  overawed  me. 
He  said.  What  mean  you,  friends  ?  My  life  is  dear 
I  have  a  brother  and  a  promised  wife. 
Who  make  life  dear  to  me — and  if  I  fall, 
That  brother  will  roam  earth  and  hell  for  vengeance. 
There  was  a  likeness  in  his  face  to  yours  • 
I  ask'd  his  brother's  name  :  he  said — Ordonio, 
89 


80 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Son  of  Lord  Valdez  !  I  had  well-nigh  fainted. 
At  length  I  said  (if  that  indeed  I  said  it, 
And  that  no  Spirit  made  my  tongue  its  organ), 
That  woman  is  dishonor'd  by  that  brother, 
And  he  the  man  who  sent  us  to  destroy  you. 
He  drove  a  thrust  at  me  in  rage.     I  told  him, 
He  wore  her  portrait  round  his  neck.     He  look'd 
As  he  had  been  made  of  the  rock  that  propt  his 

back — 
Ay,  just  as  you  look  now — only  less  ghastly ! 
At  length,  recovering  from  his  trance,  he  threw 
His  sword  away,  and  bade  us  take  liis  life. 
It  was  not  worth  his  keeping. 

ORDONIO. 

And  you  kill'd  him  ? 

Oh  blood-hounds!   may  eternal  wrath  flame  round 
you! 

He  was  his  Maker's  Image  undefaced !       [A  pause. 

It  seizes  me — by  Hell,  I  will  go  on ! 

^Vhat — wouldst  thou  stop,  man  ?  thy  pale  looks  won't 
save  thee  !  [A  pause. 

Oh  cold — cold — cold !  shot  through  with  icy  cold ! 
ISIDORE  (aside). 

Were  he  alive,  he  had  return'd  ere  now— 

The  consequence  the  same — dead  through  his  plot- 
ting ! 

ORDONIO. 

O  this  unutterable  dying  away — here — 
rhis  sickness  of  the  heart !  [A  pause. 

Wliat  if  I  went 
And  lived  in  a  hollow  tomb,  and  fed  on  weeds  ? 
Ay !  that 's  the  road  to  heaven  !  O  fool !  fool !  fool ! 

[A  pause. 
What  have  I  done  but  that  which  nature  destined. 
Or  the  bhnd  elements  stirr'd  up  within  me  ? 
J  f  good  were  meant,  why  were  we  made  these  Be- 
ings? 
And  if  not  meant — 

ISIDORE. 

You  are  disturb'd,  my  Lord ! 
ORDONIO    (starts,  looks  at  him  mldly ;  (ken,  after  a 

pause,  during  which  his  features  are  forced  into 

a  smile). 
A  gust  of  the  soul !  i'  faith,  it  overset  me. 

0  't  was  all  folly — all !  idle  as  laughter  I 
Now,  Isidore!  I  swear  that  thou  shall  aid  me. 

ISIDORE  (in  a  low  voice). 

1  '11  perish  first ! 

ORDONIO. 

What  dost  thou  mutter  of? 

ISIDORE. 

Some  of  your  servants  know  me,  I  am  certain. 

ORDONIO. 

There 's  some  sense  in  that  scruple ;  but  we  '11  mask 
you. 

ISIDORE. 

They  '11  know  my  gait :  but  stay !  last  night  I  watch'd 
A  stranger  near  the  ruin  in  the  wood. 
Who  as  it  seem'd  was  gathering  herbs  and  wild  flow- 
ers. 
I  had  follow'd  him  at  distance,  seen  him  scale 
Its  western  wall,  and  by  an  easier  entrance 
Stole  after  him  unnoticed.     There  I  mark'd, 
That,  'mid  the  chequer-work  of  light  and  shade, 
With  curious  choice  he  pluck'd  no  other  flowers 
But  those  on  which  the  moonlight  fell :  and  once 
I  heard  him  muttering  o'er  the  plant.     A  wizard — 
Some  gaunt  slave  prowling  here  for  dark  employment. 


ORDONIO. 

Doubtless  you  question'd  him  ? 

ISIDORE. 

'Twas  my  intenticn 
Having  first  traced  him  homeward  to  his  haimt. 
But  lo !  the  stern  Dominican,  whose  spies 
Lurk  everywhere,  already  (as  it  seem'd) 
Had  given  commission  to  his  apt  familiar 
To  seek  and  sound  the  Moor ;  who  now  returning 
Was  by  this  trusty  agent  stopp'd  midway. 
I,  dreading  fresh  suspicion  if  found  near  him 
In  that  lone  place,  again  conceal'd  myself. 
Yet  within  hearing.     So  the  Moor  was  question'd, 
And  in  your  name,  as  lord  of  this  domain. 
Proudly  he  answer'd,  "  Say  to  the  Lord  Ordonio, 
He  that  can  bring  the  dead  to  life  again ! " 

ORDONIO. 

A  strange  reply  ! 

ISIDORE. 

Ay,  all  of  him  is  strange. 
He  call'd  himself  a  Christian,  yet  he  wears 
The  Moorish  robes,  as  if  he  courted  death. 

ORDONIO. 

Where  does  this  wizard  live  ? 

ISIDORE  (pointing  to  the  distance). 

You  see  that  brooklet 
Trace  its  course  backward :  through  a  narrow  opening 
It  leads  you  to  the  place. 

ORDONIO. 

How  shall  I  know  it  ? 

ISIDORE.     . 

You  cannot  err.     It  is  a  small  green  dell 

Built  all  around  with  high  off-sloping  hills, 

And  from  its  shape  our  peasants  aptly  call  it 

The  Giant's  Cradle.     There's  a  lake  in  the  midst. 

And  round  its  banks  tall  wood  that  branches  over, 

And  makes  a  kind  of  faery  forest  grow 

Down  in  the  water.     At  the  further  end 

A  puny  cataract  falls  on  the  lake ; 

And  there,  a  curious  sight !  you  see  its  shadow 

For  ever  curhng  like  a  wreath  of  smoke. 

Up  through  the  foliage  of  those  faery  trees. 

His  cot  stands  opposite.     You  cannot  miss  it 

ORDONIO  {in  retiring  stops  suddenly  at  the  edge  of  the 

scene,  and  then  turning  round  to  Isidore). 
Ha ! — Who  lurks  there  ?  Have  we  been  overheard  ? 
There,  where  the  smooth  high  wall  of  slate-rock  glit- 
ters— 

ISIDORE. 

'Neath  those  tall  stones,  which,  propping  each  the 

other. 
Form  a  mock  portal  with  their  pointed  arch ! 
Pardon  my  smiles !  'T  is  a  poor  Idiot  Boy, 
Who  sits  in  the  sun,  and  twirls  a  bough  about. 
His  weak  eyes  seethed  in  most  unmeaning  tears. 
And  so  he  sits,  swaying  his  cone-like  head ; 
And,  staring  at  his  bough  from  morn  to  sun-se-, 
See-saws  his  voice  in  inarticulate  noises ! 

ORDONIO. 

'Tis  well !  and  now  for  this  same  Wizard's  Lair. 

ISIDORE. 

Some  three  strides  up  the  hill,  a  mountain  ash 
Stretches  its  lower  boughs  and  scarlet  clusters 
O'er  the  old  thatnh. 

ORDONIO. 

I  shall  not  fail  to  find  it. 
[Exeunt  Ordonio  and  Isidore. 
90 


REMORSE. 


81 


SCENE  II. 

The  Inside  of  a  Collage,  around  which  Flowers  and 
Plants  of  various  kinds  are  seen.  Discovers  Alvar, 
ZuLiMEZ,  and  Alhadra,  as  on  the  poiiU  of  leaving. 

ALHADRA  {addressing  Alvar). 
Farewell,  then !  and  though  many  thoughts  perplex 

me, 
Aught  evil  or  ignoble  never  can  I 
Suspect  of  thee !  If  w  hat  thou  seem'st  thou  art. 
The  oppressed  brethren  of  thy  blood  have  need 
Of  such  a  leader. 

ALVAR. 

Noble-minded  woman ! 
Long  time  against  oppression  have  I  fought, 
And  for  the  native  liberty  of  faith 
Have  bled,  and  sufTer'd  bonds.     Of  this  be  certain  : 
Time,  as  he  courses  onwards,  still  unrolls 
The  volume  of  Concealment.     In  the  Future, 
As  in  the  optician's  glassy  cylinder, 
The  indistinguishable  blots  and  colors 
Of  the  dim  Past  collect  and  shape  themselves, 
Upstarting  in  their  own  completed  image 
To  scare  or  to  reward. 

I  sought  the  guilty. 
And  what  I  sought  I  found :  but  ere  the  spear 
'^lew  from  my  hand,  there  rose  an  angel  form 
Betwixt  me  and  my  aim.     With  baffled  purpose 
To  the  Avenger  I  leave  Vengeance,  and  depart ! 

Whate'er  betide,  if  aught  my  arm  may  aid. 
Or  power  protect,  my  word  is  pledged  to  thee : 
For  many  are  thy  wrongs,  and  thy  soul  noble. 
Once  more,  farewell. 

[Exit  Alhadra. 
Yes,  to  the  Belgic  states 
We  will  return.  These  robes,  this  stain'd  complexion, 
Akin  to  falsehood,  weigh  upon  my  spirit 
Whate'er  befall  us,  the  heroic  Maurice 
Will  grant  us  an  a.sj'lum,  in  remembrance 
Of  our  past  services. 

ZULIMEZ. 

And  all  the  wealth,  power,  influence  which  is  yours, 
You  let  a  murderer  hold  ? 

ALVAR. 

O  faithful  Zulimez ! 
That  my  return  involved  Ordonio's  death, 
1  trust,  would  give  me  an  unmingled  pang. 
Yet  bearable  : — but  when  I  see  my  father 
Strewing  his  scant  gray  hairs,  e'en  on  the  ground, 
Which  soon  must  be  his  grave,  and  my  Teresa — 
Her  husband  proved  a  murderer,  and  her  infants. 
His  infants — poor  Teresa ! — all  would  perish. 
All  perish — all !  and  I  (nay  bear  with  me) 
Could  not  survive  the  complicated  ruin ! 

ZULI.MEZ  {much  affected). 
Nay  now !  I  have  distress'd  you — you  well  know, 
I  ne'er  will  quit  your  fortunes.     True,  'tis  tiresome ! 
You  are  a  painter,*  one  of  many  fancies ! 
You  can  call  up  past  deeds,  and  make  them  live 
On  the  blank  canvas!  and  each  little  herb. 
That  grows  on  mountain  bleak,  or  tangled  forest. 
You  have  learnt  to  name 

Hark !  heard  you  not  some  footsteps  ? 


Vide  Appendix,  Note  1 
I 


ALVAR. 

What  if  it  were  my  brother  coming  onwards  ? 
I  sent  a  most  mysterious  message  to  him. 

Enter  Ordonio. 
ALVAR  {starling) 
It  is  he ! 

ORDONIO  {to  himself,  as  he  enter^. 
If  I  distinguish'd  right  her  gait  and  stature, 
It  was  the  Moorish  woman,  Isidore's  wife. 
That  pass'd  me  as  I  enter'd.     A  lit  taper, 
In  the  night  air,  doth  not  more  naturally 
Attract  the  night-Hies  round  it,  than  a  conjuror 
Draws  round  him  the  whole  female  neighborhood. 

[Addressing  Alvab. 
You  know  my  name,  I  gue.ss,  if  not  my  person. 
I  am  Ordonio,  son  of  the  Lord  Valdez. 

ALVAR  {witli  deep  emotion). 
The  Son  of  Valdez ! 

[Ordonio  ivalks  leisurely  round  the  room,  and  looks 
attentively  at  the  plants. 

ZULIMEZ  {to  Alvar). 

Why,  what  ails  you  now  ? 
How  your  hand  trembles!  Alvar,  speak!  what  wish 
you? 

ALVAR. 

To  fall  upon  his  neck  and  weep  forgiveness ! 

ORDONIO  {returning,  and  aloud). 
Pluck'd  in  the  moonlight  from  a  ruin'd  abbey — 
Those  only,  which  the  pale  rays  visited ! 
O  the  unintelligible  power  of  weeds, 
When  a  few  odd  prayers  have  been  mutter'd  o'er  them; 
Then  they  work  miracles  I  I  warrant  you. 
There's  not  a  leaf,  but  underneath  it  lurks 
Some  serviceable  imp. 

There's  one  of  you 
Hath  sent  me  a  strange  message. 

ALVAR. 

I  am  he. 

ORDONIO. 

With  you,  then,  I  am  to  speak : 

[Haughtily  waving  his  hand  to  ZulIMEZ. 
And,  mark  j^ou,  alone.  [Exit  ZuLiMEZ. 

"  He  that  can  bring  the  dead  to  life  again  ! " — 
Such  was  your  message.  Sir !  You  are  no  dullard. 
But  one  that  strips  the  outward  rind  of  things! 

ALVAR. 

'Tis  fabled  there  are  fruits  with  tempting  rinds. 
That  are  all  dust  and  rottenness  within. 
Wouldst  thou  I  should  strip  such? 

ORDONIO. 

Thou  quibbling  fool. 
What  dost  thou  mean?   Think'st  thou  I  journey'd 

hither, 
To  sport  with  thee  ? 

ALVAR. 

O  no,  my  Lord !  to  sport 
Best  suits  the  gaiety  of  innocence. 

ORDONIO  {aside). 
O  what  a  thing  is  man !  the  wisest  heart 
A  Fool !  a  Fool  that  laughs  at  its  own  folly, 
Yet  still  a  fool !  [Looks  round  the  Cottage. 

You  are  poor ! 


What  follows  thence  ? 


ORDONIO. 

That  you  would  fain  be  riche». 
91 


82 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  Inquisition,  too — You  comprehend  me  ? 

You  are  poor,  in  peril.     I  have  weahh  and  power. 

Can  quench  the  flames,  and  cure  your  poverty  ; 

And  for  the  boon  I  ask  of  you,  but  this. 

That  you  should  serve  me — once — for  a  fcw  hours. 

ALVAR  {solemnly). 
Thou  art  the  son  of  Valdez !  would  to  Heaven 
That  I  could  truly  and  for  ever  serve  thee. 

ORDONIO. 

The  slave  begins  to  soften.  [Aside. 

You  are  my  friend, 
«  He  that  can  bring  the  dead  to  life  again." 
Nay,  no  defence  to  me !  The  holy  brethren 
Beheve  these  calumnies — I  knovf  thee  better. 

{Then  with  great  bitterness). 
Thou  art  a  man,  and  as  a  man  1 11  trust  thee ! 

ALVAR  {aside). 
Alas !  this  hollow  mirth — Declare  your  business. 

ORDONIO. 

I  love  a  lady,  and  she  would  love  me, 
But  for  an  idle  and  fantastic  scruple. 
Have  you  no  servants  here,  no  listeners  ? 

[Ordonio  steps  to  the  door. 

ALVAR. 

What,  faithless  too  ?  False  to  his  angel  wife  ? 
To  such  a  wife  ?  Well  mightst  thou  look  so  wan, 
Ill-starr'd  Teresa ! — Wretch  !  my  softer  soul 
Is  pass'd  away,  and  I  will  probe  his  conscience ! 

ORDONIO. 

In  truth  this  lady  loved  another  man, 
But  he  has  perish'd. 

ALVAR. 

What !  you  kill'd  him !  hey  ? 

ORDONIO. 

I'll  dash  thee  to  the  earth,  if  thou  but  thmk'st  it! 
Insolent  slave  !  how  daredst  thou — 

[Turns  ahrupthj  from  Alvar,  and  then  to  himself. 

Why!  what's  this? 

Twas  idiocy!  I'll  tie  myself  to  an  aspen, 

And  wear  a  fool's  cap^ 

ALVAR  {watching  his  agitation). 
Fare  thee  well — 
I  pity  thee,  Ordonio,  even  to  anguish. 

[Alvar  is  retiring. 

ORDONIO  [having  recovered  himself). 
Ho !  [Calling  to  Alvar. 

ALVAR. 

Be  brief:  what  wish  you? 

ORDONIO. 

You  are  deep  at  bartering — You  charge  yourself 
At  a  round  sum.     Come,  come,  I  spake  imvrisely. 

ALVAR. 

I  listen  to  you. 

ORDONIO. 

In  a  sudden  tempest. 
Did  Alvar  perish — he,  I  mean — the  lover — 
The  fellow, 

ALVAR. 

Nay,  speak  out!  'twill  ease  your  heart 
To  call  him  villain ! — WTiy  stand'st  thou  aghast! 
Men  think  it  natural  to  hate  their  rivals. 

ORDONIO  {hesitating). 
Now,  till  she  knows  him  dead,  she  will  not  wed  me. 

ALVAR  {with  eager  vehemence). 
Are  you  not  wedded  then  ?  Merciful  Heaven ! 
Not  wedded  to  Teresa  ? 


ORDONIO. 

Why,  what  ails  thee  ? 
What,  art  thou  mad  ?  why  look'st  thou  upward  so  ? 
Dost  pray  to  Lucifer,  Prince  of  the  Air  ? 

ALVAR  {recollecting  himself). 
Proceed,  I  shall  be  silent. 
[Alvar  sits,  and  leaning  on  the  table,  hides  his  face. 

ORDONIO. 

To  Teresa? 
Politic  wizard !  ere  you  sent  that  message. 
You  had  conn'd  your  lesson,  made  yourself  proficient 
In  all  my  fortunes      Hah !  you  prophesied 
A  golden  crop !  Well,  you  have  not  mistaken-^ 
Be  faithful  to  me,  and  I  '11  pay  thee  nobly. 

alvar  (lifting  rip  his  head). 
Well !  and  this  lady  ? 

ORDONIO. 

If  we  could  make  her  certain  of  his  death. 
She  needs  must  wed  me.     Ere  her  lover  left  her, 
She  tied  a  little  portrait  round  his  neck, 
Entreating  him  to  wear  it. 

alvar  {sighing). 

Yes !  he  did  so  I 

ORDONIO. 

Why  no !  he  was  afraid  of  accidents. 
Of  robberies,  and  shipwrecks,  and  the  like. 
In  secrecy  he  gave  it  me  to  keep. 
Till  his  return. 

alvar.  ■ 
What !  he  was  your  friend,  then ' 

ORDONIO  {wounded  and  embarrassed). 
I  was  his  friend. — 

Now  that  he  gave  it  me 
This  lady  knows  not.     You  are  a  mighty  wizard — 
Can  call  the  dead  man  up — he  will  not  come — 
He  is  in  heaven  then — there  you  have  no  influence  • 
Still  there  are  tokens — and  your  imps  may  bring  you 
Something  he  wore  about  him  when  he  died. 
And  when  the  smoke  of  the  incense  on  the  altar 
Is  pass'd,  your  spirits  will  have  left  this  picture. 
What  say  you  now  ? 

ALVAR  {after  a  pause). 

Ordonio,  I  will  do  it. 

ORDONIO. 

We'll  hazard  no  delay.     Be  it  to-night. 
In  the  early  evening.     Ask  for  the  Lord  Valdez. 
I  will  prepare  him.     Music  too,  and  incense 
(For  I  have  arranged  it — Music,  Altar,  Incense), 
All  shall  be  ready.     Here  is  this  same  picture. 
And  here,  what  you  will  value  more,  a  purse. 
Come  early  for  your  magic  ceremonies. 

ALVAR. 

I  will  not  fail  to  meet  you. 

ORDONIO. 

Till  next  we  meet,  farewell ! 

[Exit  Ordonio 

ALVAR  {alone,  indignantly  flings  the  purse  away,  and 
gazes  passionately  at  the  portrait). 

And  I  did  curse  thee  ? 
At  midnight?  on  my  knees?  and  I  believed 
Thee  perjured,  thee  a  traitress !  Thee  dishonor'd 
O  blind  and  credulous  fool !  O  guilt  of  folly ! 
Should  not  thy  inarticulate  Fondnesses, 
Thy  Infant  Loves — should  not  thy  Maiden  Vows 
Have  come  upon  my  heart  ?  And  this  sweet  Image, 
Tied  round  my  neck  with  many  a  chaste  endearment, 
92 


REMORSE. 


83 


And  thrilling  hands,  that  made  me  weep  and  tremble — 
Ah,  coward  dupe  !  to  yield  it  to  the  miscreant, 
Who  spake  pollution  of  thee !  barter  for  Life 
This  farewell  Pledge,  which  with  impassion'd  Vow 
I  had  sworn  that  I  would  grasp — ev'n  in  my  death- 
pang  ! 

I  am  tmworthy  of  thy  love,  Teresa, 

Of  that  unearthly  smile  upon  those  lips, 

Which  ever  smiled  on  me !  Yet  do  not  scorn  me — 

I  lisp'd  thy  name,  ere  I  had  learnt  my  mother's. 

Dear  Portrait !  rescued  from  a  traitor's  keeping, 
I  will  not  now  profane  thee,  holy  Image, 
To  a  dark  trick.     That  worst  bad  man  shall  find 
A  picture,  which  will  wake  the  hell  within  him, 
And  rouse  a  fiery  whirlwind  in  his  conscience. 


ACT  m. 

SCENE  I. 


A  Hall  of  Armory,  vnth  an  Altar  at  the  back  of  the 
Stage.  Soft  Music  from  an  instrum£nt  of  Glass 
or  Sted. 

Valdez,  Ordonio,  and  Alvar  in  a  Sorcerer's  robe, 
are  discovered. 

ORDONIO. 

This  was  too  melancholy,  father. 

VALDEZ. 

Nay, 
My  Alvar  loved  sad  music  from  a  child. 
Once  he  was  lost ;  and  after  weary  search 
We  found  him  in  an  open  place  in  the  wood. 
To  which  spot  he  had  follow'd  a  blind  boy. 
Who  breathed  into  a  pipe  of  sycamore 
Some  strangely  mo\'ing  notes :  and  these,  he  said. 
Were  taught  him  in  a  dream.     Him  we  first  saw 
Stretch'd  on  the  broad  top  of  a  sunny  heath-bank  : 
And  lower  down  poor  Alvar,  fast  asleep. 
His  head  upon  the  blind  boy's  dog.    It  pleased  me 
To  mark  how  he  had  fasten'd  round  the  pipe 
A  silver  toy  his  grandam  had  late  given  him. 
Methinks  I  see  him  now  as  he  then  look'd — 
Even  so  I — He  had  outgrown  his  infant  dress, 
Yet  still  he  wore  it 

ALVAR. 

My  tears  must  not  flow ! 
I  must  not  clasp  his  knees,  and  cry.  My  father ! 
Enter  Teresa,  and  Attendants. 

TERESA. 

Lord  Valdez,  you  have  ask'd  my  presence  here, 
And  I  submit ;  but  (Heaven  bear  witness  for  me) 
My  heart  approves  it  not!  'tis  mockery. 

ORDO.VIO. 

Believe  you  then  no  preternatural  influence? 
Believe  you  not  that  spirits  throng  around  us  ? 

TERESA. 

Say  ralher  that  I  have  imagined  it 
A  possible  thing :  and  it  has  soothed  my  soul 
As  other  fancies  have ;  but  ne'er  seduced  me 
To  traflic  with  the  black  and  frenzied  hope 
That  the  dead  hear  the  voice  of  witch  or  wizard. 
(To  Alvar.    Stranger,  I  mourn  and  blush  to  see  you 
here, 


On  such  employment !  With  far  other  thoughts 
I  left  you. 

ORDONIO  (aside). 
Ha  !  he  has  been  tampering  with  her  ? 

ALVAR. 

0  high-soul'd  maiden !  and  more  dear  to  me 
Than  suits  the  Stranger's  name  ! — 

I  swear  to  theo 

1  will  imcover  all  concealed  guilt. 

Doubt,  but  decide  not .'  Stand  ye  from  the  altar. 

[Here  a  strain  of  music  is  heard  from  behind  'Jie 
scene. 


With  no  irreverent  voice  or  imcoulh  charm 
I  call  up  the  Departed ! 

Soul  of  Alvar ! 
Hear  our  soft  suit,  and  heed  my  milder  spell : 
So  may  the  Gates  of  Paradise,  unbarr'd. 
Cease  thy  swift  toils !  since  haply  thou  art  one 
Of  that  innumerable  company 
Who  in  broad  circle,  lovelier  than  the  rainbow. 
Girdle  this  round  earth  in  a  dizzy  motion, 
With  noise  too  vast  and  constant  to  be  heard : 
Fitliest  xmheard  !  For  oh,  ye  numberless 
And  rapid  travellers!  WTiat  ear  unstunn'd. 
What  sense  unmadden'd,  might  bear  up  against 
The  rushing  of  your  congregated  wings  ? 

[Music 
Even  now  your  living  wheel  turns  o'er  my  head ! 
[Music  expressive  of  the  movements  and  images.' 

that  follow. 
Ye,  as  ye  pass,  toss  high  the  desert  sands, 
That  roar  and  whiten,  like  a  burst  of  waters, 
A  sweet  appearance,  but  a  dread  illusion 
To  the  parch'd  caravan  that  roams  by  night ! 
And  ye  build  upon  the  becalmed  waves 
That  whirling  pillar,  which  from  Earth  to  Heaven 
Stands  vast,  and  moves  in  blackness  !  Ye  too  spht 
The  ice  mount !  and  with  fragments  many  and  huge 
Tempest  the  new-thaw'd  sea,  whose  sudden  gulfe 
Suck  in,  perchance,  some  Lapland  wizard  skiff! 
Then  round  and  round  the  whirlpool's  marge  ye 

dance, 
Till  from  the  blue  swoln  Corse  the  Soul  toils  out. 
And  joins  your  mighty  Army. 

[Here  behind  the  scenes  a  voice  sings  the  three 

words,  "Hear,  sweet  Spirit." 

Soul  of  Alvar ! 
Hear  the  mild  spell,  and  tempt  no  blacker  Charm ! 
By  sighs  unquiet,  and  the  sickly  pang 
Of  a  half  dead,  yet  still  undying  Hope, 
Pass  visible  before  our  mortal  sense ! 
So  shall  the  Church's  cleansing  rites  be  thine, 
Her  knells  and  masses  that  redeem  the  Dead! 


Behind  the  Scenes,  accompanied  by  the  same  Inslrw^- 
ment  as  before. 

Hear,  sweet  spirit,  hear  the  spell, 
Lest  a  blacker  charm  compel ! 
So  shall  the  midnight  breezes  swell 
With  thy  deep  long-lingering  knelL 

And  at  evening  evermore, 
In  a  Chapel  on  the  shore. 
Shall  the  Chanters  sad  and  saintly. 
Yellow  tapers  burning  faintly. 


13 


99 


64 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Doleful  Masses  chant  for  thee, 
Miserere  Domine ! 

Hark !  the  cadence  dies  away 
On  the  yellow  moonlight  sea : 

The  boatmen  rest  their  oars  and  say, 

Miserere  Domine !  [A  long  pause. 

ORDONIO. 

The  innocent  obey  nor  charm  nor  spell ! 

My  brother  is  in  heaven.     Thou  sainted  spirit, 

Burst  on  our  sight,  a  passing  visitant ! 

Once  more  to  hear  thy  voice,  once  more  to  see  thee, 

O  'twere  a  joy  to  me ! 

ALVAR. 

A  joy  to  thee ! 
What  if  thou  heard'st  him  now  ?  What  if  his  spirit 
Re-enter'd  its  cold  corse,  and  came  upon  thee 
With  many  a  stab  from  many  a  murderer's  poniard  ? 
What  if  (his  stedfast  Eye  still  beaming  Pity 
And  Brother's  love)  he  tum'd  his  head  aside. 
Lest  he  should  look  at  thee,  and  with  one  look 
Hurl  thee  beyond  all  power  of  Penitence  ? 

VALDEZ. 

These  are  unholy  fancies! 

ORDONIO  {Struggling  vAih  his  feelings). 
Yes,  my  father, 
I'He  is  in  Heaven ! 

ALVAR  (still  to  OrDOXIO). 

But  what  if  he  had  a  brother, 
'Who  had  lived  even  so,  that  at  his  dying  hour 

■  The  name  of  Heaven  would  have  convulsed  his  face, 
More  than  the  death-pang? 

VALDEZ. 

Idly  prating  man ! 

■  Thou  hast  guess'd  ill :  Don  Alvar's  only  brother 

:  Stands  here  before  thee — a  father's  blessing  on  him ! 
He  is  most  virtuous. 

ALVAR  (still  to  OrDONIO). 

What,  if  his  very  virtues 
Had  pamper'd  his  swoln heart  and  made  him  proud? 
And  what  if  Pride  had  duped  him  into  guilt  ? 
Yet  still  he  stalk'd  a  self-created  God, 
Not  very  bold,  but  exquisitely  cunning ; 
And  one  that  at  his  Mother's  looking-glass 
Would  force  his  features  to  a  frowning  sternness  ? 
Young  Lord !  I  tell  thee,  that  there  are  such  Beings — 
Yea,  and  it  gives  fierce  merriment  to  the  damn'd, 

'  To  see  these  most  proud  men,  that  lothe  mankind. 
At  every  stir  and  buzz  of  coward  conscience, 

'  Trick,  cant,  and  lie,  most  whining  hypocrites ! 
Away,  away !  Now  let  me  hear  more  music. 

[Music  again. 

TERESA. 

Tis  strange,  I  tremble  at  my  owti  conjectiu^es ! 

But  whatsoe'er  it  mean,  I  dare  no  longer 

Be  present  at  these  lawless  mysteries, 
'  This  dark  provoking  of  the  Hidden  Powers  ! 

Already  I  affront — if  not  high  Heaven — 

Yet  Alvar's  Memory ! — Hark !  I  make  appeal 

Against  the  unholy  rite,  and  hasten  hence 
'  To  bend  before  a  lawful  shrine,  and  seek 

That  voice  which  wliispers,  when  the  still  heart 
listens, 

Coiiilort  and  faithful  Hope  !  Let  us  retire. 
ALVAR  (to  Teresa  anxiously). 

O  full  of  faith  and  guileless  love,  thy  Spirit 


Still  prompts  thee  wisely.     Let  the  pangs  of  guilt 
Surprise  the  guilty  :  thou  art  innocent ! 

[Exeunt  Teresa  and  Attendant. 

(Music  as  before). 
The  spell  is  mutter'd — Come,  thou  wandering  Shape 
Who  own'st  no  Master  in  a  human  eye, 
Whate'er  be  this  man's  doom,  fair  be  it,  or  foul 
If  he  be  dead,  O  come !  and  bring  with  thee 
That  which  he  grasp'd  in  death !  but  if  he  live. 
Some  token  of  his  obscure  perilous  life. 

[The  whole  Music  clashes  into  a  Chorus 

CHORUS. 

Wandering  Demons,  hear  the  spell ! 
Lest  a  blacker  charm  compel — 
[The  incense  on  the  altar  takes  fire  suddenly,  and 
an  illuminated  picture  of  Alvar's  assassina- 
tion  is   discovered,   and   having   remained  a 
few    seconds    is    then  hidden  by  ascending 
fames. 
ORDONIO  (starting  in  great  agitation). 
Duped !  duped  !  duped  I — the  traitor  Isidore ! 

[At  this  instant  the  doors  are  forced  open,  MoN- 
viedro  aiid  the  Familiars  of  the  Inquisition, 
Servants  etc.  enter  and  fill. the  stage. 

MOWIEDRO. 

First  seize  the  sorcerer  !  suffer  him  not  to  speak  ! 

The  holy  judges  of  the  Inquisition 

Shall  hear  his  first  words. — Look  you  pale,  Lord 

Valdez  ? 
Plain  evidence  have  we  here  of  most  foul  sorcery. 
There  is  a  dungeon  underneath  this  castle. 
And  as  you  hope  for  mild  interpretation. 
Surrender  instantly  the  keys  and  charge  of  it. 
ORDONIO  (recovering  himself  as  from  stupor,  to 
Servants.) 
Why  haste  you  not  ?    Off  with  him  to  the  dungeon ! 
[All  rush  out  in  tumtdt 


SCENE  IL 

Interior  of  a  Chapel,  with  painted  Windows 

Enter  Teresa. 

TERESA. 

When  first  I  enter'd  this  pure  spot,  forebodings 
Press'd  heavy  on  my  heart:  but  as  I  knelt. 
Such  calm  unwonted  bliss  possess'd  my  spirit, 
A  trance  so  cloudless,  that  those  sounds,  hard  by, 
Of  trampling  uproar  fell  upon  mine  ear 
As  alien  and  unnoticed  as  the  rain-storm 
Beats  on  the  roof  of  some  fair  banquet-room, 

While  sweetest  melodies  are  warbling 

Enter  Valdez. 

VALDEZ. 

Ye  pitying  saints,  forgive  a  father's  blindness, 
And  extricate  us  from  this  net  of  peril ! 

TERESA. 

Who  wakes  anew  my  fears,  and  spealis  of  peril  ? 

valdez. 
0  best  Teresa,  wisely  wert  thou  prompted ! 
This  was  no  feat  of  mortal  agency ! 
That  picture — Oh,  that  picture  tells  me  all  • 
With  a  flash  of  light  it  came,  in  flames  it  vamsh'd 
Self-kindled,  self-consumed  :  bright  as  thy  Life, 
Sudden  and  unexpected  as  thy  Fate, 
Alvar !  Mv  son !  My  son  ! — The  Inquisitor — 

94 


REMORSE. 


85 


TERESA. 

Torture  me  not,*  But  Alvar — Oh  of  Alvar? 

VALOEZ. 

How  often  would  he  plead  for  these  Morescoes ! 
The  brood  accurst!  remorseless,  coward  murderers 

TERESA  {wildli/). 
So  ?  so  ? — I  comprehend  you — He  is— — 
VAiDEZ  {with  averted  countenance). 

He  is  no  more ! 

TERESA. 

O  sorrow !  that  a  father's  voice  should  say  this, 
4.  father's  heart  believe  it ! 

VALDEZ. 

A  worse  sorrow 
Are  Fancy's  wild  hopes  to  a  heart  despairing ! 

TERESA. 

These  rays  that  slant  in  through  those  gorgeous 

windows, 
From  yon  bright  orb — though  color'd  as  they  pass. 
Are  they  not  Light  ? — Even  so  that  voice,  Lord 

Valdee ! 
Which  whispers  to  my  soul,  though  haply  varied 
By  many  a  fancy,  many  a  wishful  hope, 
Speaks  yet  the  truth :  and  Alvar  lives  for  me ! 

VALDEZ. 

Yes,  for  three  wasting  years,  thus  and  no  other. 
He  has  lived  for  thee — a  spirit  for  thy  spirit ! 
My  child,  we  must  not  give  religious  faith 
To  every  voice  which  makes  the  heart  a  listener 
To  its  own  wish. 

TERESA. 

I  breathed  to  the  Unerring 
Permitted  prayers.    Must  those  remain  unanswer'd. 
Yet  impious  sorcery,  that  holds  no  commune 
Save  with  the  lying  Spirit,  claim  belief? 

VALDEZ. 

0  not  to-day,  not  now  for  the  first  time 
Was  Alvar  lost  to  thee — 

[Turning  off,  aloud,  but  yet  as  to  himself. 
Accurst  assassins ! 
Disarra'd,  o'erpower'd,  despairing  of  defence. 
At  his  bared  breast  he  seem'd  to  grasp  some  relict 

More  dear  than  was  his  life 

TERESA  {with  a  faint  shrieJs). 

O  Heavens !  my  portrait ! 
And  he  did  grasp  it  in  his  death-pang ! 

Off,  false  Demon, 
That  beat'st  thy  black  wings  close  above  my  head ! 
[Ordonio  ejiters  with  the  keys  of  the  dungeon 
in  his  hand. 
Hush !  who  comes  here  ?    The  wizard  Moor's  em- 
ployer ! 
Moors  were  his  murderers,  3'ou  say  ?  Saints  shield  us 

From  wicked  thoughts 

[Vaxdez  moves  towards  the  back  of  the  stage  to 
meet  Ordonio,  and  during  the  concluding 
lines  of  Teresa's  speech  appears  as  eagerly 
conversing  with  him. 

Is  Alvar  dead  ?  what  then  ? 
The  nuptial  rites  and  funeral  shall  be  one ! 
Here 's  no  abiding-place  for  thee,  Teresa. — 
Away!  they  see  me  not — Tfiou  seest  me,  Alvar! 
To  thee  I  bend  my  course. — But  first  one  question. 
One  question  to  Ordonio. — My  limbs  tremble — 
There  I  may  sit  unmark'd — a  moment  will  restore  me. 
lRelirc.<<  out  of  sight. 
ordomo  {as  he  advances  with  Valdez). 
These  are  tlie  dungeon  keys.    Monviedro  knew  not 
That  I  too  had  received  the  wizard  message. 


"  He  that  can  bring  the  dead  to  life  again." 
But  now  he  is  satisfied,  I  plann'd  this  scheme 
To  work  a  full  conviction  on  the  culprit. 
And  he  intrusts  him  wholly  to  my  keeping. 

VALDEZ. 

'Tis  well,  my  son !  But  have  you  yet  discover'd 
Where  is  Teresa  ?  what  those  speeches  meant — 
Pride,  and  Hypocrisy,  and  Guilt,  and  Cunning  ? 
Then  when  the  wizard  fix'd  his  eye  on  you, 
And  you,  I  know  not  why,  look'd  pale  and  trem- 
bled— 
Why — why,  what  ails  you  now  ? — 
ORDONIO  {confused). 

Me  ?  what  ails  me  ? 
A  pricking  of  the  blood — ^It  might  have  happen'd 
At  any  other  time. — Why  scan  you  me  ? 

VALDEZ 

His  speech  about  the  corse,  and  stabs  and  murderers 
Bore  reference  to  the  assassins 

ORDONIO. 

Duped  !  duped !  duped 
The  traitor,  Isidore  !  [A  pause ;  then  wildly, 

I  lell  thee,  my  dear  father ! 
I  am  most  glad  of  this. 

VALDEZ  {confused). 

True — Sorcery 
Merits  its  doom  ;  and  this  perchance  may  guide  us 
To  the  discovery  of  the  murderers. 
I  have  their  statures  and  their  several  faces 
So  present  to  me,  that  but  once  to  meet  them 
Would  be  to  recognize. 

ORDONIO. 

Yes !  yes !  we  recognize  them 
I  was  benumb'd,  and  stagger'd  up  and  down 
Through  darkness  without  light — dark — dark — dark! 
My  flesh  crept  chill,  my  limbs  felt  manacled. 
As  had  a  snake  coil'd  round  them  ! — Now  't  ia  sun- 
shine. 
And  the  blood  dances  freely  through  its  channels ! 

[Turns  off  abruptly  ;  then  to  himself 
This  is  my  virtuous,  grateful  Isidore ! 

[Then  mimicking  Isidore's  manner  and  voice. 
"  A  common  trick  of  gratitude,  my  Lord ! " 
Oh  Gratitude  !  a  dagger  would  dissect 
His  "  own  full  heart " — 't  were  good  to  see  its  color. 

VALDEZ. 

These  magic  sights  !  O  that  I  ne'er  had  yielded, 
To  your  entreaties  !  Neither  had  I  yielded, 
But  that  in  spite  of  your  own  seeming  faith 
I  held  it  for  some  innocent  stratagem, 
Which  Love  had  prompted,  to  remove  the  doubts 
Of  wild  Teresa — by  fancies  quelling  fancies ! 

ORDONIO  {in  a  slow  voice,  as  reasoning  to  himself.) 
Love !  Love !  and  then  we  hate !  and  what  ?  and 

wherefore  ? 
Hatred  and  Love  !  Fancies  opposed  by  fancies! 
What,  if  one  reptile  sting  another  reptile ! 
Where  is  the  crime  ?   The  goodly  face  of  Nature 
Hath  one  disfeaturing  stain  the  less  upon  it. 
Are  we  not  all  predestined  Transiency, 
And  cold  Dishonor?    Grant  it,  that  this  hand 
Had  given  a  morsel  to  flie  hungry  worms 
Somewhat  too  early — Where 's  the  crime  of  this  f 
That  this  must  needs  bring  on  the  idiocy 
Of  moist-eyed  Penitence — 'tis  like  a  dream! 

VALDEZ. 

Wild  talk,  my  son '  But  thy  excess  of  feehng— — 
[Avcrtirtg  himself 
Q5 


86 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Almost,  I  fear,  it  hath  unhinged  his  brain. 

ORDONio  (now  in  soliloquy,  and  now  addressing 
his  father  :    and  just  after  the  speech  has 
commenced,  Teresa  reappears  and  advances 
slowly). 
Say,  I  had  laid  a  body  in  the  sun ! 
Well !  in  a  month  there  swarm  forth  from  the  corse 
A  thousand,  nay,  ten  thousand  sentient  beings 
In  place  of  that  one  man. — Say,  I  had  MlVd  him ! 

[Teresa  starts,  a?id  stops,  listening. 
Yet  who  shall  tell  me,  that  each  one  and  all 
Of  these  ten  thousand  lives  is  not  as  happy 
As  that  one  life,  which  being  push'd  aside, 
Made  room  for  these  unnum.ber'd 

VALDEZ. 

O  mere  madness ! 
[Teresa  moves  hastily  forwards,  and  places  herself 
directly  before  Ordonio. 
ORDONIO  (checking  the  feeling  of  surprise,  and 
forcing   his   tones  into  an  expression   of 
playful  courtesy). 
Teresa  ?  or  the  Phantom  of  Teresa  ? 

TERESA. 

Alas !  the  Phantom  only,  if  in  truth 

The  substance  of  her  Being,  her  Life's  life, 

Have  ta'en  its  flight  through  Alvar's  death-wound — 

(A  pause.)  Where — 

(Even  coward  Murder  grants  the  dead  a  grave) 
O  tell  me,  Valdez  ! — answer  me,  Ordonio ! 
Where  lies  the  corse  of  my  betrothed  husband  ? 

ORDONIO. 

There,  where  Ordonio  likewise  would  fain  lie ! 

In  the   sleep-compelhng  earth,  in  unpierced  dark- 
ness ! 

For  while  we  live — 

An  inward  day  that  never,  never  sets. 

Glares  round  the  soul,  and  mocks  the  closing  eye- 
lids ! 

Over  his  rocky  grave  the  Fir-grove  sighs 

A  lulling  ceaseless  dirge !  'T  is  well  with  him. 

[Strides  off  in  agitation  towards   the  altar,  hut 
returns  as  Valdez  is  speaking. 

TERESA  (recoiling  with  the  expression  appropriate  to 
the  passion). 

The  rock !  the  fir-grove !  [To  Valdez. 

Didst  thou  hear  him  say  it  ? 

Hush !  I  will  ask  him ! 

VALDEZ. 

Urge  him  not — not  now! 
This  we  hehdd.    Nor  He  nor  I  know  more, 
Than  wliat  the  magic  imagery  reveal'd. 
The  assassin,  who  press'd  foremost  of  the  three 

ORDONIO. 

A  tender-hearted,  scrupulous,  grateful  villain, 
Whom  I  will  strangle  ! 

VALDEZ  (looking  with  anxious  disquiet  at  his  Son,  yet 
attempting  to  proceed  with  his  description). 

While  his  two  companions 

ORDONIO. 

Dead  !  dead  already !  what  care  we  for  the  dead  ? 

VALDEZ  (to  Teresa). 
Pity  him  !  soothe  him  !  disenchant  his  spirit ! 
These  supernatural  shows,  this  strange  disclosure, 
And  this  too  fond  affection,  which  still  broods 
O'er  Alvar's  fate,  and  still  burns  to  avenge  it — 
These,  struggling  with  his  hopeless  love  for  you, 
Distemper  him,  and  give  reality 
To  the  creatures  of  his  fancy — 


ORDONIO. 

Is  it  so  ? 
Yes .'  yes !  even  like  a  child,  that,  too  abruptly 
Roused  by  a  glare  of  light  from  deepest  sleep, 
Starts  up  bewilder'd  and  talks  idly. 

(Then  mysteriously.)  Father! 

What  if  the  Moors  that  made  my  brother's  grave^ 
Even  now  were  digging  ours  ?  What  if  the  bolt, 
Though  aim'd,  I  doubt  not,  at  tlie  son  of  Valdez, 
Yet  miss'd  its  true  aim  when  it  fell  on  Alvar  ? 

VALDEZ. 

Alvar  ne'er  fought  against  the  Moors, — say  rather, 
He  was  their  advocate ;  but  you  had  march'd 
With  fire  and  desolation  through  their  villages. — 
Yet  he  by  chance  was  captured. 

ORDONIO. 

Unknown,  perhaps. 
Captured,  yet,  as  the  son  of  Valdez,  murder'd. 
Leave  all  to  me.    Nay,  whither,  gentle  Lady  ? 

VALDEZ. 

What  seek  you  now  ? 


To  guide  me- 


TERESA. 

A  better,  surer  light 


Both  VALDEZ   aTld  ORDONIO. 

Whither  ? 

TERESA. 

To  the  only  place 
Where  life  yet  dwells  for  me,  and  ease  of  heart 
These  walls  seem  threatening  to  fall  in  upon  me ! 
Detain  me  not !  a  dim  Power  drives  me  hence. 
And  that  will  be  my  guide. 

VALDEZ. 

To  find  a  lover ! 
Suits  that  a  high-born  maiden's  modesty  ? 

0  folly  and  shame !  Tempt  not  my  rage,  Teresa ! 

TERESA. 

Hopeless,  I  fear  no  human  being's  rage. 

And  am  I  hastening  to  the  arms O  Heaven ! 

1  haste  but  to  the  grave  of  my  beloved ! 

[Exit,  Valdez  following  after  her 

ORDONIO. 

This,  then,  is  ray  reward  !  and  I  must  love  her  ? 
Scorn'd  !   shudder'd  at !  yet  love  her  still  ?   yes .' 

yes  ! 
By  the  deep  feelings  of  Revenge  and  Hate 
I  will  still  love  her — woo  her — win  her  too  ! 
(A  pause)  Isidore  safe  and  silent,  and  the  portrait 
Found  on  the  wizard — he,  belike,  self-poison'd 
To  escape  the  crueller  flames My  soul  shouts 

triumph ! 
The  mine  is  undermined  !  Blood  !  Blood  !  Blood ! 
They  thirst  for  thy  blood!  thy  blood,  Ordonio! 

[A  pause. 
The  hunt  is  up!  and  in  the  midnight  w'ood, 
With  lights  to  dazzle  and  with  nets  they  seek 
A  timid  prey  :  and  lo !  the  tiger's  eye 
Glares  in  the  red  flame  of  liis  hunter's  torch ! 
To  Isidore  I  will  dispatch  a  message. 
And  lure  him  to  the  cavern!  ay,  that  cavern! 
He  cannot  fail  to  find  it.    Thither  I  '11  lure  him, 
Whence  he  shall  never,  never  more  return ! 

[Looks  through  the  side  window 
A  rim  of  the  sun  lies  yet  upon  the  sea, 
And  now  't  is  gone  !  All  shall  be  done  to-night 

96 


REMORSE. 


8T 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 

A  cavern,  dark,  except  where  a  gleam  of  moonlight  is 
seen  OH  ttite  side  at  the  further  end  of  it ;  supposed 
to  be  cO'St  on  it  from  a  crevice  in  a  part  of  the 
cavern  out  of  sight.  Isidore  alone,  an  extinguished 
torch  in  his  hand. 

ISIDORE. 

Faitli  't\vas  a  mo\-ing  letter — very  moving! 
'  His  life  in  danger,  no  place  safe  but  this! 
Twas  his  turn  now  to  talk  of  gratitude." 
4nd  yet — but  no!  there  can't  be  such  a  villain, 
(t  caiuiot  be ! 

Thanks  to  that  little  crevice, 
Which  lets  the  moonlight  in !  I  '11  go  and  sit  by  it. 
To  peep  at  a  tree,  or  see  a  he-goat's  beard. 
Or  hear  a  cow  or  two  breathe  loud  in  their  sleep — 
Any  thing  but  this  crash  of  water-drops! 
These  dull  abortive  sounds  that  fret  the  silence 
With  pimy  thwartings  and  mock  opposition ! 
So  beats  the  death-watch  to  a  dead  man's  ear. 

[He  goes  out  of  sight,  opposite  to  the  patch  of 

moonlight :  returns  after  a  minute's  elapse, 

in  an  ecstasy  of  fear. 
A  hellish  pill  The  very  same  I  dreamt  of! 
[  was  just  in — and  those  damn'd  fingers  of  ice 
Which  clutch'd  my  hair  up !  Ha ! — what's  that — it 

moved. 

[Isidore  stamls  staring  at  another  recess  in 
the  cavern.  In  the  Trwa/i  time  Ordonio  en- 
ters with  a  torch,  and  haUoos  to  Isidore. 

ISIDORE. 

I  swear  that  I  saw  something  moving  there ! 
The  moonshine  came  and  went  bke  a  flash  of  light- 
ning  

£  swear,  I  saw  it  move. 

ORDONIO  (£oes  into  the  recess,  then  returns,  and  with 
great  scorn). 

A  jutting  clay  stone 
Props  on  the  long  lank  weed,  that  grows  beneath  : 
And  the  weed  nods  and  drips. 

ISIDORE  {forcing  a  laugh  faintly). 

A  jest  to  laugh  at ! 
It  was  not  that  which  scared  me,  good  my  Lord. 

ORDOXIO. 

What  scared  you,  then  ? 

ISIDORE. 

You  see  that  little  rift  ? 
But  first  permit  me ! 
[Lights  his  torch  at  Ordonio's,  and  while  lighting  it. 
(A  lighted  torch  in  the  hand, 
Is  no  unpleasant  object  here — one's  breath 
Floats  round  the  flame,  and  makes  as  many  colors 
As  the  thin  clouds  that  travel  near  the  moon.) 
You  see  that  crevice  there  ? 
My  torch  extinguish'd  by  these  water  drops, 
And  marking  that  the  moonlight  came  from  thence, 
I  stept  in  to  it,  meaning  to  sit  there ; 
But  scarcely  had  I  measured  twenty  paces — 
IVIy  lx)dy  bending  forward,  yea,  overbalanced 
Almost  beyond  recoil,  on  the  dim  brink 
Of  a  huge  chasm  I  stept.     The  shadowy  moonshine 
Filling  the  Void,  so  counterfeited  Substance, 
N 


That  my  foot  hung  aslant  adown  the  edge. 
Was  it  my  own  fear  ? 

Fear  too  hath  its  instincts ! 
(And  yet  such  dens  as  these  are  wildly  told  of. 
And  yet  are  Beings  that  live,  yet  not  for  the  eye) 
An  arm  of  frost  above  and  from  behind  me 
Pluck'd   up  and  snatch'd  me  backward.     Rlerciful 

Heaven ! 
You  smile!  alas,  even  smiles  look  ghastly  here! 
My  Lord,  I  pray  you,  go  yourself  and  view  it. 

ORDONIO. 

It  must  have  shot  some  pleasant  feelings  through  you. 

ISIDORE. 

If  every  atom  of  a  dead  man's  flesh 
Should  creep,  each  one  with  a  particular  life, 
Yet  all  as  cold  as  ever — 'twas  just  so! 
Or  had  it  drizzled  needle  points  of  frost 
Upon  a  feverish  head  made  suddenly  bald — 
ORDONio  (^interrupting  him). 

Why,  Isidore, 
I  blush  for  thy  cowardice.    It  might  have  startled, 
I  grant  you,  even  a  brave  man  for  a  moment — 
But  such  a  panic — 

ISIDORE. 

When  a  boy,  my  Lord  ! 
I  could  have  sate  whole  hours  beside  that  chasm, 
Push'd  in  huge  stones,  and  heard  them  strike  and 

rattle 
Against  its  horrid  sides :  then  hung  my  head 
Low  down,  and  listen'd  till  the  heavy  fragments 
Sank  with  faint  crash  in  that  still  groaning  well, 
Which  never  thirsty  pilgrim  blest,  which  never 
A  living  thing  came  near — unless,  perchance, 
Some  blind-worm  battens  on  the  ropy  mould 
Close  at  its  edge. 

ORDONIO. 

Art  thou  more  coward  now  ? 

ISIDORE. 

Call  him,  that  fears  his  fellow-man,  a  coward! 
I  fear  not  man — but  this  inhuman  cavern, 
It  were  too  bad  a  prison-house  for  goblins. 
Beside  (you  '11  smile,  my  Lord),  but  true  it  is. 
My  last  night's  sleep  was  very  sorely  haunted 
By  what  had  pass'd  between  us  in  the  moniing. 

0  sleep  of  horrors !  Now  nm  down  and  stared  at 
By  Forms  so  hideous  that  they  mock  remembrance^ 
Now  seeing  nothing  and  imagining  nothing, 

But  only  being  afraid — stifled  with  Fear! 

While  every  goodly  or  familiar  form 

Had  a  strange  power  of  breathing  terror  round  me ! 

1  saw  you  in  a  thousand  fearful  shapes  ; 
And,  I  entreat  your  lordsliip  to  believe  me, 
In  my  last  dream 

ORDONIO. 

Well  ? 

ISIDORE. 

I  was  m  the  act 
Of  falling  down  that  chasm,  when  Alhadra 
Waked  me :  she  heard  my  heart  beat. 

ORDONIO. 

Strange  enough! 
HfvJ  you  been  here  before  ? 

ISIDORE. 

Never,  my  Lord . 
But  mine  eyes  do  not  see  it  now  more  clearly, 
Than  in  my  dream  I  saw — that  very  chasm. 
ORDONIO  {stands  lost  in  thought,  then  after  a  pause 
I  know  not  why  it  should  be !  yet  it  is — 

97 


88 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


WTiat  is,  my  Lord  ? 


ORDONIO. 

Abhorrent  from  our  nature, 


To  kill  a  man. — 


ISIDORE. 

Except  in  self-defence. 

ORDONIO. 

Why,  that 's  my  case ;  and  yet  the  soul  recoils  from  it — 
'Tis  so  -with  me  at  least.     But  you,  perhaps, 
Have  sterner  feelings  ? 

ISIDORE. 

Something  troubles  you. 
How  shall  I  serve  you  ?  By  the  life  you  gave  me, 
By  all  that  makes  that  life  of  value  to  me. 
My  wife,  my  babes,  my  honor,  I  swear  to  you, 
Name  it,  and  I  will  toil  to  do  the  thing. 
If  it  be  innocent !  But  this,  my  Lord, 
Is  not  a  place  where  you  could  perpetrate. 
No,  nor  propose,  a  wicked  thing.     The  darkness. 
When  ten  strides  off,  we  know  'tis  cheerful  moonlight, 
Collects  the  guilt,  and  crowds  it  round  the  heart. 
It  must  be  innocent. 
[Ordonio  darUy,  and  in  the  feeling  of  self -justifica- 
tion, tells  what  he  conceives  of  his  own  character  and 
actions,  speaking  of  himself  in  the  third  person, 

ORDONIO. 

Thyself  be  judge. 
One  of  our  family  knew  this  place  well. 

ISIDORE. 

\Mio  ?  when  ?  my  Lord  ? 

ORDONIO. 

WTiat  boots  it,  who  or  when  ? 

Hang  up  thy  torch — I  '11  tell  his  tale  to  thee. 

[They  hang  vp  their  torches  on  some  ridge  in 
the  cavern. 
He  was  a  man  different  from  other  men. 
And  he  despised  them,  yet  revered  himself. 

ISIDORE  (aside). 
He  ?  Ht  despised  ?  Thou  'rt  speaking  of  thyself! 
I  am  on  my  guard,  however :  no  surprise. 

[Then  to  Ordonio. 
What !  he  was  mad  ? 

ORDONIO. 

All  men  seem'd  mad  to  him ! 
Nature  had  made  him  for  some  other  planet. 
And  press'd  his  soul  into  a  human  shape 
By  accident  or  malice.     In  this  world 
He  found  no  fit  companion. 


[Aside. 


Of  himself  he  speaks. 

Alas!  poorvvTetch! 
Mad  meti  are  mostly  proud. 

ORDONIO. 

He  walk'd  alone. 
And  phantom  thoughts  unsought-for  troubled  him. 
Something  within  wi.>uld  still  be  shadowing  out 
All  possibilities ;  and  with  these  shadows 
His  mind  held  dalliance.     Once,  as  so  it  happen'd, 
A  fancy  cross'd  him  wilder  than  the  rest : 
To  this  in  moody  murmur  and  low  voice 
He  yielded  utterance,  as  some  talk  in  sleep : 
The  man  who  heard  him. — 

Why  didst  thou  look  round  ? 


ISIDORE. 

I  have  a  prattler  three  years  old,  my  Lord ! 

In  truth  he  is  my  darling.     As  I  went 

From  forth  my  door,  he  made  a  moan  in  sleep — 

But  I  am  talking  idly — pray  proceed ! 

And  what  did  this  man  ? 

ORDONIO. 

With  his  human  hand 
He  gave  a  substance  and  reality 
To  that  wild  fancy  of  a  possible  thing. — 
Well  it  was  done !  [  Then  very  wildly 

Why  babblest  thou  of  guilt  ? 
The  deed  was  done,  and  it  pass'd  fairly  off 
And  he  whose  tale  I  teU  thee — dost  thou  listen  ? 

ISIDORE. 

I  would,  my  Lord,  you  were  by  my  fire-side, 
I  'd  hsten  to  you  with  an  eager  eye, 
Though  you  began  this  cloudy  tale  at  midnight ; 
But  I  do  listen- — pray  proceed,  my  Lord. 

ORDONIO. 

Where  was  I  ? 

ISIDORE. 

He  of  whom  you  tell  the  tale — 

ORDONIO. 

Surveying  all  things  with  a  quiet  scorn. 
Tamed  himself  down  to  living  purposes. 
The  occupations  and  the  semblances 
Of  ordinary  men — and  such  he  seem'd ! 
But  that  same  over-ready  agent — he — 

ISIDORE. 

Ah!  what  of  him,  my  Lord? 

ORDONIO 

He  proved  a  traitor, 
Betray'd  the  mystery  to  a  brother  traitor. 
And  they  between  them  hatch 'd  a  damned  plot 
To  hunt  him  dowii  to  infamy  and  death. 
What  did  the  Valdez  ?  I  am  proud  of  the  name. 
Since  he  dared  do  it. — 

[Ordonio  grasps  his  sword,  and  turns  off  from 
Isidore  ;  then  after  a  pause  returns 
Our  links  bum  dimly. 

ISIDORE. 

A  dark  tale  darkly  finish'd !  Nay,  my  Lord ! 
Tell  what  he  did. 

ORDONIO. 

That  which  his  wisdom  prompted — 

He  made  that  Traitor  meet  him  in  this  cavern. 

And  here  he  kill'd  the  Traitor. 

ISIDORE. 

No !  the  fool ! 
He  had  not  wdt  enough  to  be  a  traitor. 
Poor  thick-eyed  beetle  !  not  to  have  foreseen 
That  he  who  gull'd  thee  with  a  whimper'd  lie 
To  murder  his  own  brother,  would  not  scruple 
To  murder  thee,  if  e'er  his  guilt  grew  jealous, 
And  he  could  steal  upon  thee  in  the  dark ! 

ORDONIO. 

Thou  wouldst  not  then  have  come,  if— — 

ISIDORE. 

Oh  yes,  my  Lord  ! 

I  would  have  met  him  arm'd,  and  scared  the  coward 
[Isidore  throws  off  his  robe ;  shows  himself  armed 
amd  draws  his  sword. 

ORDONIO. 

Now  this  is  excellent,  and  warms  the  blood  ! 
My  heart  was  drawing  back,  drawing  me  back 

98 


REMORSE. 


89 


With  weak  and  womanish  scruples.    Now  my  Ven- 
geance 
Beckons  me  onwards  with  a  warrior's  mien, 
And  claims  that  life,  my  pity  robb'd  her  of— 
Now  will  I  kill  thoe,  lliaukless  slave  !  and  count  it 
Among  my  comfortable  thoughts  hereafter. 

ISIDORE. 

And  all  my  little  ones  fatherless — 

Die  thou  first. 
[T/iey  fight  ,■  Ordomg  disarms  Isidore,  an(i  in  dis- 
arming  him  throws  his  snord  up  that  recess  oppo- 
site to  xvhich  they  were  standing.  Isidoke  hurries 
into  tlie  recess  with  historch,  Ordosio  follows  him ; 
a  loud  cry  of  "  Traitor .'  Monster  '.  "  is  heard 
from  Oie  cavern,  and  in  a  moment  Ordonio  returns 
alone, 

ORDONIO. 

I  have  hurl'd  him  down  the  chasm !  Treason  for  trea- 
son. 
He  dreamt  of  ft :  henceforward  let  him  sleep 
A  dreamless  sleep,  from  which  no  wife  can  wake  him. 
His  dream  too  is  made  out — Now  for  his  friend. 

[Exit  Ordonio. 


SCENE  II.* 


VALDEZ. 

Hush,  thoughtless  woman ! 

TERESA. 

Nay,  it  wakes  within  me 
More  than  a  woman's  spirit. 

VALDEZ. 

No  more  of  Ihi.s — 
What  if  Monviedro  or  his  creatures  hear  us  I 
I  dare  not  listen  to  you. 

TERESA 

My  honor'd  I,ord, 
Tliese  were  my  Alvar's  lessons  ;  and  w-hene'ei 
I  bend  me  o'er  his  portrait,  I  repeat  them, 
As  if  to  give  a  voice  to  the  mute  image. 

VALDEZ. 

We  have  mourn'd  for  Alvar. 


The  interior  Court  of  a  Saracenic  or  Gothic  Castle, 
with  the  Iron  Gate  of  a  Dungeon  visiUe. 

TERESA. 

Heart-chilling  Superstition !  thou  canst  glaze 
Even  Pity's  eye  with  her  own  frozen  tear. 
In  vain  I  urge  the  tortures  that  await  him ; 
Even  Selma,  reverend  guardian  of  my  childhood, 
My  second  mother,  shuts  her  heart  against  me ! 
Well,  I  have  won  from  her  what  most  imports 
The  present  need,  this  secret  of  the  dungeon. 
Known  only  to  herself — A  Moor !  a  Sorcerer ! 
No,  I  have  faith,  that  Nature  ne'er  permitted 
Baseness  to  wear  a  form  so  noble.     True, 
I  doubt  not,  that  Ordonio  had  subom'd  him 
To  act  some  part  in  some  unholy  fraud  ; 
As  little  doubt,  that  for  some  luiknovvn  purpose 
He  hath  bafTled  his  suborner,  terror-struck  him, 
And  that  Ordonio  meditates  revenge  ! 
But  my  resolve  is  fix'd  !  myself  will  rescue  him, 
And  learn  il  haply  he  know  aught  of  Alvar. 

Enter  Valdez. 

VALDEZ. 

Still  sad  ? — and  gazing  at  the  massive  door 
Of  that  fell  Dungeon  which  thou  ne'er  hadst  sight  of. 
Save  what,  perchance,  thy  infant  fancy  shaped  it, 
When  the  nurse  still'd  thy  cries  with  unmeant  threats. 
Now  by  my  faith.  Girl !  this  same  wizard  haunts  thee  I 
A  stately  man,  and  eloquent  and  tender — 

[  With  a  sneer. 
Who  then  need  wonder  if  a  lady  sighs 
Even  at  the  thought  of  what  these  stern  Dominicans — 

TERESA  {ivith  solemn  indignation). 
The  horror  of  their  ghastly  punishments 
Doth  so  o'ertop  the  height  of  all  compassion, 
That  I  should  feel  too  little  for  mine  enemy, 
If  it  were  possible  I  could  feel  more. 
Even  though  the  dearest  inmates  of  our  household 
Were  doom'd  to  suffer  them.  That  such  things  are — 


'Vide  Appendix,  Note  2. 


Of  his  sad  fate  there  now  remains  no  doubt. 
Have  I  no  other  son  ? 

TERESA. 

Speak  not  of  him  ! 
That  low  imposture  !  That  mysterious  picture ! 
If  this  be  madness,  must  I  wed  a  madman? 
And  if  not  madness,  there  is  mystcr}', 
And  guilt  dolh  lurk  behind  it. 

VALDEZ. 

Is  this  -well  ? 

TERE.SA. 

Yes,  it  is  truth  :  saw  you  liis  countenance  ? 
How  rage,  remorse,  and  scorn,  and  stupid  fear. 
Displaced  each  other  with  swift  interchanges  ? 

0  that  I  had  indeed  the  sorcerer's  power .' 

1  would  call  up  before  thine  eyes  the  image 
Of  my  betrothed  Alvar,  of  thy  first-born ! 

His  own  fair  countenance,  his  kingly  forehead, 
His  tender  smiles,  love's  day-dawn  on  his  lips! 
That  spiritual  and  almost  heavenly  light 
In  his  commanding  eye — his  mien  heroic, 
Virtue's  own  native  heraldry  !  to  man 
Genial,  and  pleasant  to  his  guardian  angel. 
Whene'er  he  gladdcn'd,  how  the  gladness  spread 
Wide  round  him !  and  when  oft  with  swelling  tears. 
Flash'd  through  by  indignation,  he  bewail'd 
The  wrongs  of  Belgium's  martyr'd  patriots. 
Oh,  what  a  grief  was  there — for  joy  to  envy. 
Or  gaze  upon  enamour 'd ! 

O  my  father ! 
Recall  that  morning  when  we  knelt  together, 
And  thou  didst  bless  our  loves !  O  even  now. 
Even  now,  my  sire !  to  thy  mind's  eye  present  him, 
As  at  that  moment  he  rose  up  before  thee. 
Stately,  with  beaming  look !  Place,  place  beside  him 
Ordonio's  dark  perturbed  countenance  ! 
Then  bid  me  (Oh  thou  cnuldst  not)  bid  me  turn 
From  him,  the  joy,  the  triumph  of  our  kind  ! 
To  take  in  exchange  that  brooding  man,  who  never 
lifts  up  his  eye  from  the  earth,  mdess  to  scowl. 

VALDEZ. 

Ungrateful  woman !  I  have  tried  to  stifle 
An  old  man's  passion !  was  it  not  enough 
That  thou  hadst  made  my  son  a  restless  man, 
Banish'd  his  health,  and  half  unhinged  his  reason, 
But  that  thou  wilt  insult  him  with  suspicion  I 
And  toil  to  blast  his  honor  ?  I  am  old, 
A  comfortless  old  man ! 

TERESA. 

O  Grief!  to  hear 
Hateful  entreaties  from  a  voice  wo  love! 
99 


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COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Enter  a  Peasant  and  presents  a  letter  to  Valdez. 

VALDEZ  {reading  it). 

"  He  dares  not  venture  hither ! "  Why  what  can  this 

mean  ? 
"  Lest  the  Famihars  of  the  Inquisition, 
That  watch  around  my  gates,  should  intercept  him ; 
But  he  conjures  me,  that  without  delay 
I  hasten  to  him — for  my  own  sake  entreats  me 
To  guard  from  danger  him  I  hold  imprison'd — 
He  will  reveal  a  secret,  the  joy  of  which 
Will  even  outweigh  the  sorrow." — Why  what  can 

this  be  ? 
Perchance  it  is  some  Moorish  stratagem, 
To  have  in  me  a  hostage  for  his  safety. 
Nay,  that  they  dare  not  ?  Ho !  collect  my  servants ! 
I  will  go  thither — let  them  arm  themselves. 

{Exit  Valdez. 

TERESA  {alone). 
The  moon  is  high  in  heaven,  and  all  is  hush'd. 
Yet,  anxious  listener !  I  have  seem'd  to  hear 
A  low  dead  thunder  mutter  through  the  night, 
As  't  were  a  giant  angry  in  his  sleep. 
O  Alvar !  Alvar !  that  they  could  return, 
Those  blessed  days  that  imitated  heaven, 
When  we  two  wont  to  walk  at  even-tide  ; 
When  we  saw  naught  but  beauty  ;  when  we  heard 
The  voice  of  that  Almighty  One  who  loved  us 
In  every  gale  that  breathed,  and  wave  that  mur- 
mur'd ! 

0  we  have  listen'd,  even  till  high-wrought  pleasure 
Hath  half  assumed  the  countenance  of  grief. 

And  the  deep  sigh  seem'd  to  heave  up  a  weight 
Of  bliss,  that  press'd  too  heavy  on  the  heart. 

[A  pause. 
And  this  majestic  Moor,  seems  he  not  one 
Who  oft  and  long  communing  with  my  Alvar 
Hath  drunk  in  kindred  lustre  from  his  presence, 
And  guides  me  to  him  with  reflected  light  ? 
What  if  in  yon  dark  dungeon  coward  Treachery 
Be  groping  for  him  with  envenom'd  poniard — 
Hence,  womanish  fears,  traitors  to  love  and  duty — 

1  '11  free  him.  [Exit  Teresa. 


SCENE  III. 


The  Mountains  by  moonlight.     Alhadra  alone  in  a 
Moorish  dress. 

ALHADRA. 

Yon  hanging  woods,  that  touch'd  by  autumn  seem 
As  they  were  blossoming  hues  of  fire  and  gold ; 
The  flower-like  woods,  most  lovely  in  decay. 
The  many  clouds,  the  sea,  the  rock,  the  sands. 
Lie  in  the  silent  moonshine :  and  the  owl, 
(Strange !  very  strange !)  the  screech-owl  only  wakes ! 

-Sole  voice,  sole  eye  of  all  this  world  of  beauty ! 
Unless,  perhaps,  she  sing  her  screeching  song 

'  To  a  herd  of  wolves,  that  skulk  athirst  for  blood. 

■  Why  such  a  thing  am  I  ? — Where  are  these  men  ? 
I  need  the  sympathy  of  human  faces, 

'  To  beat  away  this  deep  contempt  for  all  things, 
Wliich  quenches  my  revenge.     Oh  !  would  to  Alia, 
The  raven,  or  the  sea-mew,  were  appointed 
To  bring  me  food !  or  rather  that  my  soul 

■  Could  drink  in  life  from  the  universal  air ! 
It  were  a  lot  divine  in  some  small  skiff 

.Along  some  Ocean's  boundless  solitude, 


To  float  for  ever  \vith  a  careless  course. 
And  think  myself  the  only  being  ahve  ! 

My  children ! — Isidore's  children! — Son  of  Valdez, 
This  hath  new-strung  mine  arm.  Thou  coward  tyrant 
To  stupify  a  woman's  heart  with  anguish. 
Till  she  forgot — even  that  she  was  a  mother ! 
[She  fixes  her  eye  on  the  earth.    TJien  drop  in  one  after 
another,  from  different  parts  of  the  stage,  a  con- 
siderable number  of  Morescoes,  all  in  Moorish  gar- 
ments and  Moorish  armor.     They  form  a  circle  at 
a  distance  round  Alhadra,  and  remain  sihnt  till 
the  second  in  command,  Naomi,  enters,  distinguished 
by  his  dress  and  armor,  and  by  the  silent  obeisance 
paid  to  him  on  his  entrance  by  the  other  Moors. 

NAOMI. 

Woman !  may  Alia  and  the  Prophet  bless  thee  ! 
We  have  obey'd  thy  call.  Where  is  our  chief? 
And  why  didst  thou  enjoin  these  Moorish  garments  ? 

Alhadra  {raising  her  eyes,  and  looking  round  on  the 

circle). 
Warriors  of  Mahomet !  faithful  in  the  battle ! 
My  countrymen !  Come  ye  prepared  to  work 
An  honorable  deed  ?  And  would  ye  work  it 
In  the  slave's  garb  ?  Curse  on  those  Christian  robes! 
They  are  spell-blasted  :  and  whoever  wears  them 
His  arm  shrinks  wither'd,  his  heart  melts  away. 
And  his  bones  soften. 

NAOMI. 

Where  is  Isidore  ? 
alhadra  {in  a  deep  low  voice). 
This  night  I  went  from  forth  my  house,  and  left 
His  children  all  asleep :  and  he  was  living  ! 
And  I  return'd  and  found  them  still  asleep. 
But  he  had  perish'd 

all  the  morescoes. 
Perish'd  ? 
alhadra. 

He  had  perish'd ! 
Sleep  on,  poor  babes !  not  one  of  you  doth  knovr 
That  he  is  fatherless — a  desolate  orphan  ! 
Why  should  we  wake  them  ?  can  an  infant's  arm 
Revenge  his  murder  ? 

one  morescoe  {to  another). 

Did  she  say  his  murder  ? 
naoml 
Murder  ?  Not  murder'd  ? 

alhadra. 

Murder'd  by  a  Christian  ! 
[They  all  at  once  draw  their  sabres. 
alhadra  (to  NaOiMI,  who  advances  from  the  circle) 
Brother  of  Zagri !  fling  away  thy  sword; 
This  is  thy  chieftain's !    [He  steps  forward  to  take  it 

Dost  thou  dare  receive  it  ? 
For  I  have  sworn  by  Alia  and  the  Prophet, 
No  tear  shall  dim  these  eyes,  this  woman's  heart 
Shall  heave  no  groan,  till  I  have  seen  that  sword 
Wet  with  the  life-blood  of  the  son  of  Valdez ! 

[A  pau 
Ordonio  was  your  chieftain's  murderer ! 

NAOMI. 

He  dies,  by  Alia. 
ALL  (kneeling.) 

By  Alia 

ALHADRA. 

This  night  your  chieftain  arm'd  himself, 
100 


REMORSE. 


91 


And  hurried  from  me.     But  I  follow'd  him 
At  distance,  till  I  saw  him  enter — tlLere  ! 


NAOMI. 


The  cavern? 


ALllADRA. 

Yes,  the  montli  of  yonder  cavern. 

After  a  while  I  saw  the  son  of  V'aldez 

Rush  by  with  daring  torch ;  he  likevvise  enter'd. 

There  vvajs  another  and  a  longer  pause ; 

And  once,  methought  I  heard  the  clash  of  swords ! 

And  soon  the  son  of  V'aldez  reappear'd : 

He  flung  his  torch  towards  the  moon  in  sport, 

And  seem'd  as  he  were  mirthful !  I  stood  listening, 

Impatient  for  tlie  footsteps  of  my  husband  ! 

NAOMI. 

Thou  calledst  liim  ? 

ALIIADRA. 

I  crept  into  the  cavern — 
*T  was  dark  and  very  silent  [  Then  wildly 

What  saidst  thou  ? 
No  !  no !  I  did  not  dare  call,  Isidore, 
Lest  I  should  hear  no  answer  !_  A  brief  while, 
■Belike,  I  lost  all  thought  and  memory 
Of  that  for  w  hich  I  came !  After  that  pause, 

0  Heaven !  I  heard  a  groan,  and  follow'd  it : 
And  yet  another  groan,  which  guided  me 
Into  a  strange  recess — and  there  was  light, 

A  hideous  light !  his  torch  lay  on  the  ground ; 
Its  flame  burnt  dimly  o'er  a  chasm's  brink : 

1  spake  ;  and  whilst  I  spake,  a  feeble  groan 

('ame  from  that  chasm !  it  was  his  last !  his  death- 
groan  .' 

NAOMI. 

Comfort  her,  Alia. 

ALHADRA. 

I  stood  in  unimaginable  trance 
And  agony  that  cannot  be  remember'd, 
Listening  with  horrid  hope  to  hear  a  groan ! 
B'lt  I  had  heard  his  last :  my  husband's  death-groan ! 

NAOMI. 

Haste  I  let  us  onvrard. 

ALHADRA. 

I  look'd  far  down  the  pit — 
My  sight  was  bounded  by  a  jutting  fragment: 
And  it  was  stain'd  with  blood.   Then  first  I  shriek'd, 
My  eye-balls  burnt,  my  brain  grew  hot  as  fire, 
And  all  the  hanging  drops  of  the  wet  roof 
Tum'd  into  blood — I  saw  them  turn  to  blood ! 
Ai^  I  was  leaping  wildly  down  the  chasm. 
When  on  the  farther  brink  I  saw  his  sword. 
And  it  said,  Vengeance ! — Curses  on  my  tongue ! 
Tlie  moon  hath  moved  in  Heaven,  and  I  am  here, 
And  he  hath  not  had  vengeance !  Isidore  I 
Spirit  of  Isidore !   thy  murderer  lives ! 
Away  I  away ! 

ALL. 

Away !  away ! 

[She  rushes  off,  all /Mowing  her. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

A  Dungeoju 

ALVAR  {alone)  rises  slowly  from  a  led  of  reeds. 

ALVAR. 

And  this  place  my  forefathers  made  for  man ' 


This  is  the  process  of  our  love  and  wisdom 

To  each  poor  brother  who  offends  against  us — 

Most  innocent,  perhaps — and  what  if  guilty  ? 

Is  this  the  only  cure  ?  Merciful  God ! 

Each  pore  and  natural  outlet  shrivell'd  up, 

By  ignorance  and  parching  poverty, 

His  energies  roll  l)ack  upon  his  lieart. 

And  stagnate  and  corrupt,  till,  changed  to  poison. 

They  break  out  on  him,  like  a  loihesome  plague 

spot! 
Then  we  call  in  our  pamper'd  mountebanks : 
And  this  is  their  best  cure  I  un(»mforted 
And  friendless  solitude,  groaning  and  tears, 
And  savage  faces,  at  the  clanking  hour. 
Seen  through  the  steam  and  vapors  of  his  dungeon 
By  the  lamp's  dismal  twilight  I  So  he  lies 
Circled  with  evil,  till  his  very  soul 
Unmoulds  its  essence,  hopelessly  deform'd 
By  sights  of  evermore  deformity! 
With  other  ministrations  thou,  O  Nature  ! 
Healesl  thy  wandering  and  distemper'd  child : 
Thou  pourest  on  him  thy  soft  influences, 
Thy  sunny  hues,  fair  forms,  and  breathing  sweets ; 
Thy  melodies  of  words,  and  winds,  and  waters ! 
Till  he  relent,  and  can  no  more  endure 
To  be  a  jarring  and  a  dissonant  thing 
Amid  this  general  dance  and  minstrelsy ; 
But,  bursting  into  tears,  wins  back  his  way, 
His  angry  spirit  heal'd  and  harmonized 
By  the  benignant  touch  of  love  and  beauty. 
I  am  chill  and  weary !  Yon  rude  bench  of  stone, 
In  that  dark  angle,  the  sole  resting-place ! 
But  the  self-approving  mind  is  its  own  light. 
And  life's  best  warmth  still  radiates  from  the  heart 
Where  Love  sits  brooding,  and  an  honest  purpose. 

[Retires  out  of  sight. 

Enter  Teresa  with  a  Taper. 

TERESA. 

It  has  chill'd  my  very  life — my  own  voice  scares  me ! 

Yet  when  I  hear  it  not,  I  seem  to  lose 

The  substance  of  my  being — my  strongest  grasp 

Sends  inwards  but  weak  witness  that  I  am. 

I  seek  to  cheat  the  echo. — How  the  half  sounds 

Blend  with  this  strangled  light  I  Is  he  not  here — 

[Looking  round 
O  for  one  human  face  here — but  to  see 
One  human  face  here  to  sustain  me. — Courage  ! 
It  is  but  my  own  fear !  The  life  within  me. 
It  sinks  and  wavers  like  this  cone  of  flame. 
Beyond  which  I  scarce  dare  look  onward  !  Oh ! 

[Shuddering. 
If  I  faint !  If  this  inhuman  den  should  be 
At  once  my  death-bed  and  my  burial  vault ! 

[Faintly  screams  as  Alvar  emerges  from  the  recess, 

ALVAR  (rushes  towards  her,  and  catches  her  as  she 
is  falling). 

0  gracious  Heaven !  it  is,  it  is  Teresa ! 

1  shall  reveal  myself?  The  sudden  shock 
Of  rapture  will  blow  out  this  spark  of  life. 
And  Joy  complete  what  Terror  has  begun. 

0  ye  impetuous  beatings  here,  be  still ! 
Teresa,  best  beloved !  pale,  pale,  and  cold ! 
Her  pulse  doth  flutter !  Teresa !  my  Teresa .' 

TERESA  {recovering,  loohs  round  wildly). 

1  heard  a  voice ;  but  often  in  my  dreams 

I  hear  that  voice !  and  wake  and  try — and  try — 
14  101 


92 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To  hear  it  waking !  but  I  never  could — 
And  'tis  so  now — even  so!  Well:  he  is  dead — 
Murder'd,  perhaps !  And  I  am  faint,  and  feel 
As  if  it  were  no  painful  thing  to  die ! 

ALVAR  {eagerly). 
Believe  it  not,  sweet  maid !  Believe  it  not, 
Beloved  woman!  'Twas  a  low  imposture, 
Framed  by  a  guilty  wretch. 

TERESA  {retires  from  him,  and  feebly  supports  herself 
against  a  pillar  of  the  dungeon). 

Ha !  Who  art  thou  ? 
ALVAR  {exceedingly  affected). 
Subom'd  by  his  brother — 

TERESA. 

Didst  thou  murder  him  ? 
And  dost  thou  now  repent  ?  Poor  troubled  man, 
I  do  forgive  thee,  and  may  Heaven  forgive  thee ! 

ALVAR. 

Ordonio — ^he- — 

TERESA. 

If  thou  didst  murder  him — 
His  spirit  ever  at  the  throne  of  God 
Asks  mercy  for  thee  :  prays  for  mercy  for  thee, 
With  tears  in  Heaven ! 

ALVAR. 

Alvar  was  not  murder'd. 
Be  calm !  Be  calm,  sweet  maid ! 

TERESA  {wiMly). 
Nay,  nay,  but  tell  me  ! 

[A  pause ;  then  presses  her  forehead. 
O  'tis  lost  again! 
This  dull  confused  pain — 

[A  pause,  she  gazes  at  Alvar. 
Mysterious  man ! 
Methinks  I  can  not  fear  thee :  for  thine  eye 
Doth  swim  with  love  and  pity — Well !  Ordonio — 
Oh  my  foreboding  heart !   and  he  subom'd  thee. 
And  thou  didst  spare  his  life  ?  Blessings  shower  on 

thee, 
As  many  as  the  drops  twice  counted  o'er 
In  the  fond  faithful  heart  of  his  Teresa  1 

ALVAR. 

I  can  endure  no  more.     The  Moorish  Sorcerer 
Exists  but  m  the  stain  upon  his  face. 
That  picture — 

TERESA  {advances  towards  him). 
Ha !  speak  on ! 

ALVAR. 

Beloved  Teresa ! 
It  told  but  half  the  truth.     O  let  this  portrait 
Tell  all — that  Alvar  lives — that  he  is  here  ! 
Thy  much  deceived  but  ever  faithful  Alvar. 

[Takes  her  portrait  from  his  neck,  and  gives  it  her. 
TERESA  {receiving  the  portrait). 
The  same — it  is  the  same.     Ah !  who  art  thou  ? 
Nay  I  will  call  thee,  Alvar  !     [She  falls  on  his  neck. 

ALVAR. 

O  joy  unutterable ! 
But  hark !  a  sound  as  of  removing  bars 
At  the  dungeon's  outer  door.     A  brief,  brief  while 
Conceal  thyself,  my  love  !  It  is  Ordonio. 
For  the  honor  of  our  race,  for  our  dear  father ; 
O  for  himself  too  (he  is  still  my  brother) 
Lei  me  recall  him  to  his  nobler  nature, 
That  he  may  wake  as  from  a  dream  of  murder ! 
O  let  me  reconcile  him  to  himself, 


Open  the  sacred  source  of  penitent  tears. 
And  be  once  more  his  own  beloved  Alvar. 

TERES  Av. 

O  my  all  virtuous  love  \,  I  fear  to  leave  thee 
With  that  obdurate  man. 

ALVAR. 

Thou  dost  not  leave  me ! 
But  a  brief  while  retire  into  the  darkness  : 

0  that  my  joy  could  spread  its  sunshine  round  thee ' 

TERESA. 

The  sound  of  thy  voice  shall  be  my  music ! 

[Retiring,  she  returns  hastily  and  embraces  Alvar. 
Alvar !  my  Alvar !  am  I  sure  I  hold  thee  ? 
Is  it  no  dream  ?  thee  in  my  arms,  my  Alvar!     [Exit 
[A   noise  at  the  Dungeon  door.     It  opens,  and 
Ordonio  enters,  with  a  goblet  in  his  hand 

ORDONIO. 

Hail,  potent  wizard  !  in  my  gayer  mood 

1  pour'd  forth  a  libation  to  old  Pluto, 

And  as  I  brimm'd  the  bowl,  I  thought  on  thee. 

Thou  hast  conspired  -against  my  life  and  honor, 

Hast  trick'd  me  foully ;  yet  I  hate  thee  not. 

Why  should  I  hate  thee  ?  this  same  world  of  ours, 

'T  is  but  a  pool  amid  a  storm  of  rain. 

And  we  the  air-bladders  that  course  up  and  down, 

And  joust  and  tilt  in  merry  tournament ; 

And  when  one  bubble  runs  foul  of  another, 

[Waving  his  hand  to  Alvar. 
The  weaker  needs  must  break. 

ALVAR. 

I  see  thy  heart ! 
There  is  a  frightful  glitter  in  thine  eye 
Which  doth  betray  thee.     Inly-tortured  man !    . 
This  is  the  revelry  of  a  drunken  anguish. 
Which  fain  would  scoff  away  the  pang  of  guilt. 
And  quell  each  hiunan  feeling. 

ORDONIO. 

Feeling!  feeling! 
The  death  of  a  man — the  brealdng  of  a  bubble — ^ 
'T  is  true  I  cannot  sob  for  such  misfortunes  ; 
But  faintness,  cold  and  hunger — curses  on  me 
If  willingly  I  e'er  inflicted  them ! 
Come,  take  the  beverage ;  this  chill  place  demands  it. 
[Ordonio  proffers  the  goblet. 

ALVAR. 

Yon  insect  on  the  wall. 

Which  moves  this  way  and  that  its  hundred  limbs, 

Were  it  a  toy  of  mere  mechanic  craft, 

It  were  an  infinitely  curious  thing ! 

But  it  has  life,  Ordonio !  life,  enjoyment ! 

And  by  the  power  of  its  miraculous  will 

Wields  all  the  complex  movements  of  its  frame 

Unerringly  to  pleasurable  ends ! 

Saw  I  that  insect  on  this  goblet's  brim, 

I  would  remove  it  with  an  anxious  pity! 

ordonio. 
What  meanest  thou  ? 

ALVAR. 

There 's  poison  in  the  wine. 

ordonio. 
Thou  hast  guess'd  right ;  there's  poison  in  the  \vine 
There 's  poison  in 't — which  of  us  two  shall  drink  it  ? 
For  one  of  us  must  die  J 

ALVAR. 

Whom  dost  thou  think  me  ? 
102 


REMORSE. 


93 


ORDONIO. 

The  accomplice  and  sworn  friend  of  Isidore. 

ALVAR. 

I  know  him  not. 
And  yet  methinks  I  have  heard  the  name  but  lately. 
I  Means  he  the  husband  of  the  Moorish  woman  ? 
I  Isidore  ?  Isidore  ? 

ORDONIO. 

Good  I  good  !  that  lie !  by  heaven  it  has  restored  me. 
Now  I  am  thy  master !  Villain !  thou  shall  drink  it, 
I  Or  die  a  bitterer  death. 

ALVAR. 

I  What  strange  solution 

Hast  thou  found  out  to  satisfy  thy  fears, 
And  drug  them  to  unnatural  sleep  ? 
[Alvar  takes  the  gohlel,  and  throwing  it  to  the  groimd 
with  stem  contempt. 

My  master ! 

ORDONIO. 

Thou  mountebank! 

ALVAR. 

Mountebank  and  villain ! 
What  then  art  thou  ?  For  shame,  put  up  thy  sword  ! 
What  boots  a  weapon  in  a  w  ither"d  arm  ? 
I  fix  mine  eye  upon  thee,  and  thou  tremblest ! 
I  speak,  and  fear  and  wonder  crush  thy  rage. 
And  turn  it  to  a  motionless  distraction ! 
Thou  blind  self-worshipper !   thy  pride,  thy  cunning. 
Thy  faith  in  universal  villany. 
Thy  shallow  sophisms,  thy  pretended  scorn 
For  all  thy  human  brethren — out  upon  them  ! 
What  have  they  done  for  thee  ?  have  they  given  thee 

peace  ? 
Cured  thee  of  starting  in  thy  sleep  ?  or  made 
The  darkness  pleasant  when  thou  wakest  at  midnight? 
Art  happy  when  alone  ?  Canst  walk  by  thyself 
With  even  step  and  quiet  cheerfulness  ? 
Yet,  yet  thou  mayest  be  saved 

I  ORDO.xio  {vacantly  repeating  the  VMrds). 

I  Saved  I  saved  ? 

ALVAR. 

One  pang! 
j  Could  I  call  up  one  pang  of  true  Remorse ! 

ORDONIO. 

He  told  me  of  the  babes  that  prattled  to  him. 
His  fatherless  little  ones !  Remorse!  Remorse! 
Where  gott'st  thon  that  fool's  word  ?  Curse  on  Remorse ! 
Can  it  give  up  the  dead,  or  recompaet 
A  mangled  body  ?  mangled — dash'd  to  atoms ! 
Not  nil  the  blessings  of  a  host  of  angels 
1  Can  blow  away  a  desolate  widow's  curse ! 
And  though  thou  spill  thy  heart's  blood  for  atonement. 
It  will  not  weigh  against  an  orphan's  tear ! 

ALVAR  [almost  overcome  hy  his  feelings). 
But  Alvar— 

ORDONIO. 

Ha !  it  chokes  thee  in  the  throat. 
Even  thee ;  and  yet  I  pray  thee  speak  it  out ! 
Still  Alvar!  Alvar! — howl  it  in  mine  ear, 
Heap  it  like  coals  of  fire  upon  my  heart, 
And  shoot  it  hissing  through  my  brain ! 


Alas! 

!  That  day  when  thou  didst  leap  from  off  the  rock 
Into  the  waves,  and  grasp'd  thy  smking  brother, 
And  bore  him  to  the  strand ;  then,  son  of  Valdez, 
K 


How  sweet  and  musical  the  name  of  Alvar ! 
Then,  then,  Ordonio,  he  was  dear  to  thee. 
And  thou  wert  dear  to  him  ;  Heaven  only  knows 
How  very  dear  thou  wert !  Why  didst  thou  hate  him  ? 

0  heaven  !  how  he  would  fall  upon  thy  neck. 
And  weep  forgiveness ! 

ORDOMO. 

Spirit  of  the  dead  ! 
Methinks  I  know  thee  !  ha !  my  brain  turns  wild 
At  its  own  dreams ! — off- — off,  fantastic  shadow ! 

ALVAR. 

1  fain  would  tell  thee  what  I  am !  but  dare  not ! 

ORDONIO. 

Cheat !  villain  !  traitor !  whatsoever  thou  be — 
I  fear  thee,  man ! 

TERESA  {rushing  out  and  falling  on  Alvar's  nech). 
Ordonio !  't  is  thy  brother. 

[Ordonio  with  frantic  wildness  runs  upon  Alvar 
with  his  sword.  Teresa  flings  herself  on 
Ordonio  and  arrests  his  arm. 

Slop,  madman,  stop. 
alvar. 
Does  then  this  thin  disguise  impenetrably 
Hide  Alvar  from  thee  ?  Toil  and  painful  wounds 
And  long  imprisonment  in  unwholesome  dungeons, 
Have  marr'd  perhaps  all  trait  and  lineament 
Of  what  I  was  !  But  chiefly,  chiefly,  brother, 
My  anguish  for  thy  guilt ! 

Ordonio — Brother ! 
Nay,  nay,  thou  shall  embrace  me. 
ordonio  {drawing  hack  and  gazing  at  Alvar  with  a 
countenance  of  at  once  awe  and  terror). 

Touch  me  not ! 
Touch  not  pollution,  Alvar!  I  will  die. 
[He  attempts  to  fall  on  his  sword :  Alvar  and  Teresa 
prevent  him. 

alvar. 
We  will  find  means  to  save  your  honor.     Live, 
Oh  live,  Ordonio  !  for  our  father's  sake  ! 
Spare  his  gray  hairs  ! 

TERESA. 

And  you  may  yet  be  happy. 
ordonio. 
O  horror !  not  a  thousand  years  in  heaven 
Could  recompose  this  miserable  heart. 
Or  make  it  capable  of  one  brief  joy ! 
Lave !  Live !  Why  yes !  't  were  well  to  live  with  you : 
For  is  it  fit  a  villain  should  be  proud  ? 
My  brother !  I  will  kneel  to  you,  my  brother ! 

[Kjieeling. 
Forgive  me,  Alvar  ! — Curse  me  with  forgiveness ! 

ALVAR. 

Call  back  thy  soul,  Ordonio,  and  look  round  thee : 
Now  is  the  time  for  greatness !  Think  that  Heaven^ 

TERESA. 

O  mark  his  eye !  he  hears  not  what  you  say. 

ORDONIO  {pointing  at  the  vacancy). 
Yes,  mark  his  eye !  there 's  fascination  in  it ! 
Thou  saidst  thou  didst  not  know  him — That  is  he! 
H©  comes  npon  me ! 

ALVAR. 

Heal,  O  heal  him,  Heaven ' 

ORDONIO. 

Nearer  and  nearer!  and  I  cannot  stir! 
Will  no  one  hear  these  stifled  groans,  and  wake  me  ' 
103 


94 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


He  would  have  died  to  save  me,  and  I  kill'd  him — 
A  husband  and  a  father ! — 

TERESA. 

Some  secret  poison 
Drinks  up  his  spirits ! 

ORDONio  {fiercely  recollecting  himself). 
Let  the  eternal  Justice 
Prepare  my  punishment  in  the  obscure  world — 
I  will  not  bear  to  live — to  live — O  agony ! 
And  be  myself  alone  my  own  sore  torment! 

[The  doors  of  the  dungeon  are  broken  open,  and  in 
rush  Alhadka,  arid  the  band  of  Morescoes. 

ALHADRA. 

Seize  first  that  man ! 

[Alvar  presses  onward  to  defend  Ordonio. 

ORDONIO. 

Oflf;  ruffians !  I  have  flung  away  my  sword. 
Woman,  my  life  ls  thine!  to  thee  I  give  it! 
Off!  he  that  touches  me  with  his  hand  of  flesh, 
I  '11  rend  his  limbs  asunder !  I  have  strength 
With  this  bare  arm  to  scatter  you  like  ashes. 


My  husband — 


ORDONIO. 

Yes,  I  murder'd  him  most  foully. 

ALVAR  and  TERESA. 


0  horrible ! 


ALHADRA. 

Why  didst  thou  leave  his  children  ? 
Demon,  thou  shouldst  have  sent  thy  dogs  of  hell 
To  lap  their  blood !  Then,  then  I  might  have  harden'd 
My  soul  in  misery,  and  have  had  comfort. 
I  would  have  stood  far  off;  quiet  though  dark. 
And  bade  the  race  of  men  raise  up  a  mourning 
P'or  a  deep  horror  of  desolation, 
Too  great  to  be  one  soul's  particular  lot ! 
Brother  of  Zagri !  let  me  lean  upon  thee. 

[Struggling  to  suppress  her  feelings. 
The  time  is  not  yet  come  for  woman's  anguish. 
I  have  not  seen  his  blood — Within  an  hour 
Those  little  ones  will  crowd  around  and  ask  me, 
Where  is  our  father  ?  I  shall  curse  thee  then ! 
Wert  thou  in  heaven,  my  curse  would  pluck  thee 
thence ! 

TERESA. 

He  doth  repent !  See,  see,  I  kneel  to  thee ! 

O  let  him  live !  That  aged  man,  his  father 

ALHADRA  {Sternly) 
Why  had  he  such  a  son  ? 

[Shouts  from  the  distance  of,  Rescue !  Rescue ! 

Alvar !  Alvar !  and  the  voice  of  Valdez  heard. 

ALHADRA. 

Rescue  ? — and  Isidore's  Spirit  unavenged  ? 
The  deed  be  mine  !  [Suddenly  stabs  Ordonio. 

Now  take  my  life ! 

ORDONIO  {staggering  from  the  wound). 

Atonement! 
Alvar  (while  with  Teresa  supporting  Ordonio). 
Arm  of  avenging  Heaven, 

Thou  hast  snatch'd  from  me  my  most  cherish'd  hope. 
But  go !  my  word  was  pledged  to  thee. 

ORDONIO. 

Away ! 
Brave  not  my  father's  rage !  I  thank  thee !  Thou — 
[Then  turning  his  eyes  languidly  to  Alvar. 


She  hath  avenged  the  blood  of  Isidore ! 

I  stood  in  silence  like  a  slave  before  her. 

That  I  might  taste  the  wormwood  and  the  gall, 

And  satiate  this  self-accusing  heart 

With  bitterer  agonies  than  death  can  give. 

Forgive  me,  Alvar ! 

Oh !  couldst  thou  forget  me !  [Dies 
[Alvar  and  Teresa  bend  over  the  body  of  OrdonIo 

ALHADRA  {to  the  Moors). 
I  thank  thee.  Heaven  !  thou  hast  ordain'd  it  wisely, 
That  still  extremes  bring  their  own  cure.  That  point 
In  misery,  which  makes  the  oppressed  Man 
Regardless  of  his  own  life,  makes  him  too 
Lord  of  the  Oppressor's — Knew  I  a  hundred  men 
Despairing,  but  not  palsied  by  despair. 
This  arm  should  shake  the  Kingdoms  of  the  World , 
The  deep  foundations  of  iniquity 
Should  sink  away,  earth  groaning  from  beneath  them ; 
The  strong-holds  of  the  cruel  men  should  fall. 
Their  Temples  and  their  mountainous  Towers  should 

fall ; 
Till  Desolation  seem'd  a  beautiful  thing, 
And  all  that  were,  and  had  the  Spirit  of  Life, 
Sang  a  new  song  to  her  who  had  gone  forth, 
Conquering  and  still  to  conquer ! 

[Alhadra  hurries  off  with  the  Moors  ;  the  stage  f  Us 
with  armed  Peasants  and  Servants,  Zulimez 
a7ul  Valdez  at  their  head.  Valdez  rushes  into 
Alvar's  arms. 

alvar. 
Turn  not  thy  face  that  way,  my  father !  hide, 
Oh  hide  it  from  his  eye !  Oh  let  thy  joy 
Flow  in  luimingled  stream  through  thy  first  blessing 
[Both  kneel  to  Valdez 

VALDEZ. 

My  Son !  My  Alvar !  bless,  Oh  bless  him.  Heaven  I 

TERESA. 

Me  too,  my  Father  ? 

VALDEZ. 

Bless,  Oh  bless  my  children ! 

[Both  rise. 

ALVAR. 

Delights  so  full,  if  unalloy'd  with  grief, 
Were  ominous.     In  these  strange  dread  events 
Just  Heaven  instructs  us  with  an  awful  voice. 
That  Conscience  rules  us  e'en  against  our  choice. 
Our  inward  monitress  to  guide  or  warn. 
If  listen'd  to ;  but  if  repell'd  with  scorn. 
At  length  as  dire  Remorse,  she  reappears, 
Works  in  our  guilty  hopes,  and  selfish  fears ! 
Still  bids.  Remember !  and  still  cries,  Too  late  ! 
And  while  she  scares  us,  goads  us  to  our  fate. 


APPENDIX. 

Note  1,  page  81,  col.  1 

You  are  a  painter 

The  following  lines  1  have  preserved  in  this  place, 
not  so  much  as  explanatory  of  the  picture  of  the 
assassination,  as  (if  I  may  say  so  without  disrespect 
to  the  Public)  to  gratify  my  own  feelings,  the  passage 
being  no  mere  fancy  portrait ;  but  a  slight,  yet  not 
104 


REMORSE. 


95 


unfaithful  profile  of  one,*  who  still  lives,  nobilitate 
felii,  arte  clarior,  vita,  colendissimus. 

ZULLMEZ  {speaking  of  Alvar  in  the  third  perion). 
Such  was  the  noble  Spaniard's  own  relation. 
He  told  me,  too,  how  in  his  early  youth, 
And  his  tirst  travels,  'twas  his  choice  or  chance 
To  make  long  sojourn  in  sea-wedded  Venice  ; 
There  won  the  love  of  that  divine  old  man. 
Courted  by  mightiest  kings,  the  famous  Titian! 
Who,  like  a  second  and  more  lovely  Nature, 
By  the  sweet  mystery  of  lines  and  colors, 
Changed  the  blank  canvas  to  a  magic  mirror. 
That  made  the  Absent  present ;  and  to  Shadows 
Gave  light,  depth,  substance,  bloom,  yea,  thought  and 

motion. 
He  loved  the  old  man,  and  revered  his  art : 
And  though  of  noblest  birth  and  ample  fortune. 
The  young  enthusiast  thought  it  no  scorn 
But  this  inalienable  ornament. 
To  be  his  pupil,  and  with  filial  zeal 
By  practice  to  appropriate  the  sage  lessons. 
Which  the  gay,  smiling  old  man  gladly  gave. 
■   The  Art,  hehonor'd  thus,  requited  him  : 
And  in  the  following  and  calamitous  years 
Beguiled  the  hours  of  his  captivity. 

ALHADUA. 

And  then  he  framed  this  picture?  and  unaided 
By  arts  unlawful,  spell,  or  talisman! 

ALVAR. 

A  potent  spell,  a  mighty  talisman ! 

The  imperishable  memory  of  the  deed 

Sustain'd  by  love,  and  grief,  and  indignation! 

Bo  vivid  were  the  forms  within  his  brain. 

His  very  eyes,  when  shut,  made  pictures  of  them! 

Note  2,  page  89,  col.  1. 
The  following  Scene,  as  unfit  for  the  stage,  was  taken 
from  the  Tragedy,  in  the  year  1797,  and  published 
in  the  Lyrical  Ballads.  But  this  work  having  been 
long  out  of  print,  I  have  been  advised  to  reprint  it, 
as  a  Note  to  the  second  Scene  of  Act  the  Fourth,  p. 
89. 

Enter  Teresa  and  Selma. 

TERESA. 
'Tis  said,  he  spake  of  you  familiarly, 
As  mine  and  Alvar's  common  foster-mother. 

SELMA. 

Now  blessings  on  the  man,  whoe'er  he  be, 

That  join'd  your  names  with  mine !  O  my  sweet  Lady, 

As  often  as  I  think  of  those  dear  times, 

When  you  two  little  ones  would  stand,  at  eve. 

On  each  side  of  my  chair,  and  make  me  learn 

All  you  had  learnt  in  the  day ;  and  how  to  talk 

In  gentle  phrase ;  then  bid  me  sing  to  you — 

'Tis  more  like  heaven  to  come,  than  what  has  been! 

TERESA. 

But  that  entrance,  Selma  ? 

SELMA. 

Can  no  one  hear?  It  is  a  perilous  tale! 

TERESA. 

No  one. 


•  Sir  George  Beaumont.  (Written  1814.) 


SELMA. 
My  husband's  father  told  it  me. 
Poor  old  Sesina— angels  rest  his  soul ! 
He  was  a  woodman,  and  could  fell  and  saw 
With  lusty  arm.    You  know  that  huge  round  beam 
Which  props  the  hanging  wall  of  the  old  Chapel  ? 
Beneath  that  tree,  while  yet  it  was  a  tree, 
He  found  a  baby  wrapt  in  mosses,  lined 
With  thistle-beards,  and  such  small  locks  of  wool 
As  hang  on  brambles.    Well,  he  brought  him  home, 
And  reared  him  at  the  then  Lord  Valdcz'  cost. 
And  so  the  babe  grew  up  a  pretty  boy, 
A  pretty  boy,  but  most  unteachablc— 
He  never  learnt  a  prayer,  nor  told  a  bead. 
But  knew  the  names  of  birds,  and  mock'd  their  notes, 
And  whistled,  as  he  were  a  bird  himself: 
And  all  the  autumn  't  was  his  only  play 
To  gather  seeds  of  wild  flowers,  and  to  plant  them 
With  earth  and  water  on  the  stumps  of  trees. 
A  Friar,  who  gather'd  simples  in  the  wood, 
A  gray-hair'd  man,  he  loved  this  little  boy : 
The  boy  loved  him,  and,  when  the  friar  taught  him, 
He  soon  could  write  with  the  pen ;  and  from  that  time 
Lived  chiefly  at  the  Convent  or  the  Castle. 
So  he  became  a  rare  and  learned  youth: 
But  O !  poor  wretch!  he  read,  and  read,  and  read. 
Till  his  brain  turn'd  ;  and  ere  his  twentieUi  year 
He  had  unlawful  thoughts  of  many  things : 
And  though  he  pray'd,  he  never  loved  to  pray 
With  holy  men,  nor  in  a  holy  place. 
But  yet  his  speech,  it  was  so  soft  and  sweet. 
The  late  Lord  Valdez  ne'er  was  wearied  with  him. 
And  once,  as  by  the  north  side  of  the  chapel 
They  stood  together,  chain'd  in  deep  discourse, 
The  earth  heaved  under  them  with  such  a  groan, 
That  the  wall  totter'd,  and  had  well-nigh  fallen 
Right  on  their  heads.    My  Lord  was  sorely  frighten'd  j 
A  fever  seized  him,  and  he  made  confession 
Of  all  the  heretical  and  lawless  talk 
Which  brought  this  judgment :  so  the  youth  was  seized 
And  cast  into  that  hole.    My  husband's  father 
Sobb'd  like  a  child— it  almost  broke  his  heart: 
And  once  as  he  was  working  near  this  dungeon. 
He  heard  a  voice  distinctly ;  'twas  the  youth's. 
Who  sung  a  doleful  song  about  green  fields. 
How  sweet  it  were  on  lake  or  wide  savanna 
To  hunt  for  food,  and  be  a  naked  man. 
And  wander  up  and  down  at  liberty. 
He  always  doted  on  the  youth,  and  now 
His  love  grew  desperate ;  and  defying  death. 
He  made  that  cunning  entrance  1  described. 
And  the  young  man  escaped. 

TERESA. 

'Tis  a  sweet  tale: 
Such  as  would  lull  a  listening  child  to  sleep. 
His  rosy  face  besoil'd  with  unwiped  tears. 
And  what  became  of  him  ? 

SELMA. 

He  went  on  shipboard 
With  those  bold  voyagers  who  made  discovery 
Of  golden  lands.    Sesina's  younger  brother 
Went  likewise,  and  when  he  return'd  to  Spain, 
He  told  Sesina,  that  the  poor  mad  youth, 
Soon  after  they  arrived  in  that  new  world. 
In  spite  of  his  dissuasion,  seized  a  boat. 
And  all  alone  set  sail  by  silent  moonlight 
Up  a  great  river,  great  as  any  sea. 
And  ne'er  was  heard  of  more :  but  'tis  supposed, 
He  lived  and  died  among  the  savage  men. 
105 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  CHRISTMAS  TALE. 
IN  TWO  PARTS. 


Hap  vvpl  ^pt)  Toiavra  Xiyctv  '^ufiiJiivoi  ev  wpq. 

Apud  Athenjedm. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  form  of  the  following  dramatic  poem  is  in  hum- 
ble imitation  of  the  Winter's  Tale  of  Shakspeare, 
except  that  I  have  called  the  first  part  a  Prelude  in- 
stead of  a  first  Act,  as  a  somewhat  nearer  resem- 
blance to  the  plan  of  the  ancients,  of  which  one 
specimen  is  left  us  in  the  ^schylian  Trilogy  of  the 
Agamemnon,  the  Orestes,  and  the  Eumenides.  Though 
a  matter  oi  form  merely,  yet  two  plays,  on  diflferent 
periods  of  the  same  tale,  might  seem  less  bold,  than 
an  interval  of  twenty  years  between  the  first  and 
second  act.  This  is,  however,  in  mere  obedience  to 
custom.  The  effect  does  not,  in  reality,  at  all  de- 
pend on  the  Time  of  the  mterval ;  but  on  a  very  dif- 
ferent principle.  There  are  cases  in  which  an  inter- 
val of  twenty  hours  between  the  acts  would  have  a 
worse  effect  (i.  e.  render  the  imagination  less  disposed 
to  take  the  position  required)  than  twenty  years  in 
other  cases.  For  the  rest,  I  shall  be  well  content  if 
my  readers  will  take  it  up,  read  and  judge  it,  as  a 
Christmas  tale. 


CHARACTERS. 


MEN. 
Emerick,  usurping  King  of  Illyria. 
R.4AB  KiUPRiLi,  an  niyrian  Chieftain. 
Casimir,  Son  of  Kinprili. 
Chef  Ragozzi,  a  Military  Commander 

WOMAN. 
Zapolya,  Queen  of  Illyria. 


ZAPOLYA. 


PART  I. 

THE  PRELUDE,  ENTITLED,  "  THE  USURP- 
ER'S FORTUNE." 
SCENE  L 
Front  of  the  Palace  with  a  magnificent  Colonnade.  On 
one  side  a  military  Guard-House.    Sentries  pacing 
bachuxird  and  forward  before  the  Palace.     Chef 
Ragozzi,  at  the  door  of  the  Guard-House,  as  looking 
forwards  at  some  object  in  the  distance. 

CHEF  ragozzi 

My  eyes  deceive  me  not,  it  must  be  he ! 
Who  but  our  chief,  my  more  than  father,  who 


But  Raab  Kiuprili  moves  with  such  a  gait  ? 
Lo !  e'en  this  eager  and  unwonted  haste 
But  agitates,  not  quells,  its  majesty. 
My  patron!  my  commander!  yes,  'tis  he! 
Call  out  tlie  guards.     The  Lord  Kiuprili  comes. 

Drums  beat,  etc.  the  Guard  turns  out.     Enter  Raab 

Kiuprili. 
RAAB  kiuprili  [nuiking  a  signal  to  stop  the  drums,  etc.) 
Silence !  enough !  This  is  no  time,  young  friend ! 
For  ceremonious  dues.     This  summoning  drum, 
Th'  air-shattering  trumpet,  and  the  horseman's  clatter, 
Are  insults  to  a  dying  sovereign's  ear. 
Soldiers,  'tis  well!  Retire!  your  general  greets  you, 
His  loyal  fellow-warriors.  [Guards  retire. 

CHEF  ragozzi. 

Pardon  my  surprise. 
Thus  sudden  from  the  camp,  and  unattended ! 
What  may  these  wonders  prophesy  ? 
raab  kiuprili. 

Tell  me  first, 
How  fares  the  king  ?  His  majesty  still  lives  ? 

CHEF  ragozzi. 

We  know  no  otherwise  ;  but  Emerick's  friends 
(And  none  but  they  approach  him)  scoff  at  hope. 

raab  kiuprili. 
Ragozzi !  I  have  rear'd  thee  from  a  child, 
And  as  a  child  I  have  rear'd  thee.    Whence  this  air 
Of  mystery  ?  That  face  was  wont  to  open 
Clear  as  the  morning  to  me,  showing  all  things. 
Hide  nothing  from  me. 

CHEF  RAGOZZL 

0  most  loved,  most  honor'd. 

The  mystery  that  struggles  in  my  looks, 
Betray'd  my  whole  tale  to  thee,  if  it  told  thee 
That  I  am  ignorant ;  but  fear  the  worst. 
And  mystery  is  contagious.     All  things  here 
Are  full  of  motion :  and  yet  all  is  silent : 
And  bad  men's  hopes  infect  the  good  with  fears. 
raab  kiuprili  (his  hand  to  his  heart). 

1  have  trembhng  proof  within,  how  true  thou  speakest. 

CHEF  RAGOZZL 

That  the  prince  Emerick  feasts  the  soldiery. 
Gives  splendid  arms,  pays  the  commanders'  debts. 
And  (it  is  whisper'd)  by  sworn  promises 
Makes  himself  debtor — hearing  this,  thou  hast  heard 

All .     (Then  in  a  subdued  and  saddened  voice.) 

But  what  my  Lord  will  learn  too  soon  himself 

RAAB    KIUPRILL 

Ha  ! — Well  then,  let  it  come  !    Worse  scarce  can 

come. 

This  letter,  written  by  the  trembling  hand 
Of  royal  Andreas,  calls  me  from  the  camp 
106 


ZAPOLYA. 


97 


To  his  immediate  presence.    It  appoints  me, 

The  Queen,  and  Emerick,  ^ardians.of  the  realm, 

And  of  tlie  royal  infant.     Day  by  day, 

Robb'd  of  Zapolya's  soothing  cares,  the  king 

Yearns  only  to  behold  one  precious  boon, 

And  with  his  life  breathe  forth  a  father's  blessing. 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

Remember  you,  my  Lord,  that  Hebrew  leech, 
^\'hose  face  so  much  distemper'd  you  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Barzoni  ? 
I  held  him  for  a  spy :  but  the  proof  failing 
(More  courteously,  I  own,  than  pleased  myself), 
I  sent  him  from  the  camp. 

CHKF  RAGOZZI. 

To  him  in  chief 
Prince  Emerick  trusts  his  royal  brother's  health. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Hide  nothing,  I  conjure  you  !  What  of  him  ? 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

With  pomp  of  words  be3'ond  a  soldier's  cunning. 
And  shrugs  and  WTinkled  brow,  he  smiles  and  wliis- 

pers ! 
Talks  in  dark  words  of  women's  fancies ;  hints 
That  't  were  a  useless  and  cruel  zeal 
To  rob  a  dying  man  of  any  hope. 
However  vain,  that  soothes  him :  and,  in  fine. 
Denies  all  chance  of  offspring  from  the  Queen. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

The  venomous  snake !  My  heel  was  on  its  head, 
And  (fool .')  I  did  not  crush  it ! 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

Nay,  he  fears 
Zapolya  will  not  long  survive  her  husband. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Manifest  treason  !  Even  this  brief  delay 

Half  makes  me  an  accompHce (If  he  live), 

[Is  moving  toward  the  palace. 
If  he  but  hve  and  know  me,  all  may 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

^      .  Halt!  [Slops  him. 

On  pam  of  death,  my  Lord  !  am  I  commanded 
To  stop  all  ingress  to  the  palace. 

RAAJ5  KIUPRILI. 

Thou! 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

No  place,  no  name,  no  rank  excepted 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Thou ! 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

This  life  of  mine,  O  take  it.  Lord  Kiuprili ! 

I  give  it  as  a  weapon  to  thi/  hands. 

Mine  own  no  longer.     Guardian  of  lllyria, 

Useless  to  thee,  'tis  worthless  to  myself 

"Thou  art  the  framer  of  my  nobler  being  : 

Nor  does  tliero  hve  one  virtue  in  my  soul. 

One  honorable  hope,  but  calls  thee  father. 

Yet  ere  tliou  dost  resolve,  know  that  yon  palace 

Is  guarded  from  within,  that  each  access 

Is  throng'd  by  arm'd  conspirators,  watch'd  by  ruffians 

I'amper'd  with  gifts,  and  hot  upon  the  spoil 

JVhich  that  false  promiser  still  trails  before  them. 

I  ask  but  tliis  one  boon — reserve  my  life 

Till  I  can  lose  it  for  the  realm  and  thee ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

My  heart  is  rent  asunder.     O  my  country, 
0  fallen  lllyria !  stand  I  here  spell-bound  '? 


Did  my  King  love  me  ?  Did  I  earn  his  love  ? 

Have  we  embraced  as  brothers  would  embrace  ? 

Was  I  his  arm,  his  tlumder-bolt  ?  And  now 

Must  I,  hag-ridden,  pant  as  in  a  dream  ? 

Or,  like  an  eagle,  whose  strong  wings  press  up 

Against  a  coiling  serpent's  folds,  can  I 

Strike  but  for  mockery,  and  with  restless  beak 

Gore  my  own  breast  ?— Ragozzi,  thou  art  faithful  > 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

Here  before  Heaven  I  dedicate  my  faith 
To  the  royal  line  of  Andreas. 

RA^B  KIUPRILI. 

Hark,  Ragozzi ! 
Guilt  is  a  timorous  thing  ere  perpetration  : 
Despair  alone  makes  wicked  men  be  bold. 
Come  thou  with  me !  They  have  heard  my  voice  in 

flight. 
Have  faced  round,  terror-struck,  and  fear'd  no  longer 
The  whistling  javelins  of  their  fell  pursuers. 
Ha !  what  is  this  ? 

[Black  Flag  displayed  from  the  Tower  of  the  Pal- 
ace :  a  death-hell  tolls,  etc. 
Vengeance  of  Heaven !  He  is  dead. 

CHEF  RAGOZZL 

At  length  then  'tis  announced.     Alas!  I  fear, 
That  these  black  death-flags  are  but  treason's  signals. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI  [looking  forwards  anxiously). 
A  prophecy  too  soon  fulfill'd  !  See  yonder ! 
O  rank  and  ravenous  wolves !  tlie  death-bell  echoes 
Still  in  the  doleful  air — and  see !  they  come. 

CHEF  RAGOZZL 

Precise  and  faithful  in  their  villany. 

Even  to  the  moment,  that  the  master  traitor 

Had  preordain'd  them. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Was  it  over-haste. 
Or  is  it  scorn,  that  in  this  race  of  treason 
Their  guilt  thus  drops  its  mask,  and  blazons  forth 
Their  infamous  plot  even  to  an  idiot's  sense. 

CHEF  RAGOZZL 

Doubtless  they  deem  Heaven  too  usurp'd !  Heaven's 

justice 
Bought  like  themselves ! 

[During  this  conversation  music  is  heard,  at  first 
solemn  and  funereal,  and  then  changing  to 
spirited  and  triumphal. 

Being  equal  all  in  crime, 
Do  you  press  on,  ye  spotted  parricides ! 
For  the  one  sole  pre-eminence  yet  doubtful, 
The  prize  of  foremost  impudence  in  guilt  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILL 

The  bad  man's  cunning  still  prepares  the  way 
For  its  own  outwitting.     I  applaud,  Ragozzi ! 

[Musing  to  himself— then — 
Ragozzi !  I  applaud. 
In  thee,  the  virtuous  hope  that  dares  look  onward 
And  keeps  the  life-spark  warm  of  future  action 
Beneath  the  cloak  of  patient  sufferance. 
Act  and  appear  as  time  and  prudence  prompt  thee  ; 
I  shall  not  misconceive  the  part  thou  playest. 
Mine  is  an  easier  part — to  brave  the  Usurper. 

[Enter  a  procession  of  Emerick's  Adherents, 
Nobles,  Chieftains,  and  Soldiers,  with  Music. 
They  advance  toward  the  front  of  the  Stage, 

Kiuprili  7nafes  the  signal  for  them  to  stop 

TTie  Music  ceases. 

107 


98 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


LEADER  OF  THE  PROCESSION. 

The  Lord  Kiuprili  I — Welcome  from  the  camp. 

RAAB    KIUPRILI. 

Grave  magistrates  and  chieftains  of  ni)rria ! 

In  good  time  come  ye  hither,  if  ye  come 

As  loyal  men  with  honorable  purpose 

To  mourn  what  can  alone  be  mourn'd ;  but  chiefly 

To  enforce  the  last  commands  of  royal  Andreas, 

And  shield  the  queen,  Zapolya  :  haply  making 

The  mother's  joy  light  up  the  widow's  tears. 

LEADER. 

Our  purpose  demands  speed.     Grace  our  procession ; 
A  warrior  best  will  greet  a  warlike  lung. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

This  patent,  written  by  your  lawful  king 
(Lo !  his  own  seal  and  signature  attesting) 
Appoints  as  guardians  of  his  realm  and  offspring. 
The  Queen,  and  the  Prince  Emerick,  and  myself. 

[  Voices  of  lave  King  Emerick  !  an  Emericlc !  an 
Emerick  ! 
What  means  this  clamor  ?  Are  these  madmen's  voices  ? 
Or  is  some  knot  of  riotous  slanderers  leagued 
To  infamize  the  name  of  the  king's  brother 
With  a  lie  black  as  Hell  ?  unmanly  cruelty. 
Ingratitude,  and  most  unnatural  treason !    [Murmurs. 
What  mean  these  murmurs  ?  Dare  then  any  here 
Proclaim  Prince  Emerick  a  spotted  traitor  ? 
One  that  has  taken  from  you  your  sworn  faith, 
And  given  you  in  return  a  Judas'  bribe, 
Infamy  now,  oppression  in  reversion. 
And  Heaven's  inevitable  curse  hereafter  ? 

[Loud  murmurs,  followed  by  cries — Emerick  !  No 
Bahij  Prince  !  No  Changelings  ! 
Yet  bear  with  me  awhile !  Have  I  for  this 
Bled  for  your  safety,  conquer'd  for  your  honor ! 
Was  it  for  this,  Illyrians !  that  I  forded 
Your  thaw-swoln  torrents,  when  the  shouldering  ice 
Fought  with  the  foe,  and  stain'd  its  jagged  points 
With  gore  from  wounds,  I  felt  not  ?  Did  the  blast 
Beat  on  this  body,  frost-and-famine-numb'd, 
Till  my  hard  flesh  distinguish'd  not  itself 
From  the  insensate  mail,  its  fellow- warrior? 
And  have  I  brought  home  with  me  Victory, 
And  with  her,  hand  in  hand,  firm-footed  Peace, 
Her  countenance  twice  lighted  up  with  glory. 
As  if  I  had  charm'd  a  goddess  down  from  Heaven  ? 
But  these  will  flee  abhorrent  from  the  throne 
Of  usurpation .' 

[Murmurs  increase — and  cries  of  Onward  !  onward  ! 

Have  you  then  thrown  oflf  shame, 
And  shall  not  a  dear  friend,  a  loyal  subject, 
Throw  off  all  fear?    I  tell  ye,  the  fair  trophies 
Valiantly  wrested  from  a  valiant  foe. 
Love's  natural  offerings  to  a  rightful  king, 
Will  hang  as  ill  on  this  usurping  traitor. 
This  brother-blight,  this  Emerick,  as  robes 
Of  gold  pluck'd  from  the  images  of  gods 
Upon  a  sacrilegious  robber's  back. 

[During  the  last  four  lines,  enter  Lord  Casimir, 
with  expressions  of  anger  and  alarm. 

CASIMIR. 

Who  is  this  factious  insolent,  that  dares  brand 
The  elected  King,  our  chosen  Emerick  ? 

[Starts — then  approaching  with  timid  respect. 
My  father ! 


RAAB  KIUPRILI  (turning  away). 

Casimir !  He,  he  a  traitor ! 

Too  soon  indeed,  Ragozzi !  have  I  learnt  it.    'Aside 

CASIMIR  {with  reverence). 
My  father  and  my  Lord ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILL 

I  know  thee  not !   "" 

LEADER. 

Yet  the  reniembrancing  did  sound  right  filial. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

A  holy  name  and  words  of  natural  duty 
Are  blasted  by  a  thankless  traitor's  utterance. 

CASIMIR. 

O  hear  me.  Sire !  not  lightly  have  I  sworn 

Homage  to  Emerick.   Illyria's  sceptre 

Demands  a  manly  hand,  a  warrior's  grasp. 

The  queen  Zapolya's  self-expected  offspring 

At  least  is  doubtful :  and  of  all  our  nobles, 

The  king  inheriting  his  brother's  heart. 

Hath  honor'd  us  the  most.     Your  rank,  my  Lord ! 

Already  eminent,  is — all  it  can  be — 

Confirmed  :  and  mc  the  king's  grace  hath  appointed 

Chief  of  his  council  and  the  lord  high-steward. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

(Bought  by  a  bribe .')  I  know  thee  now  still  less. 

CASIMIR  {struggling  with  his  jMSsion). 
So  much  of  Raab  Kiuprili's  blood  flows  here. 
That  no  power,  save  that  holy  name  of  father, 
Could  shield  the  man  who  so  dishonored  me. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

The  son  of  Raab  Kiuprili !  a  bought  bond-slave. 
Guilt's  pander,  treason's  mouth-piece,  a  gay  parrot, 
School'd  to  shrill  forth  his  feeder's  usurp'd  titles. 
And  scream,  Long  live  king  Emerick ! 

LEADER. 

Ay,  King  Emerick ! 
Stand  back,  my  Lord !  Lead  us,  or  let  us  pass. 

SOLDIER. 

Nay,  let  the  general  speak ! 

SOLDIERS. 

Hear  him !  Hear  him ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Hear  me. 

Assembled  lords  and  warriors  of  Illyria, 
Hear,  and  avenge  me !  Twice  ten  years  have  I 
Stood  in  your  presence,  honor'd  by  the  king. 
Beloved  and  trusted.     Is  there  one  among  you. 
Accuses  Raab  Kiuprili  of  a  bribe  ? 
Or  one  false  whisper  in  his  sovereign's  ear  ? 
Who  here  dare  charge  me  with  an  orphan's  rights 
Outfaced,  or  widow's  plea  left  undefended  ? 
And  shall  I  now  be  branded  by  a  traitor, 
A  bought  bribed  wretch,  who,  being  called  my  son 
Doth  libel  a  chaste  matron's  name,  and  plant 
Hensbane  and  aconite  on  a  mother's  grave  ? 
The  underling  accomplice  of  a  robber. 
That  from  a  widow  and  a  widow's  oflSpring 
Would  steal  their  heritage  ?  To  God  a  rebel, 
And  to  the  common  father  of  his  country 
A  recreant  ingrate ! 

CASIMIR. 

Sire  !  your  words  grow  dangerous. 
High-flown  romantic  fancies  ill-beseem 
Your  age  and  wisdom.     'Tis  a  statesman's  virtue, 
To  guard  his  country's  safety  by  what  means 
108 


ZAPOLYA. 


99 


It  best  may  be  protected — come  what  will 
Of  these  monks'  morals ! 

RAAB  KiUPRiLi  (.aside). 

Ha !  the  elder  Brutus 
Made  his  soul  iron,  though  his  sons  repented. 
They  boasted  not  their  baseness. 

[Starts,  and  draws  his  sword. 

Infamous  changeling ! 

Recant  this  instant,  and  swear  loyalty, 

And  strict  obedience  to  thy  sovereign's  will ; 

Or,  by  the  spirit  of  departed  Andreas, 

Thou  diest 

[Chiefs,  etc.  rush  to  interpose ;  during  the  tumult 
enter  EaMERICK,  alarmed. 

EMERICK. 

Call  out  the  guard  !  Ragozzi !  seize  the  assassin. 

Kiuprili  ?  Ha  ! [  With  lowered  voice,  at  the  same 

time  with  one  hand  making  signs  to  the  guard 

to  retire. 

Pass  on,  friends !  to  the  palace. 
[Music  recommences. — The  Procession  passes  into 
the  Palace. — During  which  time  Emerick  and 
Kiuprili  regard  each  other  stedfastly. 

emerick. 
WTiat !  Raab  Kiuprili  ?  What !  a  father's  sword 
Against  his  owti  son's  breast  ? 

raab  kiuprili. 

'T  would  be  best  excuse  him. 
Were  he  thy  son.  Prince  Emerick.     /  abjure  him. 

emerick. 
This  is  my  thanks,  then,  that  I  have  commenced 
A  reign  to  which  the  free  voice  of  the  nobles 
Hath  call'd  me,  and  the  people,  by  regards 
Of  love  and  grace  to  Raab  Kiuprih's  house  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

What  right  hadst  thou,  Prince  Emerick,  to  bestow 
them? 

EMERICK. 

By  what  right  dares  Kiuprili  question  me  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

By  a  right  common  to  all  loyal  subjects — 
To  me  a  duty  !  As  the  realm's  co-regent, 
Appointed  by  our  sovereign's  last  free  act. 
Writ  by  himself —  [Grasping  the  Patent. 

EMERICK  (with  a  contemptuous  sneer). 
Ay ! — Writ  in  a  dehrium ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILL 

I  likewise  ask,  by  whose  authority 

The  access  to  the  sovereign  was  refused  me  ? 

EMERICK. 

By  whose  authority  dared  the  general  leave 
His  camp  and  army,  hke  a  fugitive  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILL 

A  fugitive,  who,  with  victory  for  his  comrade, 
Ran,  open-eyed,  upon  the  face  of  death ! 
A  fugitive,  with  no  other  fear,  than  bodements 
To  be  belated  in  a  loyal  purpose — 
At  the  command.  Prince !  of  my  king  and  thine, 
Hither  I  came  ;  and  now  again  require 
Audience  of  Queen  Zapolya ;  and  (the  States 
Forthwith  convened)  that  thou  dost  show  at  large, 
On  what  ground  of  defect  thou  'st  dared  annul 
This  thy  King's  last  and  solemn  act — hast  dared 
Ascend  the  throne,  of  which  the  law  had  named. 
And  conscience  should  have  made  thee,  a  protector. 


EMERICK. 

A  sovereign's  ear  ill  brooks  a  subject's  questioning ! 
Yet  for  thy  past  well-doing — and  because 
'Tis  hard  to  erase  at  once  the  fond  belief 
Long  cherish'd,  that  Illyria  had  in  thee 
No  dreaming  priest's  slave,  but  a  Roman  lover 
Of  her  true  weal  and  freedom — and  for  this,  too, 
That,  hoping  to  call  forth  to  the  broad  day-Hght 
And  fostering  breeze  of  glory,  all  deservirigs, 
I  still  had  placed  thee  foremost. 


RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Prince ! 


I  listen. 


EMERICK. 

Unwillingly  I  tell  thee,  that  Zapolya, 

Madden'd  with  grief,  her  erring  hopes  proved  idle— 

CASIMIR. 

Sire!  speak  the  whole  truth!  Say,heTfrauds  detected! 

EMERICK. 

According  to  the  sworn  attests  in  council 

Of  her  physician 

RAAB  KIUPRILI  (aside). 

Yes !   the  Jew,  Barzoni 

EMERICK. 

Under  the  imminent  risk  of  death  she  lies, 

Or  irrecoverable  loss  of  reason. 

If  known  friend's  face  or  voice  renew  the  frenzy. 

CASIMIR  (lo  Kiuprili). 
Trust  me,  my  Lord!  a  woman's  trick  has  duped  you— 
Us  too — but  most  of  all,  the  sainted  Andreas. 
Even  for  his  own  fair  fame,  his  grace  prays  hourly 
For  her  recovery  that  (the  States  convened) 
She  may  take  coimsel  of  her  friends. 
emerick. 

Right,  Casimir! 
Receive  my  pledge.  Lord  General.     It  shall  stand 
In  her  own  will  to  appear  and  voice  her  claims  ; 
Or  (which  in  truth  I  hold  the  wiser  course) 
With  all  the  past  pass'd  by,  as  family  quarrels. 
Let  the  Queen-Dowager,  with  unblench'd  honors. 
Resume  her  state,  our  first  lUyrian  matron. 

RAAB  kiuprili. 

Prince  Emerick!  you  speak  fairly,  and  your  pledge  too 
Is  such,  as  well  would  suit  an  honest  meaning. 

CASIMIR. 

My  Lord !  you  scarce  know  half  his  grace's  goodness. . 

The  wealthy  heiress,  high-bom  fair  Sarolta, 

Bred  in  the  convent  of  our  noble  ladies, 

Her  relative,  the  venerable  abbess. 

Hath,  at  his  grace's  urgence,  woo'd  and  won  for  me. 

emerick. 
Long  may  the  race,  and  long  may  that  name  flourish, . 
Which  your  heroic  deeds,  brave  chief,  have  render'd 
Dear  and  illustrious  to  all  true  lUyrians ! 

RAAB  kiuprili  (sternly). 
The  longest  line,  that  ever  tracing  herald 
Or  found  or  feign'd,  placed  by  a  beggar's  soul. 
Hath  but  a  mushroom's  date  in  the  compari^son  ; 
And  with  the  soul,  the  conscience  is  coeval, 
Yea,  the  soul's  essence. 

EMERICK. 

Conscience,  good  my  Lord, 
Is  but  the  pulse  of  reason.     Is  it  conscience, 
That  a  free  nation  should  be  handed  down. 
Like  the  dull  clods  beneath  our  feet,  by  chance 
And  the  blind  law  of  lineage  ?  That  whether  infanV 
Or  man  matured,  a  wise  man  or  an  idiot, 
15  109 


100 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Hero  or  natural  coward,  shall  have  guidance 

Of  a  free  people's  destiny ;  should  fall  out 

In  the  mere  lottery  of  a  reckless  nature, 

Where  few  the  prizes  and  the  blanks  are  countless  ? 

Or  haply  that  a  nation's  fate  should  hang 

On  the  bald  accident  of  a  midwife's  handling 

The  unclosed  sutures  of  an  infant's  skull  ? 

CASIMIR. 

What  better  claim  can  sovereign  wish  or  need, 
Than  the  free  voice  of  men  who  love  their  country  ? 
Those  chiefly  who  have  fought  for 't  ?  Who,  by  right, 
Claim  for  their  monarch  one,  who  having  obey'd 
So  hath  best  learnt  to  govern ;  who,  having  suffer'd, 
Can  feel  for  each  brave  sufferer  and  reward  him  ? 
Whence  sprang  the  name  of  Emperor  ?  Was  it  not 
By  Nature's  fiat?  In  the  storm  of  triumph, 
'Mid  warriors'  shouts,  did  her  oracular  voice 
Make  itself  heard :  Let  the  commanding  spirit 
Possess  the  station  of  command  ! 

KAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Prince  Emerick, 
Your  cause  wiU  prosper  best  in  your  own  pleading. 

EMERICK  (aside  to  Casimir). 
Ragozzi  was  thy  school-mate — a  bold  spirit ! 
Bind  him  to  us  I — Thy  father  thaws  apace ! 

[Then  aloud. 
Leave  us  awhile,  my  Lord  I — Your  friend,  Ragozzi, 
Whom  you  have  not  yet  seen  since  his  return, 
Commands  the  guard  to-day. 

[Casimir  retires  to  the  Guard-House ;  and  after  a 
time  appears  before  it  with  Chef  Ragozzi. 
We  are  alone. 
What  further  pledge  or  proof  desires  Kiuprili  ? 
Then,  with  your  assent 

raab  kiuprili. 

Mistake  not  for  assent 
The  unquiet  silence  of  a  stem  Resolve, 
Throtthng  the  impatient  voice.     I  have  heard  thee. 

Prince ! 
And  I  have  watch'd  thee,  too ;  but  have  small  faith  in 
A  plausible  tale  told  with  a  flitting  eye. 

[Emerick  turns  as  about  to  call  for  the  Guard. 
In  the  next  moment  I  am  in  thy  power. 
In  this  thou  art  in  mine.     Stir  but  a  step. 
Or  make  one  sign — I  swear  by  this  good  sword, 
Thou  diest  that  instant 


Ha,  ha ! — Well,  Sir ! — Conclude  your  homily. 

RAAB  kiuprili  (in  a  somewhat  suppressed  voice.) 
A  tale  which,  whether  true  or  false,  comes  guarded 
Against  all  means  of  proof,  detects  itself 
The  Queen  mew'd  up-^this  too  from  anxious  care 
And  love  brought  forth  of  a  sudden,  a  twin  birth 
With  the  discovery  of  her  plot  to  rob  thee 
Of  a  rightful  throne ! — Mark  how  the  scorpion,  False- 
hood, 
Coils  round  in  its  own  perplexity,  and  fixes 
.  Its  sting  in  its  own  head ! 

emerick. 

Ay !  to  the  mark ! 
Raab  Kiuprili  (aloud):  [he  and  Emerick  stand- 
ing at  equi-distance  from  the  Palace  and 
the  Gvard-House. 
Hadst  thou  believed  thine  own  tale,  hadst  xhon  fancied 
Thyself  the  rightful  successor  of  Andreas, 


Wouldst  thou   have  pilfer 'd  from  our  school-boys 

themes 
These  shallow  sophisms  of  a  popular  choice  ? 
What  people  ?  How  convened  ?  or,  if  convened. 
Mast  not  the  magic  power  that  charms  together 
Milhons  of  men  in  council,  needs  have  power 
To  win  or  wield  them  ?  Better,  O  far  better 
Shout  forth  thy  titles  to  yon  circling  moimtains, 
And  with  a  thousand-fold  reverberation' 
Make  the  rocks  flatter  thee,  and  the  volleying  air, 
Unbribed,  shout  back  to  thee.  King  Emerick ! 
By  wholesome  laws  to  embank  the  sovereign  power 
To  deepen  by  restraint,  and  by  prevention 
Of  lawless  will  to  amass  and  guide  the  flood 
In  its  majestic  channel,  is  man's  task 
And  tlie  true  patriot's  glory  I  In  all  else 
Men  safelier  trust  to  Heaven,  than  to  themselves 
When  least  themselves  in  the  mad  whirl  of  crowds 
Where  folly  is  contagious,  and  too  oft 
Even  wise  men  leave  their  better  sense  at  home, 
To  chide  and  wonder  at  them  when  return'd. 

emerick  (aloud). 
Is't  thus,  thou  scofTst  the  people  !  most  of  all, 
The  soldiers,  the  defenders  of  the  people  ? 

RAAB  kiuprili  (oloud). 

0  most  of  all,  most  miserable  nation, 

For  whom  th'  Imperial  power,  enormous  bubble ! 
Is  blown  and  kept  aloft,  or  biu^t  and  shatter'd 
By  the  bribed  breath  of  a  lewd  soldiery ! 
Chiefly  of  such,  as  from  the  frontiers  far 
(Which  is  the  noblest  station  of  true  warriors). 
In  rank  licentious  idleness  beleaguer 
City  and  court,  a  venom'd  thorn  i'  the  side 
Of  virtuous  kings,  the  tyrant's  slave  and  tyrant, 
Still  ravening  for  fresh  largess  !  but  with  such 
What  title  claim's!  thou,  save  thy  birth  ?  Wliat  merits 
Which  many  a  liegeman  may  not  plead  as  well, 
Brave  though  I  grant  thee  ?  If  a  life  outlabor'd 
Head,  heart,  and  fortimate  arm,  in  watch  and  war. 
For  the  land's  fame  and  weal ;  if  large  acquests, 
Made  honest  by  th'  aggression  of  the  foe 
And  whose  best  praise  is,  that  they  bring  us  safety  ; 
If  victory,  doubly-wreathed,  whose  under-garland 
Of  laurel-leaves  looks  greener  and  more  sparkling 
Through  the  gray  olive-branch ;  if  these.  Prince  Eme- 
rick! 
Give  the  true  title  to  the  throne,  not  thou — 
No !  (let  lUyria,  let  the  infidel  enemy 
Be  judge  and  arbiter  between  us !)  I, 

1  were  the  rightful  sovereign! 

emerick. 

I  have  faith 
That  thou  both  think'st  and  hopest  it    Fair  Zapolyo 
A  provident  lady — 

RAAB  KIUPRILL 

Wretch,  beneath  all  answer ' 

EMERICK. 

Offers  at  once  the  royal  bed  anu  throne ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILL 

To  be  a  kingdom's  bulwark,  a  lung's  glory, 
Yet  loved  by  both,  and  trusted,  and  trust-worthy, 
Is  more  than  to  be  king ;  but  see !  thy  rage 
Fights  with  thy  fear.     I  will  relieve  thee !  Ho ! 

[To  the  Guard 

EMERICK. 

Not  for  thy  sword,  but  to  entrap  thee,  ruffian  '. 

110 


ZAPOLYA. 


101 


Thus  long  I  have  listen'd — Guard — ho!   from  the 
Palace. 

The  Guard  post  from  the  Guard-House  with 
Chef  Ragozzi  at  their  head,  and  then  a 
number  from  the  Palace — Chef  Rasozzi  de- 
mands  Kiuprili's  sword,  and  apprehends  him. 

CASIMIR. 

0  agony !  (To  Emerick)".  Sire,  hear  me ! 

[To  KiuPRTLi,  who  turns  from  him. 
Hear  me,  Father ! 

EMERICK. 

Take  in  arrest  that  traitor  and  assassin ! 

Who  pleads  for  his  life,  strikes  at  mine,  his  sovereign's. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

As  the  co-regent  of  the  realm,  1  stand 
Amenable  to  none  save  to  the  States, 
Met  in  due  course  of  lav^^     But  ye  are  bond-slaves, 
Yet  witness  ye  that  before  God  and  man 

1  here  impeach  Lord  Emerick  of  foul  treason. 
And  on  strong  gromids  attaint  him  with  suspicion 
Of  murder — 

ESIERICK. 

Hence  with  the  madman! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Your  Queen's  murder, 
The  royal  orphan's  murder :  and  to  the  death 
Defy  him,  as  a  tyrant  and  usurper. 

[Hurried  off  by  Ragozzi  and  the  Guard. 

EMERICK. 

Ere  twice  the  sun  hath  risen,  by  my  sceptre 
This  insolence  shall  be  avenged. 

CASIMIR. 

O  banish  him ! 
This  infamy  \vi\l  crush  me.     O  for  my  sake. 
Banish  him,  my  hege  lord  ! 

EMERICK  {scornfully). 

What.'  to  the  army? 
Be  calm,  young  friend !  Nought  shall  be  done  in  anger. 
The  chUd  o'erpowers  the  man.     In  tliis  emergence 
I  must  take  counsel  for  us  both.     Retire. 

[Exit  Casimir  in  agitation. 
EMERICK  {alone,  looJss  at  a  Calendar). 
The  changeful  planet,  now  in  her  decay. 
Dips  down  at  midnight,  to  be  seen  no  more. 
With  her  shall  sink  the  enemies  of  Emerick, 
Cursed  by  the  last  look  of  the  waning  moon  ; 
And  my  bright  destiny,  with  sharpen'd  horns, 
ShaU  greet  me  fearless  in  the  new-bom  crescent. 

[Exit. 
Scene  changes  to  another  view,  namely,  the  back  of  the 
Palace — a  Wooded  Park,  and  Mountains. 

Enter  Zafolya,  with  an  Infant  in  her  arms. 

ZAPOLYA. 

Hush,  dear  one !  hush !  My  trembling  arm  disturbs 

thee! 
Thou,  the  Protector  of  the  helpless !  thou, 
Tlie  wdow's  Husband  ami  the  orphan's  Father, 
Direct  my  steps !  Ah  whither  ?  O  send  down 
Thy  angel  to  a  houseless  babe  and  mother. 
Driven  forth  into  the  cruel  widemess ! 
Hush,  sweet  one !   Tliou  art  no  Hagar's  offipring : 

thou  art 
The  rightful  heir  of  an  anointed  king  ! 
What  sounds  are  those  ?  It  is  the  vesper  chant 
Of  laboring  men  returning  to  their  home ! 
Their  queen  has  no  home !  Hear  me,  heavenly  Father ! 


And  let  this  darkness 

Be  as  the  shadow  of  thy  outspread  wings 
To  hide  and  shield  us!  Start'st  thou  in  thy  slumbers? 
Thou  canst  not  dream  of  savage  Emerick.     Hush! 
Betray  not  thy  poor  mother !  For  if  they  seize  thee, 
I  shall  grow  mad  indeed,  and  they'll  believe 
Thy  wicked  uncle's  lie.     Ha  !  what  ?  A  soldier  ? 

[She  starts  back — arui  enter  Chef  Ragozzi. 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

Sure  Heaven  befriends  us.    Well !  he  hath  escaped 

0  rare  tune  of  a  tyrant's  promises 
That  can  enchant  the  serpent  treachery 

From  forth  its  lurking-hole  in  the  heart.     "  Ragozzi  ! 

"  O  brave  Ragozzi!  Count!  Commander!  What  nolV 

And  all  this  too  for  nothing !  a  poor  nothing ! 

Merely  to  play  the  underling  in  the  murder 

Of  my  best  friend  Kiuprili !  His  own  son — monstrous! 

Tyrant !  I  owe  thee  thanks,  and  in  good  hour 

Will  I  repay  thee,  for  that  thou  thought'st  me  too 

A  serviceable  villain.     Could  I  now 

But  gain  some  sure  intelligence  of  the  queen : 

Heaven  bless  and  guard  her ! 

ZAPOLYA  {coming  fearfully  forward). 

Art  thou  not  Ragozzi  ? 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

The  Queen !  Now  then  the  miracle  is  full ! 

1  see  Heaven's  wisdom  in  an  over-match 

For  the  devil's  cunning.     This  way,  madam,  haste ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Stay !  Oh,  no !  Forgive  me  if  I  wrong  thee  ! 

This  is  thy  sovereign's  child  :  Oh,  pity  us. 

And  be  not  treacherous!  [Kneeling 

CHEF  RAGOZZI  {raising  her).  I 

Madam !  For  mercy's  sake ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

But  tyrants  have  a  hundred  eyes  and  arms ! 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

Take  courage,  madam !  'T  were  too  horrible, 
(I  can  not  do  "t)  to  swear  I  "m  not  a  monster ! — 
Scarce  had  I  barr'd  the  door  on  Raab  Kiuprili— 

ZAPOLYA. 

Kiuprili!  how? 

CHEF  R.VGOZZI. 

There  is  not  rime  to  tell  it. 
The  tyrant  call'd  me  to  him,  praised  my  zeal 
(And  be  assured  I  overtopt  his  cunning 
And  seem'd  right  zealous).  But  time  wastes :  in  fine 
Bids  me  dispatch  my  trustiest  friends,  as  couriers 
With  letters  to  the  army-     The  thought  at  once 
Flash'd  on  me.    I  disguised  my  prisoner — 

ZAPOLYA. 

What!  RaabKiupriU? 

CHEF  RAGOZZL 

Yes !  my  noble  general ! 
I  sent  him  off,  with  Emerick's  own  packet. 
Haste,  and  post  haste — Prepared  to  follow  him 

ZAPOLYA. 

Ah,  how?  Is  it  joy  or  fear?  My  limbs  seem  sinking!— 

CHEF  RAGOZZI  {supporting  her). 
Heaven  still  befriends  us.     I  have  left  my  charger, 
A  gentle  beast  and  fleet,  and  my  boy's  mule. 
One  that  can  shoot  a  precipice  like  a  bird. 
Just  where  the  wood  begins  to  climb  the  mountains. 
The  course  we'll  thread  will  mock  the  tyrant's  guesses, 
Or  scare  the  followers.    Ere  we  reach  the  main  road. 
The  Lord  Kiuprili  will  have  sent  a  troop 

111 


102 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS, 


To  escort  me.    Oh,  thrice  happy  when  he  finds 
The  treasure  which  I  convoy ! 


One  brief  moment, 
That,  praying  for  strength  I  may  have  strength.  This 

babe, 
Heaven's  eye  is  on  it,  and  its  innocence 
Is,  as  a  prophet's  prayer,  strong  and  prevaihng ! 
Through    thee,    dear    babe!    the    inspiring  thought 

possess'd  me. 
When  the  loud  clamor  rose,  and  all  the  palace 
Emptied  itself — (They  sought  my  life,  Ragozzi !) 
Like  a  swift  shadow  gliding,  I  made  way 
To  the  deserted  chamber  of  my  Lord. — 

{Then  to  the  infant. 
And  thou  didst  kiss  thy  father's  lifeless  lips. 
And  in  thy  helpless  hand,  sweet  slumberer ! 
Still  clasp'st  the  signet  of  thy  royalty. 
As  I  removed  the  seal,  the  heavy  arm 
Dropt  from  the  couch  aslant,  and  the  stiff  finger 
Seem'd  pointing  at  my  feet.     Provident  Heaven ! 
Lo,  I  was  standing  on  the  secret  door. 
Which,    through    a    long  descent  where  all  sound 

perishes. 

Let  out  beyond  the  palace.     Well  I  knew  it 

But  Andreas  framed  it  not!  He  was  no  tyrant! 

CHEF  RAGOZZI. 

Haste,  madam !  Let  me  take  this  precious  burden ! 
{He  kneels  as  he  takes  the  child. 


Take  him !  And  if  we  be  pursued,  I  charge  thee, 
Flee  thou  and  leave  me  !  Flee  and  save  thy  king ! 

[Then  as  going  off,  she  looks  back  on  the  palace. 
Tliou  tyrant's  den,  be  call'd  no  more  a  palace ! 
The  orphan's  angel  at  the  throne  of  Heaven 
Stands  up  against  thee,  and  there  hover  o'er  thee 
A  Queen's,  a  Mother's,  and  a  Widow's  curse. 
Henceforth  a  dragon's  haunt,  fear  and  suspicion 
Stand  sentry  at  thy  portals !  Faith  and  honor. 
Driven  from  the  throne,  shall  leave  the  attainted  na- 
tion : 
And,  for  the  iniquity  that  houses  in  thee. 
False  glory,  thirst  of  blood,  and  lust  of  rapine 
(Fateful  conjunction  of  malignant  planets). 
Shall  shoot  their  blastments  on  the  land.  The  fathers 
Henceforth  shall  have  no  joy  in  their  young  men. 
And  when  they  cry  :  Lo  !  a  male  child  is  born .' 
The  mother  shall  make  answer  with  a  groan. 
For  bloody  usurpation,  like  a  vulture. 
Shall  clog  its  beak  \\iihin  Illyria's  heart. 
Remorseless  slaves  of  a  remorseless  tyrant ! 
They  sliall  be  mock'd  with  sounds  of  liberty, 
And  liberty  shall  be  proclaim'd  alone 
To  thee,  O  Fire  !  O  Pestilence !  O  Sword  ! 
Till  Vengeance  hath  her  fill.  —  And  thou,  snatch'd 

hence. 
Again  to  the  infant.)  poor  friendless  fugitive !  with 

Mother's  wailing. 
Offspring  of  Royal  Andreas,  shall  return 
With  trump  and  timbrel  clang,  and  popular  shout 
In  triumph  to  the  palace  of  thy  fathers !        [Exeunt. 


PART  n. 


THE  SEQUEL,  ENTITLED  "THE  USURPER'S 
FATE." 


ADDITIONAL  CHARACTERS. 
MEN. 
Old  Bathory,  a  Mountaineer. 
Bethlen  Bathory,  the  Young  Prince  Andreas,  sup- 
posed Son  of  Old  Bathory. 
Lord  Rudolph,  a  Courtier,  but  friend  to  the  Queen's 

party. 
Lasea,  Steward  to  Casimir,  betrothed  to  Glycine. 
Pestalutz,  an  Assassin,  in  Emerick's  employ. 

WOMEN. 
Lady  Sarolta,  Wife  of  Lord  Casimir. 
Glycine,  Orphan  Daughter  of  Chef  Ragozzi. 

Between  the  flight  of  the  Queen,  and  the  civil  war 
which  immediately  followed,  and  in  which  Emerick 
remained  the  victor,  a  space  of  twenty  years  is  sup- 
posed to  have  elapsed. 


ACT  L 

SCENE  I. 

A   Mountainous    Country.     Bathory's  Dwelling  at 
the  end  of  the  Stage. 

Enter  Lady  Sarolta  and  Glycine, 
glycine. 
Well,  then !  our  round  of  charity  is  finish'd. 
Rest,  Madam !  You  breathe  quick. 
sarolta. 

What !  tired.  Glycine  ? 
No  delicate  court  dame,  but  a  mountaineer 
By  choice  no  less  than  birth,  I  gladly  use 
The  good  strength  Natiu-e  gave  me. 

glycine. 

That  last  cottage 
Is  built  as  if  an  eagle  or  a  raven 
Had  chosen  it  for  her  nest 

sarolta. 

So  many  are 
The  sufferings  which  no  human  aid  can  reach, 
It  needs  must  be  a  duty  doubly  sweet 
To  heal  the  few  we  can.     Well !  let  us  rest. 

glycine. 
There  ?     [Pointing  to  Bathory's  dwelling  Sarolta 
answering,  points  to  where  she  tlien  stands 
sarolta. 
Here !  For  on  this  spot  Lord  Casimir 
Took  Ills  last  leave.     On  yonder  mountain  ridge 
I  lost  the  misty  image  which  so  long 
Linger'd  or  seem'd  at  least  to  linger  on  it. 

glycyne. 
And  what  if  even  now,  on  that  same  ridge, 
A  speck  should  rise,  and  still  enlarging,  lengthening 
As  it  clomb  downwards,  shape  itself  at  last 
To  a  numerous  cavalcade,  and  spurring  foremost, 
Who  but  Sarolta's  own  dear  Lord  retum'd 
From  his  high  embassy  ? 

112 


ZAPOLYA. 


103 


SAROLTA. 

Tliou  liast  hit  my  thought ! 
All  the  long  day,  from  yester-inorn  to  evening, 
The  restless  hope  flutter'd  about  my  heart. 
Oh,  we  are  querulous  creatures  I  Little  less 
Than  all  things  can  suiTlce  to  make  us  happy ; 
And  little  more  than  nothing  is  enough 
To  discontent  us. — Were  he  come,  then  should  I 
Kepine  he  had  not  arrived  just  one  day  earlier 
To  keep  his  birth-day  here,  in  his  own  birth-place. 

GLYCINE. 

But  our  best  sports  belike,  and  gay  processions 
Would  to  my  Lord  have  seem'd  but  work-day  sights 
Compared  with  those  the  royal  court  afibrds. 

SAROLTA. 

I  have  small  wish  to  see  them.     A  spring  morning, 

With  its  wild  gladsome  minstrelsy  of  birds. 

And  its  bright  jewelry  of  flowers  and  dew-drops 

?Each  orbed  drop  an  orb  of  glory  in  it). 

Would  put  them  all  in  eclipse.  This  sweet  retirement 

Lord  Casimir's  wish  alone  would  have  made  sacred : 

But  in  good  truth,  his  loving  jealousy 

Did  but  command,  what  I  had  else  entreated. 

GLYCINE. 

And  yet  had  I  been  bom  Lady  Sarolta, 
Been  wedded  to  the  noblest  of  the  realm. 
So  beautiful  besides,  and  yet  so  stately 

SAROLTA. 

Hush !  innocent  flatterer ! 

GLYCINE. 

Nay !  to  my  poor  fancy 
The  royal  court  would  seem  an  earthly  heaven, 
Made  for  such  stars  to  shine  in,  and  be  gracious. 

SAROLTA. 

So  doth  the  ignorant  distance  still  delude  us  ! 

Thy  fancied  heaven,  dear  girl,  like  that  above  thee, 

In  its  mere  self,  a  cold,  drear,  colorless  void, 

Seen  from  below  and  in  the  large,  becomes 

The  bright  blue  ether,  and  the  seat  of  gods ! 

Well !  but  this  broil  that  scared  you  from  the  dance  ? 

And  w'as  not  Laska  there  ;  he,  your  betroth'd  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Yes,  madam !  he  was  there.     So  w'as  the  maypole, 
For  we  danced  round  it. 

SAROLTA. 

Ah,  Glycine !  why, 
WTiy  did  you  then  betroth  yourself? 

GLYCINE. 

Because 
My  own  dear  lady  wish'd  it !  't  was  you,  ask'd  me ! 

SAROLTA. 

Yes,  at  my  Lord's  request,  but  never  wish'd. 
My  poor  affectionate  girl,  to  see  thee  wretched. 
Thcu  know'st  not  yet  the  duties  of  a  wife. 

GLYCINE. 

Oh,  yes !  It  is  a  wife's  chief  duty,  madam, 
To  stand  in  awe  of  her  husband,  and  obey  him ; 
And,  I  am  sure,  I  never  shall  see  Laska 
But  I  shall  tremble. 

SAROLTA. 

Not  with  fear,  I  think. 
For  you  still  mock  him.  Bring  a  seat  from  the  cottage. 
\_J-2xii  Glvcine  into  Ihe  cottage,  Sarolta  continues 
her  speech,  looking  after  her. 
Something  above  thy  rank  there  hangs  about  thee, 
And  in  thy  countenance,  thy  voice,  and  motion, 


Yea,  e'en  in  thy  simplicity,  Glycine, 
A  fine  and  feminine  grace,  that  makes  me  feel 
More  as  a  mother  than  a  mistress  to  thee ! 
Thou  art  a  soldier's  orphan  !  that — the  courage, 
Which  rising  in  thine  eye,  seems  oft  to  give 
A  new  soul  to  its  gentleness,  doth  prove  thee 
Thou  art  sprung  too  of  no  ignoble  blood. 
Or  there 's  no  faith  in  instinct ! 
[Angry  voices  and  clamor  within,  re-enter  GltcinB 

GLYCINE. 

Oh,  madam !  there 's  a  party  of  your  servants, 
And  my  Lord's  steward,  Laska,  at  their  head, 
Have  come  to  search  for  old  Bathory's  son, 
Bethlen,  that  brave  young  man  !  't  was  he,  my  lady. 
That  took  our  parts,  and  beat  off  the  intruders ; 
And  in  mere  spite  and  malice,  now  they  charge  him 
With  bad  words  of  Lord  Casimir  and  the  king. 
Pray  don't  believe  them,  madam!  This  way!  This 

way ! 
Lady  Sarolta 's  here.  [Calling  without. 

SAROLTA. 

Be  calm.  Glycine. 
Enter  Laska  and  Servants  with  Old  Bathort. 
LASKA  (to  Bathory). 
We  have  no  concern  with  you !  What  needs  your 
preseiice  ? 

OLD  bathory. 
What!  Do  you  think  I'll  suffer  my  brave  boy 
To  be  slander'd  by  a  set  of  coward-ruffians. 
And  leave  it  to  their  malice, — yes,  mere  malice ! — 
To  tell  its  own  tale  ? 

[Laska  and  Servants  bow  to  Lady  Sarolta 
sarolta. 

Laska !  What  may  this  mean  ? 
laska  {pompously,  as  commencing  a  set  speech). 
Madam  !  and  may  it  please  your  ladyship ! 
This  old  man's  son,  by  name  Bethlen  Bathory, 
Stands  charged,  on  weighty  evidence,  that  he, 
On  yester-eve,  being  his  lordship's  birth-day, 
Did  traitorously  defame  Lord  Casimir : 

The  lord  high-steward  of  the  realm,  moreover 

sarolta. 
Be  brief!  We  know  his  titles ! 

LASKA. 

And  moreover 
Raved  like  a  traitor  at  our  liege  King  Emerick. 
And  furthermore,  said  witnesses  make  oath, 
Led  on  the  assault  upon  his  lordship's  servants  ; 
Yea,  insolently  tore,  from  this,  your  huntsman. 
His  badge  of  livery  of  your  noble  house, 
And  trampled  it  in  scorn. 

SAROLTA  {to  the  Servants  who  offer  to  speak). 

You  have  had  your  spokesman . 
Where  is  the  young  man  thus  accused  ? 

OJ.D  BATHORY. 

I  know  not : 
But  if  no  ill  betide  him  on  the  mountains. 
He  will  not  long  be  absent ! 

SAROLTA. 

Thou  art  his  father  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

None  ever  with  more  reason  prized  a  son : 
Yet  I  hate  falsehood  more  than  I  love  him. 
But  more  than  one,  now  in  my  lady's  presence, 
Witness'd  the  affray,  besides  these  men  of  malice, 

And  if  I  swerve  from  truth 

113 


104 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


GLYCIiNE. 

Yes !  good  old  man ! 
My  lady  I  pray  believe  him ! 

SAROLTA. 

Hush,  Glycine ! 
Be  silent,  I  command  you.  [Then  to  Bathory. 

Speak !  we  hear  you ! 

OLD  BATHORY. 

My  tale  is  brief.     During  our  festive  dance, 

Your  servants,  the  accusers  of  my  son, 

Offer'd  gross  insults,  in  unmanly  sort, 

To  our  village  maidens.     He  (could  he  do  less  1) 

Rose  in  defence  of  outraged  modesty, 

And  so  persuasive  did  his  cudgel  prove 

(Your  hectoring  sparks  so  over  brave  to  women 

Are  always  cowards),  that  they  soon  took  flight, 

And  now  in  mere  revenge,  like  baffled  boasters, 

Have  framed  this  tale,  out  of  some  hasty  words 

Which  their  own  threats  provoked. 

SAROLTA. 

Old  man !  you  talk 
Too  bluntly !  Did  your  son  owe  no  respect 
To  the  livery  of  our  house  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Even  such  respect 
As  the  sheep's  skin  should  gain  for  the  hot  wolf 
That  hath  begun  to  worry  the  poor  lambs ! 

LASKA. 

Old  insolent  ruffian  I 

GLYCINE. 

Pardon  !  pardon,  madam ! 
I  saw  the  whole  affray.     The  good  old  man 
Means  no  offence,  sweet  lady ! — You,  yourself, 
Laska !  know  well,  that  these  men  were  the  ruffians ! 
Shame  on  you !  ; 

SAROLTA  (speaks  with  affected  anger). 
What !  Glycine !  Go,  retire ! 

[Exit  Glycine,  mournfully. 
Be  it  then  that  these  men  faulted.  Yet  yourself, 
Or  better  still  belike  the  maidens'  parents. 
Might  have  complaiu'd  to  us.     Was  ever  access 
Denied  you  ?  Or  free  audience  ?  Or  are  we 
Weak  and  unfit  to  punish  our  own  servants  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

So  then !  So  then !  Heaven  grant  an  old  man  patience ! 
And  must  the  gardener  leave  his  seedling  plants. 
Leave  his  young  roses  to  the  rooting  swine. 
While  he  goes  ask  tlieir  master,  if  perchance 
His  leisure  serve  to  scourge  them  from  their  ravage  ? 

LASKA. 

Ho !  Take  the  rude  clown  from  your  lady's  presence ! 
I  will  report  her  further  will ! 

SAROLTA. 

Wait,  then, 
Till  fhou  hast  leamt  it !  Fervent,  good  old  man ! 
Forgive  me  that,  to  try  thee,  I  put  on 
A  face  of  sternness,  alien  to  my  meaning ! 

[Then  speaks  to  the  Servants. 
Hence !  leave  my  presence !  and  you,  Laska !  mark 

me ! 
Those  rioters  are  no  longer  of  my  household ! 
If  we  but  shake  a  dew-drop  from  a  rose. 
In  vain  would  we  replace  it,  and  as  vainly 
Restore  the  tear  of  wounded  modesty 
To  a  maiden's  eye  familiarized  to  license. — 
But  these  men,  Laska — 


LASKA  {aside}. 

Yes,  now  'tis  coming. 

SAROLTA. 

Brutal  aggressors  first,  then  baffled  dastards, 
That  they  have  sought  to  piece  out  their  revenge 
With  a  tale  of  words  lured  from  the  lips  of  ange» 
Stamps  them  most  dangerous ;  and  till  I  want 
Fit  means  for  wicked  ends,  we  shall  not  need 
Their  services.     Discharge  them !  You,  Bathory ! 
Are  henceforth  of  my  household  !  I  shall  place  you 
Near  my  own  person.     When  your  son  returns, 
Present  him  to  us. 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Ha !  what,  strangers*  here ! 
What  business  have  they  in  an  old  man's  eye  ? 
Your  goodness,  lady — and  it  came  so  sudden— 
I  cannot — must  not — let  you  be  deceived. 
I  have  yet  another  tale,  but —  [Then  to  Sarolta  ande. 
Not  for  all  ears! 

SAROLTA. 

I  oft  have  pass'd  your  cottage,  and  still  praised 
Its  beauty,  and  that  trim  orchard-plot,  whose  blossoms 
The  gusts  of  April  shower'd  aslant  its  thatch. 
Come,  you  shall  show  it  me !  And  while  you  bid  it 
Farewell,  be  not  ashamed  that  I  should  witness 
The  oil  of  gladness  ghttering  on  the  water 
Of  an  ebbing  grief. 

[Bathory  bowing,  shows  her  into  his  cottage 
LASKA  (alone). 

Vexation !  baffled !  school'd ! 
Ho !  Laska  !  wake !  why  ?  what  can  all  tliis  mean  I 
She  sent  away  that  cockatrice  in  anger ! 
Oh  the  false  witch !   It  is  too  plain,  she  loves  him 
And  now,  the  old  man  near  my  lady's  person. 
She  '11  see  this  Bethlen  hourly  ! 

[Laska  flings  himself  into  the  seat.    Glycine 
peeps  in  timidly. 

GLYCINE. 

Laska!  Laska! 
Is  my  lady  gone  ? 

LASKA  (surlily). 
Gone. 

GLYCINE. 

Have  you  yet  seen  him  ? 
Is  he  return'd  ? 

[Laska  starts  vp  from  his  seat. 
Has  the  seat  stung  you,  Laska  ? 
laska. 
No !  serpent !  no ;  'tis  you  that  sting  me  ;  you ! 
What!  you  would  cling  to  him  again! 

GLYCINE. 

Whom? 

LASKA. 

Bethlen!  Bethlen. 
Yes ;  gaze  as  if  your  very  eyes  embraced  him ! 
Ha !  you  forget  the  scene  of  yesterday  ! 
Mute  ere  he  came,  but  then — Out  on  your  screams, 
And  your  pretended  fears ! 

GLYCINE. 

Your  fears,  at  least. 
Were  real,  Laska !  or  your  trembUng  limbs 
And  white  cheeks  play'd  the  hypocrites  most  vilely ! 


•  Refers  to  the  tear,  which  he  fee/s  starting  in  his  eye.    The 
following  hne  was  borrowed  unconsciously  from  Mr.  Woi 
worth's  Excursion. 

114 


ZAPOLYA. 


105 


LASKA. 

I  fear !  wliom  ?  \Miat  ? 

GLYCINE. 

I  know,  what  I  should  fear, 
Were  I  in  Laska's  place. 

LASKA. 

What? 

GLYCINE. 

My  own  conscience, 
For  having  fed  my  jealousy  and  envy 
Wilh  a  plot,  made  out  of  other  men's  revenges, 
Against  a  brave  and  innocent  young  man's  hfe ! 
Yet,  yet,  pray  tell  me ! 

LASKA  {mdHgnatifly). 

You  will  know  too  soon. 

GLYCINE. 

\Vould  I  could  find  my  lady  !  though  she  chid  me — 
Yet  tliis  suspense —  [Going. 

LASKA. 

Stop !  stop !  one  question  only — 
I  am  quite  calm — 

GLYCINE. 

Ay,  as  the  old  song  says. 
Calm  as  a  tiger,  valiant  as  a  dove. 
Nay  now,  I  have  marr'd  the  verse:  well.'  this  one 
question — 

LASKA. 

Are  you  not  bound  to  me  by  your  own  promise  ? 
And  is  it  not  as  plain — 

GLYCINE. 

Halt !  that 's  two  questions. 

LASKA. 

Pshaw !  Is  it  not  as  plain  as  impudence, 

Tliat    you're  in  love  with  this   young  swaggering 

beggar, 
Bethlen  Bathory  ?  When  he  was  accused. 
Why  press'd  you  forward  ?  Why  did  you  defend  him  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Question  meet  question  :  that 's  a  woman's  privilege. 

'Wliv,  Laska,  did  you  urge  Lord  Casimir 

To  make  my  lady  force  that  promise  from  me  ? 

LASKA. 

So  then,  you  say.  Lady  Sarolta  forced  you  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Could  I  look  up  to  her  dear  countenance. 

And  say  her  nay  ?  As  far  back  as  I  wot  of. 

All  her  commands  were  gracious,  sweet  requests. 

How  could  it  be  then,  but  that  her  requests 

Must  needs  have  sounded  to  me  as  commands  ? 

And  as  for  love,  had  I  a  score  of  loves, 

I  'd  keep  them  all  for  my  dear,  kind,  good  mistress. 

LASKA. 

Not  one  for  Bethlen ! 

GLYCINE. 

Oh !  that 's  a  different  thing. 
To  be  sure  he's  brave,  and  handsome,  and  so  pious 
To  his  good  old  father.     But  for  loving  him — 
Nay,  /here,  indeed  you  are  mistaken,  Laska ! 
Poor  youth  !  I  rather  tliink  I  grieve  for  him  ; 
For  I  sigh  so  deeply  when  I  think  of  him ! 
And  if  I  see  him,  the  tears  come  in  my  eyes. 
And  my  heart  beats;  and  all  because  I  dreamt 
That  the  war-wolf*  had  gored  him  as  he  hunted 
In  the  haunted  forest! 


»  For  the  best  account  of  the  War-wolf  or  Lycanthropug,  see 
lJra}/tun.'s  Moon-ealf,  Chalmers'  English  Poets,  vol.  iv.  p. 
13  e. 

L 


LASKA. 

You  dare  own  all  this  ? 
Your  lady  will  not  warrant  promise-breach. 
Mine,  pamper 'd  Miss !  you  shall  be  ;  and  I  '11  mako 

you 
Grieve  for  him  whh  a  vengeance.    Odds,  my  fingers 
Tingle  already  !  [Makes  threalening  signs. 

GLYCINE  {n.fide). 
Hal  Bethlen  coming  this  way  ! 
[Glycine  then  cries  out  as  if  afraid  of  being  beaten 
Oh,  save  me  !  save  me  !  Pray  don't  Ivill  me,  Laska ! 
Enter  Bethlen  in  a  Hunting  Dress. 

BETHLEN. 

What,  beat  a  woman ! 

LASKA  {to  Glycine). 
O  you  cockatrice  ! 

BETHLEN. 

Unmanly  dastard,  hold  ! 

LASKA  [pompously). 

Do  you  chance  to  know 
Who — I — am,  Sir  ? — (S'death  how  black  he  looks  •) 

BETHLEN. 

I  have  started  many  strange  beasts  in  my  time, 
But  none  less  like  a  man,  than  this  before  me 
That  hfts  his  hand  against  a  timid  female. 

LASKA. 

Bold  youth  !  she 's  mine. 

GLYCINE. 

No,  not  my  master  yet. 
But  only  is  to  be ;  and  all  because 
Two  years  ago  my  lady  ask'd  me,  and 
I  promised  her,  not  him  ,■  and  if  she  '11  let  me, 
I  '11  hate  you,  my  Lord's  steward. 

BETHLEN. 

Hush,  Glycine ' 

GLYCINE. 

Yes,  I  do,  Bethlen  ;  for  he  just  now  brought 
False  witnesses  to  swear  away  your  life : 
Your  life,  and  old  Bathor)''s  too. 

BETHLEN. 

Bathory's ! 

Where  is  my  father  ?  Ansvi'er,  or Ha !  gone  ! 

[Laska  during  this  time  slinks  off  the  Stage,  using 
threatening  gestures  to  Glycine. 

GLYCINE. 

Oh,  heed  not  him  !  I  saw  you  pressing  onward. 
And  did  but  feign  alarm.  Dear  gallant  youth. 
It  is  your  life  they  seek ! 

BETHLEN. 

My  life  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Alas! 
Lady  Sarolta  even — 

BETHLE.V. 

She  does  not  know  me  ! 

GLYCINE. 

Oh  that  she  did !  she  could  not  then  have  spoken 
With  such  stern  countenance.  But  though  she  spurn 

me, 
I  will  kneel,  Bethlen — 

BETHLEN. 

Not  for  me.  Glycine ! 
\\liat  have  I  done  ?  or  whom  have  I  offended  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Rash  words,  'tis  said,  and  treasonous,  of  the  king. 
[Bethlen  mutters  to  himself  indignandy 
GLYCINE  (nsidd). 
.So  looks  the  statue,  in  our  hall,  o'  the  god. 
The  shaft  just  flown  that  Idlled  the  serpent! 
115 


106 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


BETHLEN  {muttering  aside). 


King! 


Ah,  often  have  I  wish'd  you  were  a  king. 

You  would  protect  the  helpless  everywhere, 

As  you  did  us.     And  I,  too,  should  not  then 

Grieve  for  you,  Bethlen,  as  I  do ;  nor  have 

The  tears  come  in  my  eyes;  nor  dream  bad  dreams 

That  you  were  kOl'd  in  the  forest;  and  then  Laska 

Would  have  no  right  to  rail  at  me,  nor  say 

(Yes,  the  base  man,  he  says)  that  I — I  love  you. 

BETHLEN. 

Pretty  Glycine  !  wert  thou  not  betrothed — 
But  in  good  truth  I  know  not  what  I  speak. 
This  luckless  morning  I  have  been  so  haunted 
With  my  own  fancies,  starting  up  like  omens. 
That  I  feel  like  one,  who  waking  from  a  dream 
Both  asks  and  answers  wildly  — But  Bathory  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Hist!  'tis  my  lady's  step!  She  must  not  see  you! 

[Bethlen  retires. 
Enter  from  the  Cottage  Sarolta  and  Bathory. 

SAROLTA. 

Go,  seek  your  son !  I  need  not  add,  be  speedy — 
You  here.  Glycine  ?  [Exit  Bathory. 

GLYCINE. 

Pardon,  pardon,  Madam ! 
If  you  but  saw  the  old  man's  son,  you  would  not, 
You  could  not  have  him  harm'd. 

sarolta. 

Be  calm,  Glycine ! 

GLYCINE. 

No,  I  shall  break  my  heart.  [Sobbing. 

SAROLTA  {taking  her  hand). 

Ha !  is  it  so  ? 
O  strange  and  hidden  power  of  sympathy. 
That  of  like  fates,  though  all  unknown  to  each. 
Dost  make  blind  instincts,  orphan's  heart  to  orphan's 
Drawing  by  dim  disquiet ! 

GLYCINE. 

Old  Bathory — 

SAROLTA. 

Seeks  his  brave  son.     Come,  wipe  away  thy  tears. 
Yes,  in  good  truth.  Glycine,  this  same  Bethlen 
Seems  a  most  noble  and  deserving  youth. 

GLYCINE. 

My  lady  does  not  mock  me  ? 

SAROLTA. 


Where  is  Laska? 


Has  he  not  told  thee  ? 


GLYCINE. 

Nothing.  In  his  fear — 
Anger,  I  mean — stole  off — I  am  so  flutter'd — 
Left  me  abruptly — 

SAROLTA, 

His  shame  excuses  him! 
He  is  somewhat  hardly  task'd  ;  and  in  discharging 
His  own  tools,  oons  a  lesson  for  himself 
Bathory  and  the  youth  henceforward  live 
Safe  in  my  Lord's  protection. 

GLYCINE. 

The  saints  bless  you  ! 
Shame  on  my  graceless  heart !  How  dared  I  fear 
.  Lady  Sarolta  could  be  cruel ' 


SAROLTA. 

Come, 
Be  yourself,  girl ! 

GLYCINE. 

O,  'tis  so  full  here.      [At  her  heart. 
And  now  it  cannot  harm  him  if  I  tell  you, 
That  the  old  man's  son — 

SAROLTA. 

Is  not  that  old  man's  son ! 
A  destiny,  not  imlike  thine  own,  is  his. 
For  all  I  know  of  thee  is,  that  thou  art 
A  soldier's  orphan  :  left  when  rage  intestine 
Shook  and  ingulf 'd  the  pillars  of  Ulyria. 
This  other  fragment,  thrown  back  by  that  same  earth- 
quake. 
This,  so  mysteriously  inscribed  by  Nature, 
Perchance  may  piece  out  and  interpret  thine. 

Command  thyself  I  Be  secret !  His  true  father 

Hear'st  thou  ? 

GLYCINE  {eagerly). 
O  tell— 
BETHLEN  {who  had  overheard  the  last  few  words,  now 
rushes  out). 
Yes,  tell  me.  Shape  from  Heaven  • 
Who  is  my  father  ? 

SAROLTA  {gazing  with  surprise). 

Thme  ?  Thy  father  ?  Rise ! 

GLYCINE. 

Alas !  He  hath  alarm'd  you,  my  dear  lady  ! 

SAROLTA. 

His  countenance,  not  his  act ! 

GLYCINE. 

Rise,  Bethlen !  Rise  ! 

BETHLEN. 

No ;  kneel  thou  too !  and  with  .thy  orphan's  tongue 

Plead  for  me !  I  am  rooted  to  the  earth. 

And  have  no  power  to  rise  !  Give  me  a  father  ! 

There  is  a  prayer  in  those  uplifted  eyes 

That  seeks  high  Heaven !  But  I  will  overtake  it, 

And  bring  it  back,  and  make  it  plead  for  me 

In  thine  own  heart !  Speak !  speak !  Restore  to  me 

A  name  in  the  world  ! 

SAROLTA, 

By  that  blest  Heaven  I  gazed  at 
I  know  not  who  thou  art.     And  if  I  knew, 
Dared  I — But  rise  ! 

BETHLEN. 

Blest  spirits  of  my  parents, 
Ye  hover  o'er  me  now  !  Ye  shine  upon  me ! 
And  like  a  flower  that  coils  forth  from  a  ruin, 
I  feel  and  seek  the  light,  I  cannot  see  ! 

SAROLTA. 

Thou  see'st  yon  dim  spot  on  the  mountain's  ridge, 
But  what  it  is  thou  knovv'st  not      Even  such 
Is  all  I  know  of  thee — haply,  brave  youth, 
Is  all  Fate  makes  it  safe  for  thee  to  know ! 

BETHLEN. 

SafQ  ?  safe  ?  O  let  me  then  inherit  danger, 
And  it  shall  be  my  birth-right ! 

SAROLTA  {aside). 

That  look  again ! — 
The  wood  which  first  incloses,  and  then  skirts 
The  highest  track  that  leads  across  the  mountains- 
Thou  know'st  it,  Bethlen  ? 

BETHLEN. 

Lady,  'twas  my  wont 
116 


ZAPOLYA. 


107 


To  roam  there  in  my  childhood  oft  alone, 
And  mutter  to  myself  the  name  of  father. 
For  still  Bathory  (why,  till  now  I  guess'd  not) 
Would  never  hear  it  from  my  lips,  but  sighing 
Gazed  upward.    Yet  of  late  an  idle  terror 

GLYCINE.      • 

Madam,  that  wood  is  haunted  by  the  war-wolves, 

Vampires,  and  monstrous 

SAROLTA  {with  a  smile). 

Woon-calves,  credulous  girl 
Haply  some  o'ergrown  savage  of  the  forest 
Hatli  his  lair  there,  and  fear  hath  framed  the  rest. 

[Then  speaking  again  to  Belhlen. 
After  that  last  great  battle  (O  young  man ! 
Thou  wakest  anew  ray  life's  sole  anguish),  that 
Which  fix'd  Lord  Emerick  on  his  throne,  Bathory 
Led  by  a  cry,  far  inward  from  the  track. 
In  the  hollow  of  an  old  oak,  as  in  a  nest. 
Did  find  thee,  Bethlen,  then  a  helpless  babe : 
The  robe,  that  wrapt  tliee,  was  a  widow's  mantle. 

BETHLEN. 

An  infant's  weakness  doth  relax  my  frame. 

0  say — I  fear  to  ask 

SAROLTA. 

And  I  to  tell  thee. 

BETHLEN. 

Strike !  O  strike  quickly !  See,  I  do  not  shrink. 

[Striking  his  breast.. 

1  am  stone,  cold  stone. 

SAROLTA. 

Hid  in  a  brake  hard  by. 
Scarce  by  both  palms  supported  from  the  earth, 
A  wounded  lady  lay,  whose  life  fast  waning 
Seem'd  to  survive  itself  in  her  fixt  eyes, 
That  strain'd  towards  the  babe.    At  length  one  arm 
Painfully  from  her  own  weight  disengaging. 
She  pointed  first  to  Heaven,  then  from  her  bosom 
Drew  forth  a  golden  casket.    Thus  entreated 
Thy  foster-father  took  thee  in  his  arms. 
And,  kneeling,  spake  :  If  aught  of  this  world's  com- 
fort 
Can  reach  thy  heart,  receive  a  poor  man's  troth, 
That  at  my  life's  risk  I  will  save  thy  child ! 
Her  countenance  work'd,  as  one  that  seem'd  pre- 
paring 
A  loud  voice,  but  it  died  upon  her  lips 
In  a  faint  whisper,  "  Fly  !    Save  him !  Hide — hide 
aU!" 

BETHLEN. 

And  did  he  leave  her  ?  What !  Had  I  a  mother  ? 
And  left  her  bleeding,  dying  ?  Bought  I  vile  life 
With  the  desertion  of  a  dying  mother  ? 
Oh  agony ! 

GLYCINE. 

Alas!  thou  art  bewilder'd. 
And  dost  forget  thou  wert  a  helpless  infant ! 

BETHLEN. 

Wliat  else  can  I  remember,  but  a  mother 
Mangled  and  left  to  perish  ? 

SAROLTA. 

Hush,  Glycine ! 
It  is  the  ground-swell  of  a  teeming  instinct : 
Let  it  but  lift  itself  to  air  and  sunshine, 
And  it  will  fmd  a  mirror  in  the  waters. 
It  now  makes  boil  above  it.    Check  him  not ! 

BETHLEN. 

O  that  I  were  diffused  among  the  waters 
That  pierce  into  the  secret  depths  of  earth. 
And  find  their  way  in  darkness  !  Would  that  I 
Could  sriread  myself  unon  the  homeless  winds ! 


And  I  would  seek  her !  for  she  is  not  dead  ! 
She  can  not  die  !  O  pardon,  gracious  lady , 
You  were  about  to  say,  that  he  return'd — 

SAROLTA. 

Deep  Love,  the  godlike  in  us,  stiU  believes 
Its  objects  as  immortal  as  itself! 

BETH1;EN. 

And  foimd  her  still — ■ 

.SAROLTA. 

Alas  !  he  did  return : 
He  left  no  spot  unsearch'd  in  all  the  forest, 
But  she  (I  trust  me  by  some  friendly  hand) 
Had  been  borne  off 

BETHLEN. 

O  whither  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Dearest  Bethlen ! 
I  would  that  you  could  weep  like  me !  O  do  not 
Gaze  so  upon  the  air ! 

SAROLTA  {continuing  the  story). 

While  he  was  absent, 
A  friendly  troop,  't  is  certain,  scour'd  the  wood, 
Hotly  pursued  indeed  by  Emerick. 

BETHLEN. 

Emerick ! 
Oh  Hell! 

GLYCINE  {to  silence  him). 
Bethlen ! 

BETHLEN. 

Hist !  I  'U  curse  him  in  a  whisper ! 
This  gracious  lady  must  hear  blessings  only. 
She  hath  not  yet  the  glory  round  her  head, 
Nor  those   strong   eagle  wings,  wliicli  made  swift 

way 
To  that  appointed  place,  which  I  must  seek  : 
Or  else  she  were  my  mother ! 

SAROLTA. 

Noble  youth! 
From  me  fear  nothing !  Long  time  have  I  owed 
Offerings  of  expiation  for  misdeeds 
Long  pass'd  that  weigh  me  down,  though  innocent ! 
Thy  foster-father  hid  the  secret  from  thee. 
For  he  perceived  thy  thoughts  as  they  expanded, 
Proud,  restless,  and  ill-sorting  w  ith  thy  state ! 
Vain  was  his  care  !  Thou  'st  made  thyself  suspected 
E  'en  where  Suspicion  reigns,  and  asks  no  proof 
But  its  own  fears !  Great  Nature  hath  endovv'd  thee 
With  her  best  gifts  !  From  me  thou  shah  receive 
All  honorable  aidance  !  But  haste  hence  ! 
Travel  will  ripen  thee,  and  enterprise 
Beseems  thy  years  !  Be  thou  henceforth  my  soldier  ! 
And  whatsoe'er  betide  thee,  still  believe 
That  in  each  noble  deed,  achieved  or  suffer'd, 
Thou  solvest  best  the  riddle  of  thy  birth  ! 
And  may  the  light  that  streams  from  tliine  own 

honor 
Guide  thee  to  that  thou  seekest! 

GLYCINE. 

Must  he  leave  us? 

BETHLEN. 

And  for  such  goodness  can  I  return  nothing, 
But  some  hot  tears  that  sting  mine  eyes  ?  Some  sighs 
That  if  not  breathed  would  swell  my  heart  to  sti- 
fling ? 
May  Heaven  and  thine  own  virtues,  high-bom  lady 
Be  as  a  shield  of  fire,  far,  far  aloof 
To  scare  all  evil  from  thee !  Yet,  if  fate 
Hath  destined  thee  one  doubtful  hour  of  danger, 
From  the  uttermost  region  of  the  earth,  methinks, 
Swift  as  a  spirit  invoked.  I  .should  be  with  thee  I 
16  J17 


108 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  then,  perchance,  I  might  have  power  to  unbosom 
These  thanks  that  struggle  here.    Eyes  fair  as  thine 
Have  gazed  on  me  with  tears  of  love  and  anguish, 
Which  these  eyes  saw  not,  or  beheld  unconscious ; 
And  tones  of  anxious  fondness,  passionate  prayers, 
Have   been  talk'd  to  me  !    But  this  tongue  ne'er 

soothed 
A  mother's  ear,  lisping  a  mother's  name  ! 
O,  at  how  dear  a  price  have  I.been  loved, 
And  no  love  could  return  !  One  boon  then,  lady  ! 
Where'er  thou  bidd'st,  1  go  thy  faithful  soldier. 
But  first  must  trace  the  spot,  where  she  lay  bleeding 
Who  gave  me  life.    No  more  shall  beast  of  ravine 
Affront  with  baser  spoil  that  sacred  forest ! 
Or  if  avengers  more  than  human  haunt  there, 
Take  they  what  shape  they  list,  savage  or  heavenly. 
They  shall  make  answer  to  me,  though  my  heart's 

blood 
Should  be  the  spell  to  bind  them.    Blood  calls  for 

blood ! 

[Exit  Bethlen. 

SAROLTA. 

Ah  !  it  was  this  I  fear'd.    To  ward  off  this 
Did  I  withhold  from  him  that  old  Bathory 
Returning,  hid  beneath  the  self-same  oak. 
Where  the  babe  lay,  the  mantle,  and  some  jewel 
Bound  on  his  infant  arm. 

GLYCINE. 

Oh,  let  me  fly 
And  stop  him  !  Mangled  limbs  do  there  lie  scatter'd 
Till  the  lured  eagle  bears  them  to  her  nest. 
And  voices  have  been  heard !  And  there  the  plant 

grows 
That  being  eaten  gives  the  inhuman  wizard 
Power  to  put  on  the  fell  hyena's  shape. 

SAROLTA. 

What  idle  tongue  hath  witch'd  thee.  Glycine  ? 
I  hoped  that  thou  hadst  learnt  a  nobler  faith. 

GLYCINE. 

0  chide  me  not,  dear  lady  !  question  Laska, 
Or  the  old  man. 

SAROLTA. 

Forgive  me,  I  spake  harshly. 
It  is  indeed  a  mighty  sorcery 
That  doth  enthral  thy  young  heart,  my  poor  girl  : 
And  what  hath  Laska  told  thee  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Tliree  days  past 
A  courier  from  the  king  did  cross  that  wood ; 
A  wilful  man,  that  arm'd  himself  on  purpose  : 
And  never  hath  been  heard  of  from  that  time ! 

[Sound  of  horns  without. 

SAROLTA. 

Hark !  dost  thou  hear  it  ? 

GLYCINE. 

'T  is  the  sound  of  horns ! 
Our  huntsmen  are  not  out ! 

SAROLTA. 

Lord  Casimir 
Would  not  come  thus  !  [Horns  again. 

GLYCINE. 

Still  louder 

SAROLTA. 

Haste  we  hence ! 
For  I  beheve  in  part  thy  tale  of  terror ! 
But,  trust  me,  't  is  the  inner  man  transform'd  : 
Beasts  in  the  shape  of  men  are  worse  than  war- 
wolves. 


[Sarolta  and  Glycine  exeunt.  Trumpets  etc.  louder 
Enter  Emerick,  Lord  Rudolph,  Laska,  atid 
Huntsmen  and  Attemlants. 

RUDOLPH. 

A  gallant  chase,  Sire. 

EiMERICK. 

Ay,  but  this  new  quany 
That  we  last  started  seems  worth  all  the  rest. 

[Then  to  Laska 
And  you — excuse  me — what 's  your  name  ? 
laska. 

Whatever 
Your  Majesty  may  please. 

EMERICK. 

Nay,  that 's  too  late,  man 
Say,  what  thy  mother  and  thy  godfather 
Were  pleased  to  call  thee  ? 

LASKA. 

Laska,  my  liege  Sovereign. 

EMERICK. 

Well,  my  liege  subject  Laska !    And  you  are 
Lord  Casimir's  steward? 

LASKA. 

And  your  majesty's  creature 

EMERICK. 

Two  gentle  dames  made  off  at  our  approach. 
Which  was  your  lady  ] 

LASKA. 

My  liege  lord,  the  taller 
The  other,  please  your  grace,  is  her  poor  handmaid 
Long  since  betrothed  to  me.    But  the  maid 's  fro- 

ward — 
Yet  would  your  grace  but  speak — 

EMERICK. 

Hum,  master  steward 
I  am  honor'd  with  this  sudden  confidence. 
Lead  on.  [To  Laska,  then  to  Rudolph 

Lord  Rudolph,  you  '11  announce  our  coming 
Greet  fair  Sarolta  from  me,  and  entreat  her 
To  be  our  gentle  hostess.    Mark,  you  add 
How  much  we  grieve,  that  business  of  the  state 
Hath  forced  us  to  delay  her  lord's  return. 

LORD  RUDOLPH  {aside). 
Lewd,  ingrate  tyrant!  Yes,  I  will  announce  thee. 

EMERICK. 

Now  onward  all.  [Exeunt  attsndants 

EMERICK  (solus). 

A  fair  one,  by  my  faith ! 
If  her  face  rival  but  her  gait  and  stature, 
My  good  friend  Casimir  had  his  reasons  too. 
"  Her  tender  health,  her  vow  of  strict  retirement, 
Made  early  in  the  convent — His  word  pledged — " 
All  fictions,  all  !  fictions  of  jealousy. 
Well !  if  the  mountain  move  not  to  the  prophet. 
The  prophet  must  to  the  mountain !  In  this  Laska 
There  's  somewhat  of  the  knave  mix'd  up  with  dolt 
Through  the  transparence  of  the  fool,  methought 
I  saw  (as  I  could  lay  my  finger  on  it) 
The  crocodile's  eye,  that  peer'd  up  from  the  bottom 
This  knave  may  do  us  service.    Hot  ambition 
Won  me  the  husband.    Now  let  vanity 
And  the  resentment  for  a  forced  seclusion 
Decoy  the  wife  !  Let  him  be  deem'd  the  aggressor 
Whose  cunning  and  distrust  began  the  game  ! 

[Exit, 
118 


ZAPOLYA. 


loa 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 
A  savage  wood.     At  one  side  a  cavern,  overhing  with 
ivy.     Zai'OLYA  and    Raab   Kiui'rili    discovered: 
both,  but  especially  the  latter,  in  rude  and  savage 
garments. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Heard  you  then  aught  while  I  was  slumbering  ? 

ZAPOLYA. 

Nothing, 
Only  your  face  became  convulsed.     We  miserable ! 
]s  Heaven's  last  mercy  fled  ?  Is  sleep  grown  treach- 
erous ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

0  for  a  sleep,  for  sleep  itself  to  rest  in ! 

1  dreamt  I  had  met  with  food  beneaih  a  tree, 
And  I  was  seeking  you,  when  all  at  once 
My  feet  became  entangled  in  a  net : 

Still  more  entangled  a.s  in  rage  I  tore  it. 

At  length  I  freed  myself,  had  sight  of  you. 

But  as  I  hasten'd  eagerly,  again 

I  found  my  frame  encumber'd  :  a  huge  serpent 

Twined  round  my  chest,  but  tightest  round  my  throat. 

ZAPOLYA. 

Alas  !  't  was  lack  of  food  .  for  hunger  chokes ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

And  now  I  saw  you  by  a  shrivell'd  child 
Strangely  pursued.     You  did  not  fly,  yet  neither 
Touch'd  you  the  ground  methought,  but  close  above  it 
Did  seem  to  ^shoot  yourself  along  the  air. 
And  as  you  pass'd  me,  turn'd  your  face  and  shriek'd. 

ZAPOLYA. 

I  did  in  truth  send  forth  a  feeble  shriek. 
Scarce  knowing  why.  Perhaps  the  mock'd  sense  craved 
To  hear  the  scream,  which  you  but  seeni'd  to  utter. 
For  your  whole  face  look'd  like  a  mask  of  torture ! 
Yet  a  child's  image  doth  indeed  pursue  me 
Shrivell'd  with  toil  and  penury ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILL 

Nay !  what  ails  you  ? 

ZAPOLYA. 

A  wondrous  faintness  there  comes  stealing  o'er  me. 
Is  it  Death's  lengthening  shadow,  who  comes  onward, 
Life's  setting  sun  behind  him  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILL 

Cheerly !  Tlie  dusk 
Will  quickly  shroud  us.     Ere  the  moon  be  up, 
Trust  me  I'll  bring  thee  food  I 

ZAPOLYA. 

Hunger's  tooth  has 
dnawn  itself  blunt.     O,  F  could  queen  it  well 
O'er  my  own  sorrows  as  my  rightful  subjects. 
But  wherefore,  O  revered  Kiuprili !  wherefore 
Did  my  importimate  prayers,  ray  hopes  and  fancies, 
Force  ihoe  from  thy  secure  though  sad  retreat  ? 
Would  that  my  tongue  had  then  cloven  to  my  mouth ! 
But  Heaven  is  just !  With  tears  I  conquer'd  thee, 
And  not  a  tear  is  left  me  to  repent  with! 
Hadst  thou  not  done  already — hadst  thou  not 
SufTer'd — oh,  more  than  e'er  man  feign'd  of  friend- 
ship ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Yet  be  thou  comforted  I  What  I  hadst  thou  faith 
When  I  turn'd  back  incredulous  ?  'Twas  thy  light 
That  kindled  mine.     And  shall  it  now  go  out, 
And  leave  thy  soul  in  darkness  ?  Yet  look  up, 


And  think  thou  see'st  thy  sainted  lord  commission'd 

And  on  his  way  to  aid  us  I  Whence  those  late  dreams, 

Which  after  such  long  interval  of  hopeless 

And  silent  resignation,  all  at  once 

Night  after  night  conunanded  thy  return 

Hither?  and  still  i)resc'iilcd  in  clear  vision 

This  wood  as  in  a  scene  ?  this  very  cavern  ? 

Thou  darest  not  doubt  that  Heaven's  especial  hand 

Work'd  in  those  signs.   The  hour  of  thy  deliverance 

Is  on  the  stroke  : — for  Misery  cannot  add 

Grief  to  thy  griefs,  or  Patience  to  thy  suflferance ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Cannot !  Oh,  what  if  thou  wert  taken  from  me  ? 
Nay,  thou  saidst  well :  for  that  and  death  were  one. 
Life's  grief  is  at  its  height  indeed ;  the  hard 
Necessity  of  this  inhuman  state 
Has  made  our  deeds  inhuman  as  our  vestments. 
Housed  in  this  wild  wood,  with  wild  usages, 
Danger  our  guest,  and  famine  at  our  portal — 
Wolf-like  to  prowl  in  the  shepherd's  fold  by  night! 
At  once  for  food  and  safety  to  alfrighten 
The  traveller  from  his  road — 

[Glycine  is  heard  singing  without. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Hark !  heard  you  not 
A  distant  chant ! 


SONG,  by  Glycine. 

A  sunny  shaft  did  I  behold, 

From  sky  to  earth  it  slanted  ; 
And  poised  therein  a  bird  so  bold — 

Sweet  bird,  thou  wert  enchanted  ! 

:         He  sunk,  he  rose,  he  twinkled,  he  troll'd 
Within  that  shaft  of  sunny  mist ; 
His  eyes  of  fire,  his  beak  of  gold. 
All  else  of  amethyst ! 

And  thus  he  sang  :  "  Adieu !  adieu ! 
Love's  dreams  prove  seldom  true. 
The  blossoms,  they  make  no  delay : 
The  sparkling  dew-drops  will  not  stay. 
Sweet  month  of  May, 
We  must  away ; 
Far,  far  away ! 
To-day!  to-day!" 

ZAPOLYA. 

Sure  'tis  some  blest  spirit! 
For  since  thou  slewest  the  usurper's  emissary 
That  plunged  upon  us,  a  more  than  mortal  fear 
Is  as  a  wall,  that  wards  ofl^  the  beleaguerer 
And  starves  the  poor  besieged.  [Song  again. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

It  is  a  maiden's  voice !  quick  to  the  cave  ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Hark!  her  voice  falters !  [Exit  Zatol^  a.. 

RAAB  KIUPRILL 

She  must  not  enter 
Tlie  cavern,  else  I  will  remain  unseen ! 

[Kiuprili  retires  to  one  side  of  the  stage :  Glycine 
enters  singing. 

glycine  (fearfnlli/). 
A  savage  place!  saints  sliicM  mc!  Bcthlen  !  Beihlen! 
Not  here  ? — There 's  no  one  here  !  I  '11  sing'  again. 

[Sings  again. 
119 


no 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


If  I  do  not  hear-  my  own  voice,  I  shall  fancy- 
Voices  in  all  chance  sounds !  [Starts. 
'Twas  some  dry  branch 
Dropt  of  itself!  Oh,  he  -went  forth  so  rashly, 
Took  no  food  with  him — only  his  arms  and  boar-spear! 
What  if  I  leave  these  cakes,  this  cruse  of  -wine. 
Here  by  this  cave,  and  seek  him  -with  the  rest  ? 

RAAB  KiuPRiLi  (unseen). 
Leave  them  and  flee ! 

GLYCINE  (_shrieks,  then  recovering). 
Where  are  you  ? 
RAAB  KIUPRILI  (,stU,l  unseen). 

Leave  them ! 

GLYCINE. 

'T is  Glycine! 
Speak  to  me,  Bethlen !  speak  in  your  own  voice ! 
All  silent ! — If  this  were  the  war-wolf's  den ! 
'Twas  not  his  voice  ! — 

[Glycine  leaves  the  provisions,  and  exit  fearfully. 
KiUPRiLi  comes  forward,  seizes  them  and  carries 
them  into  the  cavern.  Glycine  returns,  having 
recovered  herself. 

glycine. 
Shame !  Nothing  hurt  me  ! 
If  some  fierce  beast  have  gored  him,  he  must  needs 
Speak  with  a  strange  voice.    Wounds  cause  thirst 
and  hoarseness ! 

Speak, Bethlen!  or  but  moan.  St^St No— Bethlen! 

If  I  turn  back,  and  he  should  be  found  dead  here, 

[She  creeps  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  cavern. 
I  should  go  mad  ! — Again !  'T  was  my  own  heart '. 
Hush,  coward  heart !  better  beat  loud  with  fear, 
Than  break  with  shame  and  anguish  ! 

[As  she  approaches  to  enter  the  cavern,  KiUPRlLl 
stops  her.     Glycine  i-hrieks. 

Saints  protect  me 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Swear  then  by  all  thy  hopes,  by  all  thy  fears — 

glycine. 
Save  me ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Swear  secrecy  and  silence ! 
glycine. 

I  swear ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILL 

Tell  what  thou  art,  and  what  thou  seekest  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Only 
A  harmless  orphan  youth,  to  bring  him  food — 

RAAB  KIUPRILL 

Wherefore  in  this  wood  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Alas !  it  was  his  purpose — 

RAAB  KIUPRILL 

With  what  intention  came  he  ?  Wouldst  thou  save  him, 
Hide  nothing ! 

GLYCINE. 

Save  him !  O  forgive  his  rashness ! 
He  is  good,  and  did  not  know  that  thou  wert  human ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI  {repeals  the  word). 
Human  ? 

[Then  sternly. 
With  what  design  ? 

GLYCINE. 

To  kill  thee,  or 
f  that  thou  wert  a  spirit,  to  compel  thee 


By  prayers,  and  with  the  shedding  of  his  blood, 
To  make  disclosure  of  his  parentage. 
But  most  of  all — 

ZAPOLYA  {rushing  out  from  the  cavern). 

Heaven's  blessmg  on  thee !  Speak  . 

GLYCINE. 

Whether  his  Mother  live,  or  perish'd  here ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Angel  of  Mercy,  I  was  perishing 
And  thou  didst  bring  me  food  :  and  now  thou  bring'st 
The  sweet,  sweet  food  of  hope  and  consolation 
To   a   mother's  famish'd  heart!    His   name,    sweet 
maiden ! 

GLYCINE. 

E'en  till  this  morning  we  were  -wont  to  name  him 
Bethlen  Bathory ! 

4  ZAPOLYA. 

Even  till  this  morning  ? 
This  morning  ?  when  my  weak  faith  fail'd  me  wholly 
Pardon,  O  thou  that  portion'st  out  our  sufferance, 
And  fill'st  again  the  widow's  empty  cruse ! 
Say  on ! 

GLYCINE. 

The  false  ones  charged  the  valiant  youth 
With  treasonous  words  of  Emerick — 

ZAPOLYA. 

Ha !  my  son ! 

GLYCINE. 

And  of  Lord  Casimir — 

RAAB  KIUPRILI  {aside). 
O  agony !  my  son ! 

GLYCINE. 

But  my  dear  lady — 

ZAPOLYA  and  raab  kiuprill 
Who? 

GLYCINE. 

Lady  Sarolta 
Frown'd  and  discharged  these  bad  men. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI  {turning  off  and  to  himself). 

Righteous  Heaven 
Sent  me  a  daughter  once,  and  I  repined 
That  it  was  not  a  son.     A  son  was  given  me. 
My  daughter  died,  and  I  scarce  shed  a  tear  : 
And  lo !  that  son  became  my  curse  and  infamy. 

ZAPOLYA  {embraces  Glycine). 
Sweet  innocent !  and  you  came  here  to  seek  hinij 
And  bring  him  food.     Alas  !  thou  fear'st  ? 

GLYCINE. 

Not  much 
My  own  dear  lady,  when  I  was  a  child 
Embraced  me  oft,  but  her  heart  never  beat  so. 
For  I  too  am  an  orphan,  motherless ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI  {tO  ZaPOLYA). 

0  yet  beware,  lest  hope's  brief  flash  but  deepen 
The  after  gloom,  and  make  the  darkness  stormy ! 
In  that  last  conflict,  following  our  escape. 
The  usurper's  cruelty  had  clogg'd  our  flight 
With  many  a  babe,  and  many  a  childing  mother. 
This  maid  herself  is  one  of  numberless 
Planks  from  the  same  vast  wreck. 

[Theri  to  Glycine  agau,. 
Well !  Casimir's  wife-  - 

GLYCINE. 

She  is  always  gracious,  and  so  praised  the  old  man 
That  his  heart  o'erflow'd,  and  made  discovery 
That  in  this  wood — 

120 


ZAPOLYA. 


lit 


ZAPOLYA  (in  agitation). 
O  speak ! 

GLYCINE. 

A  wounded  lady — 
[Z\?ot,y A.  faints — they  both  support  her. 

GLYCINE. 

Is  this  his  mother  ? 

RAAB  KlUPRILL 

Slie  would  fain  believe  it, 
Weak  though  the  proofs  be.     Hope  draws  towards 

Itself 
The  flame  with  which  it  kindles. 

[Horn  heard  without. 
To  the  cavern! 
Quick !  quick ! 

GLYCINE. 

Perchance  some  huntsmen  of  the  king's. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Emerick  ? 

GLYCINE. 

He  came  this  morning — 
[They  retire  to  the  cavern,  bearing  Zapolya.    TTien 
alter  Bethlen  armed  with  a  boar-spear. 

BETHLEN. 

I  had  a  glimpse 
Of  some  fierce  shape ;  and  but  that  Fancy  often 
Is  Nature's  intermeddler,  and  cries  halves 
With  the  outward  sight,  I  should  believe  I  saw  it 
Bear  off  some  human  prey.     O  my  preserver ! 
Bathory  !  Father !  Yes,  thou  deservest  that  name  ! 
Thou  didst  not  mock  me !  These  are  blessed  findings ! 
The  secret  cipher  of  my  destiny 

[Looking  at  his  signet. 
Stands  here  inscribed  :  it  is  the  seal  of  fate ! 
Ha  I — {Observing  the  cave).    Had  ever  monster  fitting 

lair,  't  is  yonder ! 
Thou  yawning  Den,  I  well  remember  tliee ! 
Mine  eyes  deceived  me  not.    Heaven  leads  me  on ! 
Now  for  a  blast,  loud  as  a  king's  defiance, 
To  rouse  the  monster  couchant  o'er  his  ravine ! 

[Blows  the  horn — then  a  pause. 
Another  blast !  and  with  another  swell 
To  you,  ye  charmed  watchers  of  this  wood ! 
If  haply  I  have  come,  the  rightful  heir 
Of  vengeance :  if  in  me  survive  the  spirits 
Of  those,  whose  guiltless  blood  flowed  streaming  here ! 
[Blows  again  louder. 
Still  silent?  Is  the  monster  gorged?  Heaven  shield  me  I 
Thou,  faithful  spear!  be  both  my  torch  and  guide. 
[As  Bethlen  is  about  to  enter,  Kiuprili  speaks 
from  the  cavern  unseen. 

RAAB  KlUPRILL 

Withdraw  thy  foot !  Retract  thine  idle  spear, 
And  wait  obedient ! 

BETHLEN  {in  amazement). 

Ha !  What  art  thou  ?  speak ! 
RAAB  KIUPRILI  {still  unseen). 
Avengers ! 

BETHLEN. 

By  a  dying  mother's  pangs. 
E'en  such  am  I.     Receive  me ! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI  {Still  uuseevi). 

Wait !  Beware ! 
At  thy  first  step,  thou  treadest  upon  the  light 
Thenceforth  must  darkling  flow,  and  sink  in  darkness ! 

BETHLEN. 

Ha !  see  my  boar-spear  trembles  like  a  reed  I— 


Oh,  fool !  mine  eyes  are  duped  by  my  own  shudder- 
ing.— 
Those  piled  thoughts,  built  up  in  solitude, 
Year  following  year,  that  press'd  upon  my  heart 
As  on  the  altar  of  some  unluiown  God, 
Then,  as  if  touch'd  by  fire  from  heaven  descending. 
Blazed  up  within  me  at  a  father's  name — 
Do  they  desert  me  now ! — at  my  last  trial  ? 
Voice  of  command  !  and  thou,  O  hidden  Light ! 
I  have  obey'd  !  Declare  ye  by  what  name 
I  dare  invoke  you !  Tell  what  sacrifice 
Will  make  you  gracious. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI  {still  unseen). 

Patience !  Truth !  Obedience  , 
Be  thy  whole  soul  transparent !  so  the  Light 
Thou  seekest  may  enshrine  itself  within  thee ! 
Thy  name  ? 

BETHLEN. 

Ask  rather  the  poor  roaming  savage, 
WTiose  infancy  no  holy  rite  had  blest. 
To  him,  perchance  rude  spoil  or  ghastly  trophy, 
In  chase  or  battle  won,  have  given  a  name. 
I  have  none — but  like  a  dog  have  answer'd 
To  the  chance  sound  which  he  that  fed  me  call'd  me. 

RAAB  KIUPRILI  {Still  uuseen). 
Thy  birth-place  ? 

BETHLEN. 

Deluding  spirits,  do  ye  mock  me  ? 
Question  the  Night!  Bid  Darkness  tell  its  birth-place? 
Yet  hear!  Within  yon  old  oak's  hollow  trunk. 
Where  the  bats  cling,  have  I  survey'd  my  cradle! 
The  mother-falcon  hath  her  nest  above  it. 

And  in  it  the  wolf  liltei-s  I 1  invoke  you. 

Tell  me,  ye  secret  ones !  if  ye  beheld  me 
As  I  stood  there,  like  one  who  having  delved 
For  hidden  gold  hath  found  a  talisman, 
O  tell !  what  rites,  what  offices  of  duty 
This  cygnet  doth  command  ?  What  rebel  spirits 
Owe  homage  to  its  Lord  ? 

RAAB  KIUPRILI  {still  unseen). 

More,  guiltier,  mightier. 
Than  thou  mayest  summon!  Wait  the  destined  hour! 

BETHLE.N. 

0  yet  again,  and  with  more  clamorous  prayer, 

1  importune  ye  !  Mock  me  no  more  with  shadows ! 
This  sable  mantle — tell,  dread  voice !  did  this 
Enwrap  one  fatherless  ? 

ZAPOLYA  {unseen). 

One  fatherless ! 
BETHLEN  {Starting). 
A  sweeter  voice ! — A  voice  of  love  and  pity  I 
Was  it  the  soften'd  echo  of  mine  own  ? 
Sad  echo !  but  the  hope  it  kill'd  was  sickly. 
And  ere  it  died  it  had  been  mourn'd  as  dead ' 
One  other  hope  yet  lives  within  my  soul  ; 
Quick  let  me  ask  I — while  yet  this  stifling  fear, 
Tliis  stop  of  the  heart,  leaves  utterance ! — Arc — are 

these 
The  sole  remains  of  her  that  gave  me  life  ? 
Have  I  a  mother? 

[Zapolya  rushes  out  to  embrace  him.  Bethlen  stam 
Ha! 
ZAPOLYA  {emhraang  him). 

My  son  !  my  son ! 
A  wretched— Oh  no,  no !  a  blest — a  happy  mother. 
[They  embrace.  Kiuprili  and  Glycine  came  forvoati 
and  the  curtain  drops. 

121 


112 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


ACT  IIL 

SCENE  I. 

A  stately  Room  in  Lord  Casimir's  Casde. 

Enter  Emerick  and  Laska. 

EMERICK. 

I  do  perceive  thou  hast  a  tender  conscience, 
Laska,  in  all  things  that  concern  thine  own 
Interest  or  safety. 

LASKA. 

In  tliis  sovereign  presence 
I  can  fear  notliing,  but  your  dread  displeasure. 

EMERICK. 

Perchance,  thou  think'st  it  strange,  that  I  of  all  men 
Should  covet  thus  the  love  of  fair  Soralta, 
Dishonoring  Casimir  ? 

LASKA. 

Far  be  it  from  me ! 
Your  Majesty's  love  and  choice  bring  honor  with  them. 

EMERICK. 

Perchance,  thou  hast  heard,  that  Casimir  is  my  fnend. 
Fought  for  me,  yea,  for  my  sake,  set  at  nought 
A  parent's  blessing ;  braved  a  father's  curse  ? 

LASKA  (aside). 
Would  I  but  knew  now,  what  his  Majesty  meant ! 
Oh  yes,  Sire !  't  is  our  common  talk,  how  Lord 
Kiuprili,  my  Lord's  father — 

EMERICK. 

'Tis  your  talk, 
Is  it,  good  statesman  Laska  ? 

LASKA. 

No,  not  mine. 
Not  mine,  an  please  your  Majesty !  There  are 
Some  insolent  malcontents  indeed  that  talk  thus — 
Nay  worse,  mere  treason.     As  Bathory's  son, 
The  fool  that  ran  into  the  monster's  jaws. 

EMERICK. 

Well,  'tis  a  loyal  monster  if  he  rids  us 

Of  traitors !  But  art  sure  the  youth 's  devoured  ? 

LASKA. 

Not  a  limb  left,  an  please  your  Majesty ! 
And  that  unhappy  girl — 

EMERICK. 

Thou  followed'st  her 
Into  the  wood  ?  [Laska  bows  assent 

Henceforth  then  I  '11  believe 
That  jealousy  can  make  a  hare  a  lion. 

LASKA. 

Scarce  had  I  got  the  first  glimpse  of  her  veil. 
When,  with  a  horrid  roar  that  made  the  leaves 
Of  the  wood  shake — 

EMERICK. 

Made  thee  shake  like  a  leaf! 

LASKA. 

The  war- wolf  leapt;  at  the  first  plunge  he  seized  her; 
Forward  I  rush'd  I 

EMERICK. 

Most  marvellous ! 

LASKA. 

Hurl'd  my  javelin ; 
Which  from  his  dragon-scales  recoiUng — 

EMERICK. 

Enough ! 
And  take,   friend,   this  advice.     When  nest   thou 
tonguest  it, 


Hold  constant  to  thy  exploit  with  this  monster, 
And  leave  untouch'd  your  common  talk  aforesaid. 
What  your  Lord  did,  or  should  have  done. 

LASKA. 

My  talk 
The  saints  forbid !  I  always  said,  for  my  part, 
"Was  not  the  king  Lord  Casimir's  dearest  friend  ? 
Was  not  tltat  friend  a  king  ?   Whate'er  he  did 
'Tuxis  ail  from  pure  love  to  his  Majesty." 

EMERICK. 

And  this  then  was  thy  talk?  While  knave  and  coward. 

Both  strong  within  thee,  wrestle  for  the  uppermost, 

In  slips  the  fool  and  takes  the  place  of  both. 

Babbler !  Lord  Casimir  did,  as  thou  and  all  men. 

He  loved  himself,  loved  honors,  wealth,  dominion. 

All  these  were  set  upon  a  father's  head : 

Good  truth !  a  most  unlucky  accident ! 

For  he  but  wish'd  to  hit  the  prize ;  not  graze 

The  head  that  bore  it :  so  with  steady  eye 

Off  flew  the  parricidal  arrow. — Even 

As  Casimir  loved  Emerick,  Emerick 

Loves  Casimir,  intends  him  no  dishonor. 

He  wink'd  not  then,  for  love  of  me  forsooth ! 

For  love  of  me  now  let  him  wink !  Or  if 

The  dame  prove  half  as  wise  as  she  is  fair. 

He  may  still  pass  his  hand,  and  find  all  smooth. 

[Passing  his  hand  across  his  brow 

LASKA. 

Your  Majesty's  reasoning  has  convinced  me. 

EMERICK  (with  a  slight  start,  as  one  who  had  been 
talking  aloud  to  himself:  then  with  scorn). 

Thee ! 
'Tis  well !  and  more  than  meant.  For  by  my  faith 
I  had  half  forgotten  thee. — Thou  hast  the  key  ? 

[Laska  bows. 
And  in  your  lady's  chamber  there 's  full  space  ? 

laska. 
Between  the  wall  and  arras  to  conceal  you. 

emerick. 
Here !  This  purse  is  but  an  earnest  of  thy  fortune. 
If  thou  provest  faithful.     But  if  thou  betrayest  me. 
Hark  you ! — the  wolf  that  shall  drag  fliee  to  his  den 
Shall  be  no  fiction. 

[Exit  Emerick.   Laska  Tnanet  with  a  key  in  one 
hand,  and  a  purse  in  the  other. 

laska. 
Well  then!  Here  I  stand, 
Like  Hercules,  on  either  side  a  goddess. 
Call  this  [Looking  at  the  purse 

Preferment ;  this  (Holding  up  the  key),  Fidelity ! 
And  firef  my  golden  goddess  :  what  bids  she  ? 
Only : — ''This  uny,  your  Majesty .'  hush.     The  house 

hold 
Are  all  safe  lodged." — Then,  put  Fidelity 
Within  her  proper  wards,  just  turn  her  round — 
So — the  door  opens — and  for  all  the  rest,  "^ 

'Tis  the  king's  deed,  not  Laska's.     Do  but  this. 
And — "I'm  the  mere  earnest  of  your  future  fortunes." 
But  what  says  the  other  ? — Whisper  on  !  I  hear  you ! 
[Putting  the  key  to  his  ear 
All  very  true! — but,  good  Fidelity! 
If  I  refuse  king  Emerick,  ^viIl  you  promise. 
And  swear,  now,  to  unlock  the  dungeon-door. 
And  save  mc  from  the  hangman?  Ay!  you're  silent' 
What !  not  a  word  in  answer  ?  A  clear  nonsuit ! 
Now  for  one  look  to  see  that  all  are  lodged 

122 


ZAPOLYA. 


113 


At  the  due  distance — then — yonder  lies  the  road 
For  Laska  and  his  royal  friend  king  Emerick ! 

[£.1(7  Laska.    Then  enter  Batiioiiy  and  Betiilen. 

BETH  LEX. 

lie  look'd  as  if  he  were  some  God  disguised 
In  an  old  warrior's  venerable  shapo. 
To  guard  and  guide  my  mother.     Is  there  not 
Chapel  or  oratorj'  in  this  mansion  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Even  so. 

BETIILEM. 

From  that  place  then  am  I  to  take 
A  helm  and  breastplate,  botli  inlaid  with  gold, 
And  the  good  sword  that  once  was  Raab  Kiuprili's. 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Tliose  very  arms  this  day  Sarolta  show'd  me — 
With  wistful  look.     I'm  lost  in  wild  conjectures! 

BETHLEN. 

0  tempt  me  not,  e'en  with  a  wandering  guess, 
To  break  the  first  command  a  mother's  will 
Imposed,  a  mother's  voice  made  known  to  me ! 
"Ask  not,  my  son,"  said  she,  "  our  names  or  thine. 
The  shadow  of  the  eclipse  is  passing  off 

The  full  orb  of  thy  destiny  !  Already 
Tlie  victor  Crescent  glitters  forth,  and  sheds 
O'er  the  yet  lingering  haze  a  phantom  light. 
Thou  canst  not  hasten  it!  Leave  then  to  Heaven 
The  work  of  Heaven :  and  with  a  silent  spirit 
SymjMtluze  ivith  the  powers  that  work  in  silence!" 
Thus  spake  she,  and  she  look'd  as  she  were  then 
Fresh  from  some  heavenly  vision ! 

[Re-enter  Laska,  not  perceiving  them. 

LASKA. 

All  asleep ! 
[Then  observing  Bethlen,  stands  in  idiot-affright. 

1  must  speak  to  it  first — Put — put  the  question  ! 

I'll  confess  all !  [Stammering  with  fear. 

old  BATHORY. 

Laska !  what  ails  thee,  man  ? 
LASKA  {pointing  to  Bethlen). 


There! 


OLD  BATHORY. 

I  see  nothing !  where  ? 


Bethlen,  torment  me  not ! 


He  does  not  see  it ! 


BETHLEM. 

Soft !  Rouse  him  gently ! 
He  hath  outwatch'd  his  hour,  and  half  asleep. 
With  eyes  half  open,  mingles  sight  with  dreams. 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Ho!  Laska!  Don't  you  know  us!  'tis  Bathory 
And  Bethlen ! 

I.ASKA  {recovering  himself). 

Good  now !  Ha !  ha !  an  excellent  trick. 
Afraid !  Nay,  no  offence ;  but  I  must  laugh. 
But  are  you  sure  now,  that  'tis  you,  yourself 

BETHLEN  {holding  vp  his  hand  as  if  to  strike  him). 
Wouldst  bo  convinced  ? 

LASKA. 

No  nearer,  pray!  consider! 
If  it  should  prove  his  ghost,  the  touch  would  freeze  me 
To  a  tomb-stone.    No  nearer  ? 


The  fool  is  dnink ! 


LASKA  {still  more  recovering). 
Well  now !  I  love  a  brave  man  to  my  heart 
I  myself  braved  the  monster,  and  would  fain 
Have  saved  the  false  one  from  the  fate  she  tempted 

OLD  BATHORY. 

You,  Laska  ? 

BETHLEN  {tO  BaTHORY). 

Mark !  Heaven  grant  it  may  be  so ! 
Glycine  ? 

LASKA. 

She !  I  traced  her  by  the  voice. 
You'll  scarce  believe  me,  when  I  say  I  heard 
The  close  of  a  song :  the  poor  wretch  had  been 

singing; 
As  if  she  wish'd  to  compliment  the  war-wolf 
At  once  with  music  and  a  meal ! 

BETHLEN  {tO  BaTHORY). 

Mark  that ! 

LASKA. 

At  the  next  moment  I  beheld  her  running. 
Wringing  her  hands  with,  Bet/den  !  O  poor  Bethlen  ! 
I  almost  fear,  the  sudden  noise  I  made, 
Rushing  impetuous  through  the  brake,  alarm'd  her. 
She  stopt,  then  mad  with  fear,  turn'd  round  and  ran 
Into  the  monster's  gripe.     One  piteous  scream 
I  heard.     There  was  no  second — I — 

BETHLEN. 

Stop  there ! 
We  '11  spare  your  modesty !  Who  dares  not  honor 
Laska's  brave  tongue,  and  high  heroic  fancy  ? 

LASKA. 

You  too.  Sir  Knight,  have  come  back  safe  and  sound. 
You  play'd  the  hero  at  a  cautious  distance  ! 
Or  was  it  that  you  sent  the  poor  girl  forward 
To  slay  the  monster's  stomach  ?  Dainties  quickly 
Pall  on  the  taste  and  cloy  tlie  appetite ! 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Laska,  beware !  Forget  not  what  thou  art ! 
Shouldst  thou  but  dream  thou  'rt  valiant,  cross  thyselfT 
And  ache  all  over  at  the  dangerous  fancy ! 

LASKA. 

What  then !  you  swell  upon  my  lady's  favor. 

High  lords,  and  perilous  of  one  day's  growth ' 

But  other  judges  now  sit  on  the  bench  ! 

And  haply,  Laska  hath  found  audience  there. 

Where  to  defend  the  treason  of  a  son 

Might  end  in  lifting  up  lx)th  Son  and  Father 

Still  higher ;  to  a  height  from  which  indeed 

You  both  Tnay  drop,  but,  spite  of  fate  and  fortune, 

Will  be  secured  from  falling  to  the  ground. 

'T  is  possible  too,  young  man !  that  royal  Emerick 

At  Laska's  rightful  suit,  may  make  inquiry 

By  wliom  seduced,  the  maid  so  strangely  missing — 

BETHLEN. 

Soft !  my  good  Laska !  might  it  not  suffice, 
If  to  yourself,  being  Lord  Ca.simir's  steward, 
I  should  make  record  of  Glycine's  fate? 

LASKA. 

'T  is  well !  it  shall  content  me  !  though  your  fear 
lias  all  the  credit  of  these  lower'd  tones. 

[77(67*  very  pompously 
First,  we  demand  the  manner  of  her  death  ? 

BETHLEN. 

Nay!  that's  superfluous!  Have  you  not  just  told  nn 
That  you  yourself,  led  by  impetuous  valor, 
Witness'd  the  whole  ?  My  tale 's  of  later  date. 
123 


114 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


After  the  fate,  from  which  your  valor  strove 
In  vain  to  rescue  the  rash  maid,  I  saw  her! 

LASKA. 

Glycine  ? 

BETHLEN. 

Nay !  Dare  I  accuse  wise  Laska, 
Whose  words  find  access  to  a  monarch's  ear, 
Of  a  base,  braggart  lie  1  It  must  have  been 
Her  spirit  that  appear'd  to  me.     But  haply 
I  come  too  late  ?  It  has  itself  deliver'd 
Its  own  commission  to  you? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

'T  is  most  likely ! 
And  the  ghost  doubtless  vanish'd,  when  we  enter'd 
And  found  brave  Laska  staring  wide — at  nothing! 

LASKA. 

'Tis  well!  You've  ready  wits!  I  shall  report  them. 
With  all  due  honor,  to  his  Majesty ! 
Treasure  them  up,  I  pray !  a  certain  person. 
Whom  the  king  flatters  with  his  confidence, 
Tells  you,  his  royal  friend  asks  startling  questions ! 
'Tis  but  a  liint!  And  now  what  says  the  ghost? 

BETHLEN. 

Listen !  for  thus  it  spake :  "Say  Ihou  to  Laska, 
Glycine,  knowing  all  thy  thoughts  engrossed 
In  thy  new  office  of  king's  fool  and  knave. 
Foreseeing  thou'U  forget  with  thine  own  hand 
I'o  make  due  penance  for  the  wrongs  ihou  'st  caused  her. 
For  thy  soul's  safety,  doth  consent  to  take  it 
From  Bethlen's  cudgel" — thus.  [Beats  him  off. 

Off!  scoundrel!  off! 
[Laska  runs  away. 

OLD  BATHORY. 

The  sudden  swelling  of  this  shallow  dastard 
Tells  of  a  recent  storm :  the  first  disruption 
Of  the  black  cloud  that  hangs  and  threatens  o'er  us. 

BETHLEN. 

E'en  this  reproves  my  loitering.     Say  where  lies 
The  oratory  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Ascend  yon  flight  of  stairs ! 
Midway  the  corridor  a  silver  lamp 
Hangs  o'er  the  entrance  of  Sarolta's  chamber, 
And  facing  it,  the  low-arch'd  oratory ! 
Me  thou  'It  find  watching  at  the  outward  gate  : 
For  a  petard  might  burst  the  bars,  unheard 
By  the  drenched  porter,  and  Sarolta  hourly 
Expects  Lord  Casirair,  spite  of  Emerick's  message  I 

BETHLEN. 

There  I  will  meet  you !  And  till  then  good  night ! 
Dear  good  old  man,  good  night ! 

OLD  BATHORY. 

O  yet  one  moment ! 
What  I  repell'd,  when  it  did  seem  my  own, 
r  cling  to,  now  'tis  parting — call  me  father! 
It  can  not  now  mislead  thee.     0  my  son, 
Ere  yet  our  tongues  have  learnt  another  name, 
Bethlen ! — say — Father  to  me ! 

BETHLEN. 

Now,  and  for  ever' 
My  father !  other  sire  than  thou,  on  earth 
I  never  had,  a  dearer  could  not  have ! 
From  the  base  earth  you  raised  me  to  your  arms. 
And  I  would  leap  from  off  a  throne,  and  kneeling, 
Ask  Heaven's  blessing  from  thy  lips.    My  father! 


BATHORY. 

Go !  Go ! 

[Bethlen  breaks  off  and  exit.     Bathory  looks 
affectionately  after  him. 
May  every  star  now  shining  over  us, 
Be  as  an  angel's  eye,  to  watch  and  guard  him . 

[Exit  Bathory 

Scene  changes  to  a  splendid  Bed-Chamber,  hung 
with  tapestry.  Sarolta  iri  an  elegant  Night 
Dress,  and  an  Attendant. 

attendant. 
We  all  did  love  her.  Madam ! 

sarolta. 

She  deserved  it ! 
Luckless  Glycine !  rash,  unhappy  girl ! 
'T  was  the  first  time  she  e'er  deceived  me. 

attendant. 
She  was  in  love,  and  had  she  not  died  thus. 
With  grief  for  Bethlen's  loss,  and  fear  of  Laska, 
She  would  have  pined  herself  to  death  at  home. 

SAROLTA. 

Has  the  youth's  father  come  back  from  his  search  ? 

attendant. 
He  never  will,  I  fear  me,  O  dear  lady ! 
That  Laska  did  so  triumph  o'er  the  old  man — 
It  was  quite  cruel — "You'll  be  sure,"  said  he, 
"To  meet  with  part  at  least  of  your  son  Bethlen, 
Or  the  war-wolf  must  have  a  quick  digestion .' 
Go!  Search  the  wood  by  all  means!  Go!  I  pray  you!' 

sarolta. 
Inhuman  wretch ! 

attendant. 
And  old  Bathory  answer'd 
With  a  sad  smile,  "It  is  a  witch's  prayer, 
And  may  Heaven  read  it  backwards."    Though  she 

was  rash, 
'T  was  a  small  fault  for  such  a  pimishment ! 

sarolta. 
Nay !  'twas  my  grief,  and  not  my  anger  spoke. 
Small  fault  indeed !  but  leave  me,  my  good  girl ! 
I  feel  a  weight  that  only  prayer  can  lighten. 

[Exit  Attendant, 
O  they  were  innocent,  and  yet  have  perish'd 
In  their  May  of  life ;  and  Vice  grows  old  in  triumph 
Is  it  Mercy's  hand,  that  for  the  bad  man  holds 

Life's  closing  gate  ? 

Still  passing  thence  petitionary  hours 
To  woo  the  obdurate  spirit  to  repentance  ? 
Or  would  this  chillness  tell  me,  that  there  ia 
Guilt  too  enormous  to  be  duly  punish'd. 
Save  by  increase  of  guilt  ?  The  Powers  of  Evil 
Are  jealous  claimants.     Guilt  too  hath  its  ordeal, 
And  Hell  its  own  probation  ! — Merciful  Heaven, 
Rather  than  this,  pour  down  upon  thy  supphant 
Disease,  and  agony,  and  comfortless  want ! 
O  send  us  forth  to  wander  on,  unshelter'd  ! 
Make  our  food  bitter  with  despised  tears ! 
Let  viperous  scorn  hiss  at  us  as  we  pass ! 
Yea,  let  us  sink  down  at  our  enemy's  gate, 
And  beg  forgiveness  and  a  morsel  of  bread ! 
With  all  the  heaviest  worldly  visitations. 
Let  the  dire  father's  curse  that  hovers  o'er  us 
Work  out  its  dread  fulfilment,  and  the  spirit 
Of  wrong'd  Kiuprili  be  appeased.     But  only. 
Only,  0  merciful  in  vengeance !  let  not 

124 


ZAPOLYA. 


115 


That  plague  turn  inward  on  my  Casimir's  soul ! 
Scare  thence  the  fiend  Ambition,  and  restore  him 
To  his  own  heart  I  O  save  him  I  Save  my  husband ! 
[During  the  latter  part  of  this  speech,  Emerick 
comes  forward  from  his  hiding-place.  Sarolta 
seeing  him,  without  recognizing  him. 
In  such  a  shape  a  father's  curse  should  come. 

EMERICK  (advancing). 
Fear  not ! 

SAROLTA. 

Who  art  thou  ?  Robber !  Traitor ! 

EMERICK. 

Friend ! 
Who  in  good  hour  hath  startled  these  dark  fancies, 
Rapacious  traitors,  that  would  fain  depose 
Joy,  love,  and  beauty,  from  their  natural  thrones : 
Those  lips,  those  angel  eyes,  that  regal  forehead. 

SAROLTA. 

Strengthen  me,  Heaven !  I  must  not  seem  afraid ! 

[Aside. 
The  king  to-night  then  deigns  to  play  the  masker. 
What  seeks  your  Majesty  ? 

EMERICK. 

Sarolta's  love ; 
And  Emerick's  power  lies  prostrate  at  her  feet 

SAROLTA. 

Heaven  guard  the  sovereign's  power  from  such  de- 
basement ! 
Far  rather.  Sire,  let  it  descend  in  vengeance 
On  the  base  ingrate,  on  the  faithless  slave 
Who  dared  unbar  the  doors  of  these  retirements ! 
For  whom?  Has  Casimir  deserved  this  insult? 
O  my  misgiving  heart !  If-— if— from  Heaven 
Yet  not  from  you.  Lord  Emerick ! 

EMERICK. 

Chiefly  from  me. 
Has  he  not  like  an  ingrate  robb'd  my  court 
Of  Beauty's  star,  and  kept  my  heart  in  darkness ! 
First  then  on  him  I  will  administer  justice — 
If  not  in  mercy,  yet  in  love  and  rapture.  [Seizes  her. 

SAROLTA. 

Help  !  Treason !  Help ! 

EMERICK. 

Call  louder !  Scream  again ! 
Here 's  none  can  hear  you ! 

SAROLTA. 

Hear  me,  hear  me.  Heaven ! 

EMERICK. 

Nay,  why  this  rage  ?  Who  best  deserves  you  ?  Casimir, 
Etnerick's  bought  implement,  the  jealous  slave 
That  mews  you  up  with  bolts  and  bars  ?  or  Emerick, 
Who  proffers  you  a  throne  ?  Nay,  mine  you  shall  be. 
Honce  with  this  fond  resistance  !  Yield  ;  then  live 
This  month  a  widow,  and  the  next  a  queen ! 

SAROLTA. 

Yet,  for  one  brief  moment 
Unhand  me,  I  conjure  you. 

[She  throws  him  off,  and  rushes  towards  a  toilet. 

Emerick  follows,  and  as  she  takes  a  dagger, 

he  grasjis  it  in  her  hand. 

ESIERICK. 

Ha !  ha !  a  dagger ; 
A  seemly  ornament  for  a  lady's  casket ! 
'Tie  held,  devotion  is  akin  to  love, 


[Struggling 


But  yours  is  tragic !  Love  in  war !  It  charms  me, 
And  makes  your  beauty  worth  a  king's  embraces  ! 

(Durii}g  this  speech,  Bethle.v  eiilers  armed). 

BETHLEN. 

Ruffian,  forbear !  Turn,  turn  and  front  my  sword  ! 

EMERICK 

Pish  !  who  is  this  ?  'j 

SAROLTA.  , 

O  sleepless  eye  of  Heaven ! 
A  blest,  a  blessed  spirit !  Whence  camest  thou  I 
May  I  still  call  thee  Bethlen  ? 

BETHLEN. 

Ever,  lady, 
Your  faithful  soldier! 

EMERICK. 

Insolent  slave !  Depart ! 
Know'st  thou  not  me  ? 

BETHLEX. 

I  know  thou  art  a  villain 
And  coward  !  That,  thy  devilish  purpose  marks  thee  ! 
What  else,  this  lady  must  instruct  my  sword ! 

SAROLTA. 

Monster,  retire !  O  touch  him  not,  thou  blest  one ! 
This  is  the  hour,  that  fiends  and  damned  spirits 
Do  walk  the  earth,  and  take  what  form  they  list! 
Yon  devil  hath  assumed  a  king's ! 

BETHLEN. 

Usurp'd  it ! 

EMERICK. 

The  king  will  play  the  devil  with  thee  indeed  ! 
But  that  I  mean  to  hear  thee  howl  on  the  rack, 
I  would  debase  this  sword,  and  lay  thee  prostrate. 
At  this  thy  paramour's  feet ;  then  drag  her  forth 
Stain'd  with  adulterous  blood,  and  [Then  to  Sarolta 
— Mark  you,  traitress ! 
Strumpeted  first,  then  turn'd  adrift  to  beggary ! 
Thou  prayed'st  for't  too. 

SAROLTA. 

Thou  art  so  fiendish  wicked. 
That  in  thy  blasphemies  I  scarce  hear  thy  threats. 

BETHLEN 

Lady,  be  calm !  fear  not  this  king  of  the  buskin ! 
A  king  ?  Oh  laughter !  A  king  Bajazet ! 
That  from  some  vagrant  actor's  tyring-room. 
Hath  stolen  at  once  his  speech  and  crown ! 

EMERICK. 

Ah !  treason ! 
Thou  hast  been  lesson'd  and  trick'd  up  for  this ! 
As  surely  as  the  wax  on  thy  death-warrant 
Shall  take  the  impression  of  this  royal  signet. 
So  plain  thy  face  hath  ta'en  the  mask  of  rebel ! 
[Emerick  points  his  hand  haughtily  towards  Beth- 
len, who  catching  a  sight  of  the  signet,  seizes 
his  hand  and  eagerly  observes  the  signet,  then 
flings  the  hand  back  with  indignant  joy. 

BETHLEN. 

It  must  be  so !  'T  is  e'en  the  counterpart ! 

But  with  a  foul  usurping  cipher  on  it! 

The  light  hath   flash'd    from  Heaven,  and  I  must 

follow  it ! 
O  curst  usurper !  O  thou  brother-murderer ! 
That  madest  a  star-bright  qticen  a  fugitive  widow  I 
Who  fill'st  the  land  with  curses,  being  thyself 
All  curses  in  one  tyrant!  see  and  tremble  ! 
This  is  Kiuprili's  sword  that  now  hangs  o'er  thee! 
Kiuprili's  blasting  curse,  that  from  its  point 
17  125 


116 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Shoots  lightnings  at  ihee  !  Hark  !  in  Andreas'  name, 
Heir  of  his  vengeance !  hell-hound !  I  defy  thee. 
[They  fighl,  and  just  as  Emerick  is  disarmed,  in 

rush  Casimir,  Old  Bathory,  and  attendants. 

Casimir  runs  in  between  the  combatants,  and 

parts  them :  in  the  struggle  Bethlen's  svomd 

is  thrown  down. 

CASIMIR. 

The  king  disarm'd  too  by  a  stranger !  Speak ! 
What  may  this  mean  ? 

EMERICK. 

Deceived,  dishonor'd  lord ! 
Ask  thou  yon  fair  adultress !  She  will  tell  thee 
A  tale,  which  wouldst  thou  be  both  dupe  and  traitor. 
Thou  wilt  believe  against  thy  friend  and  sovereign  ! 
Thou  art  present  now,  and  a  friend's  duty  ceases : 
To  thine  own  justice  leave  I  thine  own  wrongs. 
Of  half  thy  vengeance,  I  perforce  must  rob  thee. 
For  that  the  sovereign  claims.     To  thy  allegiance 
I  now  commit  this  traitor  and  assassin. 

[Then  to  the  Attendants. 
Hence  with  him  to  the  dungeon !  and  to-morrow, 
Ere  the  sun  rises, — hark  !  your  heads  or  his ! 

BETHLEN. 

Can  Hell  work  miracles  to  mock  Heaven's  justice? 

EMERICK. 

Who  speaks  to  him  dies !  The  traitor  that  has  menaced 
His  king,  must  not  pollute  the  breathing  air, 
Even  with  a  word  ! 

CASIMIR  {to  Bathory). 

Hence  with  him  to  the  dungeon ! 
[Exit  Bethlen,  hurried  off  by  Bathory  and 
Attendants. 

EMERICK. 

We  hunt  to-morrow  in  your  upland  forest : 

Thou  (to  Casimir)  wilt  attend  us:    and  wilt  then 

explain 
This  sudden  and  most  fortunate  arrival. 

[Exit  Emerick  ;  manent  Casimir  and  Sarolta. 

SAROLTA. 

My  lord!  my  husband!  look  whose  sword  lies  yonder! 
[Pointing  to  the  sword  which  Bethlen  had  been 
disarmed  of  by  the  Attendants. 
It  is  Kiuprili's;  Casimir,  'tis  thy  father's! 
And  wielded  by  a  stripling's  arm,  it  baffled. 
Yea,  fell  like  Heaven's  own  lightnings  on  that  Tar- 
quin. 

casimir. 
Hush !  hush !  [In  an  under  voice. 

I  had  detected  ere  I  left  the  city 
The  tyrant's  curst  intent.     Lewd,  damn'd  ingrate ! 
For  him  did  I  bring  down  a  father's  curse  ! 
Swift,  swift  must  be  our  means !  To-morrow's  sun 
Sets  on  his  fate  or  mine !  O  blest  Sarolta ! 

[Embracing  her. 
No  other  prayer,  late  penitent,  dare  I  offer, 
'But  that  thy  spotless  virtues  may  prevail 
•O'er  Casimir's  crimes  and  dread  Kiuprili's  curse! 

[Exeunt  consulting. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 

A  Glade  in  a  Wood. 

'Enter  Casimir,  looking  anxiously  around. 

CASIMIR. 

'  This  needs  must  be  the  spot !  O,  here  he  comes  I 


Enter  Lord  Rudolph. 

Well  met,  Lord  Rudolph ! 

Your  whisper  was  not  lost  upon  my  ear, 
And  I  dare  trust — 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

Enough !  the  time  is  precious ! 
You  left  Temeswar  late  on  yester-eve  ? 
And  sojourn'd  there  some  hours  ? 

CASIMIR. 

I  did  so ! 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

Heard  you 
Aught  of  a  hunt  preparing  ? 

CASIMIR. 

Yes ;  and  met 
The  assembled  huntsmen ! 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

Was  there  no  word  given? 

CASIMIR. 

The  word  for  me  was  this ; — The  royal  Leopard 
Chases  thy  milk-white  dedicated  Hind. 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

Your  answer  ? 

CASIMIR. 

As  the  word  proves  false  or  true. 
Will  Casimir  cross  the  hunt,  or  join  the  huntsmen ! 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

The  event  redeem'd  their  pledge  ? 

CASIMIR. 

It  did,  and  therefore 
Have  I  sent  back  both  pledge  and  invitation. 
The  spotless  Hind  hath  fled  to  them  for  shelter, 
And  bears  with  her  my  seal  of  fellowship ! 

[They  take  hands,  etc. 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

But  Emerick !  how  when  you  reported  to  him 
Sarolta's  disappearance,  and  the  flight 
Of  Bethlen  with  liis  guards  ? 

CASIMIR. 

O  he  received  it 
As  evidence  of  their  mutual  guilt :  in  fine. 
With  cozening  warmth  condoled  with,  and  dismiss'd 
me. 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

I  enter'd  as  the  door  was  closing  on  you  : 

His  eye  was  fix'd,  yet  seem'd  to  follow  you. 

With  such  a  look  of  hate,  and  scorn  and  triumph, 

As  if  he  had  you  in  the  toils  already, 

And  were  tlien  choosing  where  to  stab  you  fu"st. 

But  hush !  draw  back  ! 

CASIMIR. 

This  nook  is  at  the  farthest 
From  any  beaten  track. 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

There  !  mark  them ! 
[Points  to  where  Laska  and  Pestalutz  crosi 
the  Stage. 

CASIMIR. 

Laska 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

One  of  the  two  I  recognized  this  morning ; 
His  name  is  Pestalutz:  a  trusty  ruffian, 
Whose  face  is  prologue  still  to  some  dark  muroei 
Beware  no  stratagem,  no  trick  of  message, 
Dispart  you  from  your  servants. 

CASIMIR  {aside). 

I  deserve  it. 
126 


ZAPOLYA. 


117 


The  comrade  of  that  ruffian  is  my  servant ; 
The  cue  I  trusted  most  and  most  preferr'd. 
But  we  must  part.     What  makes  tlie  king  so  late  ? 
It  was  his  wont  to  be  an  early  stirrer. 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

And  his  main  policy 
To  enthral  the  sluggard  nature  in  ourselves 
Is,  in  good  truth,  the  better  half  of  the  secret 
To  enthral  the  world  :  for  the  will  governs  all. 
See,  the  sky  lowers !  the  cross-winds  waywardly 
Chase  the  fantastic  masses  of  the  clouds 
With  a  wild  mockery  of  the  coming  hunt ! 

CASIMIR. 

Mark  yonder  mass !  I  make  it  wear  the  shape 
Of  a  huge  ram  that  butts  with  head  depress'd. 

LORD  RUDOLPH  (smiling). 
Belike,  some  stray  sheep  of  the  oozy  flock, 
Which,  if  bards  lie  not,  the  Sea-shepherds  tend, 
Glaucus  or  Proteus.     But  my  fancy  shapes  it 
A  monster  couchant  on  a  rocky  shelf. 

CASIMIR. 

Mark  too  the  edges  of  the  lurid  mass — 
Restless,  as  if  some  idly-vexing  Sprite, 
On  swift  wing  coasting  by,  with  techy  hand 
Pluck'd  at  the  ringlets  of  the  vaporous  Fleece. 
These  are  sure  signs  of  conflict  nigh  at  hand, 
And  elemental  w  ar ! 

[A  single  Trumpet  heard  at  a  distance. 

LORD  RUDOLPH. 

That  single  blast 
Announces  that  the  tyrant's  pawing  courser 
Neighs  at  the  gate  [A  volley  of  Trumpets. 

Hark !  now  the  king  comes  forth ! 
For  ever  midst  this  crash  of  horns  and  clarions 
He  mounts  his  steed,  which  proudly  rears  an-end 
While  he  looks  round  at  ease,  and  scans  the  crowd, 
Vain  of  his  stately  form  and  horsemanship ! 
I  must  away !  my  absence  may  be  noticed. 

CASIMIR. 

Oft  as  thou  canst,  essay  to  lead  the  hunt 
Hard  by  the  forest  skirts ;  and  ere  high  noon 
Expect  our  sworn  confederates  from  Temeswar. 
I  trust,  ere  yet  this  clouded  sun  slopes  westward. 
That  Emerick's  death,  or  Casimir's,  will  appease 
The  manes  of  Zapolya  and  Kiuprili ! 

{Exit  Rudolph  and  manet  Casimir. 

Tlie  traitor,  Laska! 

And  yet  Sarolta,  simple,  inexperienced. 
Could  see  him  as  he  was,  and  often  wam'd  me. 
Whence  learn'd  slie  this  ? — O  she  w  as  innocent ! 
And  to  be  innocent  is  nature's  wisdom ! 
The  fledge-dove  knows  the  prowlers  of  the  air, 
Fear'd  soon  as  seen,  and  flutters  back  to  shelter. 
And  the  young  steed  recoils  upon  his  haunches, 
The  never-yet-seen  adder's  hiss  first  heard. 
O  surer  than  Suspicion's  hundred  eyes 
Is  that  fine  sense,  which  to  the  pure  in  heart, 
By  mere  oppugnancy  of  their  own  goodness, 
Reveals  the  approach  of  evil.     Casimir  ! 
O  fool !  O  parricide !  through  yon  w  ood  didst  thou. 
With  fire  and  sword,  pursue  a  patriot  father, 
A  widow  and  an  orphan.     Darest  thou  then 
(Curse-laden  wretch),  put  forth  these  hands  to  raise 
The  ark,  all  sacred,  of  thy  country's  cause? 
Look  down  in  pity  on  thy  son,  Kiuprili ; 
And  let  this  deep  abhorrence  of  his  crime, 
M 


Unstain'd  with  selfish  fears,  lie  his  atonement ! 

0  strengthen  him  to  nobler  compensation 
In  the  deliverance  of  his  bleeding  country ! 

[Exit  Casimir. 

Scene  changes  to  the  mouth  of  a  Cavern,  as  in  Act  IT. 
Zapolya  and  Glycine  discovered. 

ZAPOLYA. 

Our  friend  is  gone  to  seek  some  safer  cave. 
Do  not  then  leave  me  long  alone.  Glycine ! 
Having  enjoy'd  thy  commune,  loneliness, 
That  but  oppress'd  me  hitherto,  now  scares. 

GLYCINE. 

1  shall  know  Bethlen  at  the  furthest  distance, 
And  the  same  moment  I  descry  him,  lady, 

I  will  return  to  you.  [Exit  Glycine. 

Enter  Old  Bathory,  speaking  as  he  enters. 
old  bathory. 
Who  hears  ?  A  friend  ! 
A  messenger  from  him  w  ho  bears  the  signet ! 

[Zapolya,  who  had  been  gazing  affectionately  after 
Glycine,  starts  at  Bathory's  voice. 
He  hath  the  watch-word  ! — Art  thou  not  Bathory? 
qld  bathory. 

0  noble  lady !  greetings  from  your  son ! 

[Bathory  kneels 
zapolya. 
Rise !  rise !  Or  shall  I  rather  kneel  beside  thee. 
And  call  down  blessings  from  the  wealth  of  Heaven 
Upon  thy  honor'd  head  I  When  thou  last  saw'st  me 

1  would  full  fain  have  knelt  to  thee,  and  could  not. 
Thou  dear  old  man !  How  oft  since  then  in  dreams 
Have  I  done  worship  to  thee,  as  an  angel 
Bearing  my  helpless  babe  upon  thy  wings ! 

old  bathory. 
O  he  was  born  to  honor !  Gallant  deeds 
And  perilous  hath  he  wrought  since  yester-eve. 
Now  from  Temeswar  (for  to  him  was  trusted 
A  life,  save  thine,  the  dearest)  he  hastes  hither— 

zapolya. 
Lady  Sarolta  mean'st  thou? 

OLD  bathory. 

She  is  safe. 
The  royal  brute  hath  overleapt  his  prey. 
And  when  he  turn'd,  a  sworded  Virtue  faced  him. 
My  own  brave  boy — O  pardon,  noble  lady ! 

Your  son 

zapolya. 
Hark !  Is  it  he  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

I  hear  a  voice 
Too  hoarse  for  Betlilen's!  'T  was  his  scheme  and  hope, 
Long  ere  the  hunters  could  approach  the  forest, 
To  have  led  you  hence. — Retire. 
zapolya. 

O  life  of  terrors ! 
OLD  bathory. 
In  the  cave's  mouth  we  have  such 'vantage-ground 
That  even  this  old  arm — 

[Exeunt  Zapolya  and  Bathory  into  the  Cave. 

Enter  Laska  and  Pesialutz. 

LASKA. 

Not  a  step  further! 
pestalutz. 
Dastard !  was  this  your  promise  to  the  king  ? 

127 


118 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


LASKA. 

I  have  fulfiU'd  his  orders ;  have  walk'd  with  you 
As  with  a  friend  ;  have  pointed  out  Lord  Casimir : 
And  now  I  leave  you  to  take  care  of  him. 
For  the  king's  purposes  are  doubtless  friendly. 

PESTALUTZ  (affecting  to  start). 
Be  on  your  guard,  man ! 

LASKA  (,in  affright). 

Ha !  what  now  ? 

PESTALUTZ. 

Behind  you 
'Twas  one  of  Satan's  imps,  that  grinn'd,  and  threat- 

en'd  you 
For  your  most  impudent  hope  to  cheat  his  master ! 

LASKA. 

Pshaw !  What,  you  think  'tis  fear  that  makes  me 
leave  you? 

PESTALUTZ. 

Is 't  not  enough  to  play  the  knave  to  others, 
But  thou  must  lie  to  thine  own  heart  ? 

LASKA  {pompously). 
Friend  !  Laska  will  be  found  at  his  own  post. 
Watching  elsewhere  for  the  king's  interest. 
There 's  a  rank  plot  that  Laska  must  hunt  down, 
'Twixt  Bethlen  and  Glycine ! 

PESTALUTZ  {with  o  Sneer). 

What !  the  girl 
Whom  Laska  saw  the  war-wolf  tear  in  pieces  ? 
LASKA  {throwing  down  a  how  and  arrows). 
Well !  there 's  my  arms  I  Hark !  should  your  javelin 

fail  you, 
These  points  are  tipt  wilh  venom. 

[Starts  and  sees  Glycine  without. 
By  Heaven !  Glycine ! 
Now,  as  you  love  the  king,  help  me  to  seize  her! 
[They  run  out  o/i'cr  Glyclxe,  and  she  shrieks  with- 
out :  then  enter  Bathory  from  the  Cavern. 

old  bathory. 
Rest,  lady,  rest !  I  feel  in  every  sinew 
A  young  man's  strength  returning !  Which  way  went 

they? 
The  shriek  came  thence. 

[Clash  of  swords,  and  Bethlen's  voice  heard  from 
behind  the  Scenes ;    Glycine  enters  alarmed ; 
then,  as  seeing  Laska's  how  and  arrows. 
glycine. 
Ha !  weapons  here  ?  Then,  Bethlen,  thy  Glycine 
Will  die  with  thee  or  save  thee ! 

[She  seizes  them  and  rushes  out.  Hathohy  following 
her.  Lively  and  irregular  Music,  and  Peasants 
wilh  hunting-spears  cross  the  stage,  singing  cho- 
rally. 

CHORAL  SONG. 
Up,  up !  ye  dames,  ye  lasses  gay ! 
To  the  meadows  trip  away. 
'Tis  you  must  lend  the  floclis  this  morn, 
And  scare  tlie  small  birds  from  the  com. 
Not  a  soul  at  home  may  stay  : 

For  the  sliephcrds  must  go 

With  lance  and  bow 
To  hunt  the  wolf  in  the  woods  to-day. 

Leave  the  hearth  and  leave  the  house 
To  the  cricket  and  the  mouse  : 


Find  grannam  out  a  sunny  seat. 
With  babe  and  lambkin  at  her  feet. 
Not  a  soul  at  home  may  stay  : 
For  the  shepherds  must  go 
With  lance  and  bow 
To  hunt  the  wolf  in  the  woods  to-day. 
Re-enter,  as  the  Huntsmen  pass  off,  Bathory,  Bethlen 
and  Glycine. 
GLYCINE  {leaning  on  Bethlen). 
And  now  once  more  a  woman 

bethlen. 

Was  it  then 
That  timid  eye,  was  it  those  maiden  hands 
That  sped  the  shaft  which  saved  me  and  avenged  me  ? 

OLD  BATHORY  {to  Bethlen  exullingly). 
'Twas  a  vision  blazon'd  on  a  cloud 
By  lightning,  shaped  into  a  passionate  scheme 
Of  life  and  death !  I  saw  the  traitor,  Laska, 
Stoop  and  snatch  up  the  javelin  of  his  comrade ; 
The  point  was  at  your  back,  when  her  shaft  reach  d 

him 
The  coward  tum'd,  and  at  the  self-same  instant 
The  braver  villain  fell  beneath  your  sword. 

Enter  Zapolya. 

zapolya. 
Bethlen !  my  child  !  and  safe  too ! 

bethlen. 

Mother!  Queen! 
Royal  Zapolya !  name  me  Andreas  ! 
Nor  blame  thy  son,  if  being  a  king,  he  yet 
Hath  made  his  own  arm,  minister  of  his  justice 
So  do  the  Gods  who  lanch  the  thunderbolt! 

zapolya. 
O  Raab  Kiuprili !  Friend!  Protector!  Guide' 
In  vain  we  trench'd  the  altar  round  with  waters- 
A  flash  from  Heaven  hath  touch'd  the  hidden  Incense — 

BETHLEN  {hastily). 
And  that  majestic  form  that  stood  beside  thee 
Was  Raab  Kiuprili ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

It  was  Raab  Kiuprili ; 
As  sure  as  thou  art  Andreas,  and  the  lung. 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Hail  Andreas!  hail  my  king!  [Triumphantly 

ANDREAS. 

Stop,  thou  revered  one ! 
Lest  we  oflfend  the  jealous  destinies 
By  shouts  ere  victory.     Deem  it  then  thy  duty 
To  pay  this  homage,  when  'tis  mine  to  claim  it. 

GLYCINE. 

Accept  thine  hand-maid's  service !  [Kneeling 

ZAPOLYA 

Raise  her,  son ! 

0  raise  her  to  thine  arms !  she  saved  thy  life. 

And  through  her  love  for  thee,  she  saved  thy  mother's 
Hereafter  thou  shalt  know,  that  this  dear  maid 
Hath  other  and  hereditary  claims 
Upon  thy  heart,  and  wilh  Heaven-guarded  instinct 
But  carried  on  the  work  her  sire  began ! 

ANDREAS. 

Dear  maid  !  more  dear  thou  canst  not  be  !  the  rest 
Shall  make  my  love  religion.     Haste  we  hence ; 
For  as  I  reach'd  the  skirts  of  this  high  forest, 

1  heard  the  noise  and  uproar  of  the  chase. 
Doubling  its  echoes  from  the  mountain  foot. 

128 


ZAPOLYA. 


11« 


GLYCINE. 

Hark  !  sure  the  hunt  approaches. 

[Horn  icithoiil,  and  afterwards  distant  thunder. 

ZAPOLYA. 

O  Kiuprili! 

OLD  BATHORY. 

The  demon-himters  of  the  middle  air 
Are  in  full  crj',  and  scare  with  arrowy  fire 
The  guilty !  Hark !  now  here,  now  there,  a  horn 
Swells  singly  with  irregular  blast !  the  tempest 
Has  scatter'd  them  I 

[Hvrns  heard  as  from  different  places  at  a  distance. 

ZAPOLVA. 

O  Heavens!  where  stays  Kiuprili? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Tlie  wood  will  be  surrounded !  leave  me  here. 

ANDREAS. 

My  mother !  let  me  see  thee  once  in  safety, 
I  too  will  hasten  back,  with  lightning's  speed, 
To  seek  the  hero ! 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Haste !  my  life  upon  it, 
I  '11  guide  him  safe 

ANDREAS  (thunder  again). 

Ha !  what  a  crash  W'as  there ! 
Heaven  seems  to  claim  a  mightier  criminal 

[Pointing  tcithont  to  the  body  of  Pestalutz. 
Than  yon  vile  subaltern. 

ZAPOLYA. 

Your  behest.  High  Powers, 
Low  I  obey !  to  the  appointed  spirit, 
That  hath  so  long  kept  watch  round  this  drear  cavern. 
In  fervent  faith,  Kiuprili,  I  intrust  thee ! 

[Exeunt  Zapolya,  Andreas,  and  Glycine, 
Andreas  having  in  haste  dropt  his  sword. 
Manet  Bathory. 

old  BATHORY. 

Yon  bleeding  corse,  [pointing  to  Pestalutz's  body) 

may  work  us  mischief  still : 
Once  seen,  'twill  rouse  alarm  and  crowd  the  hunt 
From  all  parts  towards  this  spot.    Stript  of  its  armor, 
I  '11  drag  it  hither. 

[Exit  Bathory.    After  a  while  several  Hunters 
cross  the  stage  as  scattered.  Some  time  after, 
enter  Kiuprili  in  his  disguise,  fainting  with 
fatigue,  and  as  pursued. 
RAAB  kiuprili  {throwing  off  his  disguise). 
Since  Heaven  alone  can  save  rae.  Heaven  alone 
Shall  be  my  trust. 

[Then  speaking  as  to  Zapolya  in  the  Cavern. 
Haste !  haste !  Zapolya,  flee ! 
[He  enters  the  Cavern,  and  then  returns  in  alarm. 
Gone !  Seized  perhaps  ?  Oh  no,  let  me  not  perish 
Despairing  of  Heaven's  justice !  Faint,  disarm'd, 
Each  sinew  powerless,  senseless  rock  sustain  rae ! 
Thou  art  parcel  of  my  native  land. 

[Then  observing  the  sword. 
A  sword! 
Ha !  and  my  sword !  Zapolya  hath  escaped, 
The  murderers  are  baffled,  and  there  Uves 
An  Andreas  to  avenge  Kiuprili's  fall ! — 
There  was  a  time,  when  this  dear  sword  did  flash 
As  dreadful  as  the  storm-fire  from  mine  arms  : 
I  can  scarce  raise  it  now — yet  come,  fell  tyrant ! 
And  bring  witli  thoe  my  shame  and  bitter  anguish. 
To  end  his  work  and  thine !  Kiuprili  now 
Can  take  the  death-blow  as  a  soldier  should. 


Re-enter  Bathory,  with  the  dead  body  of  Pestalutz. 

old  bathory. 
Poor  tool  and  victim  of  another's  guilt ! 
Thou  foUovv'st  heavily  :  a  reluctant  weight ! 
Good  truth,  it  is  an  undeserved  honor 
That  in  Zapolya  and  Kiuprili's  cave 
A  wretch  like  thee  should  lind  a  burial-place. 

[Then  observing  Kiuprili. 
'Tis  he! — in  Andreas'  and  Zapolya's  name 
Follow  me,  reverend  form  ?  Thou  needst  not  speak. 
For  thou  canst  be  no  other  than  Kiuprili ! 


And  are  they  safe  ? 


[Xoise  without. 


old  bathory. 

Conceal  yourself,  my  Lord .' 
I  will  mislead  them ! 

KIUPRILL 

Is  Zapolya  safe  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

I  doubt  it  not ;  but  haste,  haste,  I  conjure  you ! 

[As  he  retires,  in  rushes  Casimir. 
CASIMIR  (entering). 

Monster ! 
Thou  shalt  not  now  escape  me ! 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Stop,  Lord  Casimir ! 
It  is  no  monster. 

CASIMIR. 

Art  thou  too  a  traitor  ? 
Is  this  the  place  where  Emerick's  murderers  lurk  ? 
Say  where  is  he  that,  trick'd  in  this  disguise. 
First  hu-ed  me  on,  then  scared  my  dastard  followers? 
Thou  must  have  seen  him.  Say  where  is  th'  assassin? 
OLD  BATHORY  (pointing  to  the  body  of  Pestalutz). 
There  lies  the  assassin !  slain  by  that  same  sword 
That  was  descending  on  his  curst  employer, 
When  entering  thou  beheld'st  Sarolta  rescued  ! 

CASIMIR. 

Strange  providence !  what  then  was  he  who  fled  me? 
[Bathory  points  to  the  Cavern,  whence  KiUPRiu 
advances. 
Thy  looks  speak  fearful  things !  Wliither,  old  man ! 
Would  thy  hand  point  me  ? 

OLD  BATHORY. 

Casimir,  to  thy  father. 
CASIMIR  (discovering  Kiuprili). 
The  curse!  the  curse!  Open  and  swallow  me, 
Unsteady  earth !  Fall,  dizzy  rocks  !  and  hide  me ! 

OLD  BATHORY  (tO  KlUPRILl). 

Speak,  speak,  my  Lord ! 

KIUPRILI  (holds  out  the  sword  to  Bathory). 
Bid  him  fulfil  liis  work! 

CASIMIR. 

Thou  art  Heaven's  immediate  minister,  dread  spirit ! 
O  for  sweet  mercy,  take  some  other  form. 
And  save  me  from  perdition  and  despair ! 

OLD  bathory. 
He  lives ! 

CASIMIR. 

Lives!  A  father's  curse  can  never  die! 
KIUPRILI  (in  a  tone  of  pity). 
O  Casimir !  Casimir ! 

OLD  bathory. 

Look  !  he  doth  forgive  you ! 
Hark!  'tis  the  tyrant's  voice. 

[Emerick's  voice  without 
129 


120 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


CASIMIR. 

I  kneel,  I  kneel ! 
Retract  thy  curse !  O,  by  my  mother's  ashes, 
Have  pity  on  thy  self-abhorring  child ! 
If  not  for  me,  yet  for  my  innocent  wife, 
Yet  for  my  country's  sake,  give  my  arm  strength. 
Permitting  me  again  to  call  thee  father ! 

KIUPRILI. 

Son,  I  forgive  thee !  Take  thy  father's  sword  ; 
When  thou  shalt  lift  it  in  thy  country's  cause. 
In  that  same  instant  doth  thy  father  bless  thee ! 

[KiUPRiLi  and  Casimir  embrace  ;  they  all  retire 
to  the  Cavern  supporting  Kiuprili.  Casimir 
as  by  accident  drops  his  robe,  and  Bathory 
throws  it  over  the  body  of  Pestalutz. 
EMERICK  {entering). 
Fools !  Cowards !  follow — or  by  Hell  I  '11  make  you 
Find  reason  to  fear  Emerick,  more  than  all 
The  mummer-fiends  that  ever  masqueraded 
As  gods  or  wood-nymphs ! — 

Then  sees  the  body  of  Pestalutz,  covered  by 
Casimir's  cloak. 

Ha !  't  is  done  then ! 
Our  necessary  villain  hath  proved  faithful. 
And  there  lies  Casunir,  and  our  last  fears ! 

Well !— Ay,  well ! 

And  is  it  not  vvell  ?  For  though  grafted  on  us, 
And  fill'd  too  with  our  sap,  the  deadly  power 
Of  the  parent  poison-tree  lurk'd  in  its  fibres : 
There  was  too  much  of  Raab  Kiuprili  in  him : 
The  old  enemy  look'd  at  me  in  his  face. 
E'en  when  his  words  did  flatter  me  with  duty. 

[As  Emerick  moves  towards  the  body,  enter  from 
the  Cavern  Casimir  and  Bathory. 

OLD  BATHORY  {pointing  to  where  the  noise  is,  and  aside 

to  Casimir). 
Tliis  way  they  come ! 

casimir  {aside  to  Bathory). 

Hold  them  in  check  awhile. 
The  path  is  narrow !  Rudolph  will  assist  thee. 

emerick  {aside,  not  perceiving  Casimik  and  Bathory, 

and  looking  at  the  dead  body). 
And  ere  I  ring  the  alarum  of  my  sorrow, 
I'll  scan  that  face  once  more,  and  murmur — Here 
Lies  Casimir,  the  last  of  the  Kiuprilis ! 

[Uncovers  the  face,  and  starts. 
Hell !  't  is  Pestalutz  ! 

casimir  {coming  forward). 

Yes,  thou  ingrate  Emerick ! 
'Tis  Pestalutz!  'tis  thy  trusty  murderer! 
To  quell  thee  more,  see  Raab  Kiuprili's  sword  ! 

emerick. 
Curses  on  it,  and  thee !  Think'st  thou  that  petty  omen 
Dare  whisper  fear  to  Emerick's  destiny  ? 
Ho !  Treason !  Treason  ! 

CASIMIR. 

Then  have  at  thee,  tyrant! 
[They fight.    Emerick /aZZs. 

EMERICK. 

Betray'd  and  baffled 

By  mine  own  tool  I Oh !  [Dies. 

CASIMIR  {triumphantly). 

Hear,  hear,  my  father! 
Thou  shouldst  have  witness'd  thine  own  deed.     O 

father ! 
Wake  from  that  envious  swoon !  The  tyrant 's  fallen ! 
Thy  sword  hath  conquer'd  !  As  I  lifted  it, 


Thy  blessing  did  indeed  descend  upon  me ; 
Dislodging  the  dread  curse.     It  flew  forth  from  me 
And  lighted  on  the  tyrant ! 

Enter  Rudolph,  Bathory,  and  Attendants. 

RUDOLPH  and  bathory  {entering). 

Friends !  friends  to  Casimir 

CASIMIR. 

Rejoice,  Ulyrians  !  the  usurper's  fallen. 

RUDOLPH. 

So  perish  tyrants !  so  end  usurpation ! 

casimir. 
Bear  hence  the  body,  and  move  slowly  on ! 

One  moment 

Devoted  to  a  joy,  that  bears  no  witness, 
I  follow  you,  and  we  will  greet  our  countrymen 
With  the  two  best  and  fullest  gifts  of  Heaven — 
A  tyrant  fallen,  a  patriot  chief  restored ! 

[Exeunt  Casimir  into  the  Cavern.    The  rest  on 
the  opposite  side. 

Scene  changes  to  a  splendid  Chamber  in  Casimir's 
Castle.    Confederates  discovered. 

FIRST  confederate. 

It  cannot  but  succeed,  friends.     From  this  palace 
E'en  to  the  wood,  our  messengers  are  posted 
With  such  short. interspace,  that  fast  as  sound 
Can  travel  to  us,  we  shall  learn  the  event ! 

Enter  another  Confederate. 
What  tidings  from  Temeswar? 

second  confederate. 

With  one  voice 
Th'  assembled  chieftains  have  deposed  the  tyrant ; 
He  is  proclaim'd  the  public  enemy. 
And  the  protection  of  the  law  v\ithdra\\Ti. 

first  confederate. 
Just  doom  for  him,  who  governs  without  law ! 
Is  it  known  on  whom  the  sov'reignty  will  fall  ? 

second  confederate. 
Nothing  is  yet  decided  :  but  report 
Points  to  Lord  Casimir.     The  grateful  memory 
Of  his  renowned  father 

Enter  Sarolta. 

Hail  to  Sarolta. 
sarolta. 
Confederate  friends !    I  bring  to  you  a  joy 
Worthy  our  noble  cause !  Kiuprili  lives, 
And  from  his  obscure  exile,  hath  retum'd 
To  bless  our  country.     More  and  greater  tidings 
Might  I  disclose ;  but  that  a  woman's  voice 
Would  mar  the  wondrous  tale.    Wait  we  for  hina 
The  partner  of  the  glory — Raab  Kiuprih  ; 
For  he  alone  is  worthy  to  announce  it. 

[Shouts  of  "  Kiuprili,  Kiuprili !"  and  "  The  Tyrant 's 
fallen !"  without.  Then  enter  Kiuprili,  Casimir. 
Rudolph,  Bathory,  and  Attendants,  after  the 
clamor  has  subsided. 

RAAB  kiuprili. 

Spare  yet  your  joy,  my  friends  !  A  higher  waits  you 
Behold  your  Queen ! 

Enter  from  opposite  side,  Zapolya  and  Andreas 
royally  attired,  with  Glyxine. 
confederates. 
Comes  she  from  heaven  to  bless  us ' 
130 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


121 


OTHER  CONFEDERATES. 
It  is!  It  is! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Heaven's  work  of  grace  is  full ! 
Kiuprili,  thou  art  safe! 

RAAB  KIUPRILI. 

Royal  Zapolya ! 
To  the  lieavcnly  powers,  pay  we  our  duty  first; 
Who  not  alone  preserved  thee,  but  for  thee 
And  for  our  country,  tlie  one  precious  branch 
Of  Andreas'  royal  house.     O  countrymen, 
Behold  your  King !  And  thank  our  country's  genius, 
That  tlie  same  means  which  have  preserved  our 

sovereign, 
Have  likewise  rear'd  him  worthier  of  the  throne 
By  virtue  than  by  birth.     The  undoubted  proofs 
Pledged  by  his  royal  mother,  and  this  old  man 
(Whose  name  henceforth  be  dear  to  all  Illyrians), 
We  haste  to  lay  before  the  assembled  council. 

ALL. 

Hail,  Andreas!  Hail,  lUyria's  rightful  king! 

ANDREAS. 

Supported  thus,  O  friends  !  't  were  cowardice 

Unworthy  of  a  royal  birth,  to  shrink 

From  the  appointed  charge.     Yet,  while  we  wait 

The  awful  sanction  of  convened  Illyria, 

In  this  brief  wliile,  O  let  me  feel  myself 

The  child,  the  friend,  the  debtor! — Heroic  mother! — 

But  what  can  breath  add  to  that  sacred  name  ? 

Kiuprili!  gift  of  Providence,  to  teach  us 

That  loyalty  is  but  the  public  form 

Of  the  sublimest  friendship,  let  my  youth 

Chmb  round  thee,  as  the  vine  around  its  elm : 

Thou  my  support,  and  /  thy  faithful  Iruitage. 

My  heart  is  full,  and  these  poor  words  express  not 

They  are  but  an  art  to  check  its  over-swelling. 

Bathory  !  shrink  not  from  my  filial  arms  ! 

Now,  and  from  henceforth,  thou  shalt  not  forbid  me 

To  call  thee  father !  And  dare  I  forget 


The  powerful  intercession  of  thy  virtue, 

Lady  Sarolta  ?  Still  acknowledge  me 

Thy  faithful  soldier! — But  what  invocation 

Shall  my  full  soul  address  to  thee,  Glycine  ? 

Thou  sword,  that  leap's!  from  lijrth  a  bed  of  roses  ! 

Thou  falcon-hearted  dove  ? 

ZAPOLVA. 

Hear  that  from  me,  son  ! 
For  ere  she  lived,  her  Hither  saved  thy  life, 
Thine,  and  thy  fugitive  mother's ! 

CASIMIR. 

Chef  Ragozzi ! 

0  shame  upon  my  head  !  I  would  have  given  her 
To  a  base  slave  ! 

ZAPOLYA. 

Heaven  overruled  thy  purpose. 
And  sent  an  angel  (Foinling  to  Sarolta)  to  thy  house 

to  guard  her ! 
Thou  precious  bark !  freighted  with  all  our  treasures ! 

[To  Andreas. 
The  sport  of  tempests,  and  yet  ne'er  the  victim, 
How  many  may  claim  salvage  in  thee  ! 

(Pointing  to  Glycine).         Take  her,  son ! 
A  queen  that  brings  with  her  a  richer  dowry 
Than  orient  kings  can  give  ! 

sarolta. 

A  banquet  waits  !— 
On  this  auspicious  day,  for  some  few  hours 

1  claim  to  be  your  hostess.     Scenes  so  awful 
With  flashing  light,  force  wisdom  on  us  all ! 
E'en  women  at  the  distaff  hence  may  see, 
That  bad  men  may  rebel,  but  ne'er  be  free; 
May  whisper,  when  the  waves  of  faction  foam. 
None  love  their  country,  but  who  love  their  hoine  ; 
For  freedom  can  with  those  alone  abide, 

Who  wear  the  golden  chain,  with  honest  pride, 
Of  love  and  duty,  at  their  own  fire-side : 
While  mad  ambition  ever  dotii  caress 
Its  own  sure  fate,  in  its  own  restlessness  ! 


mit  IMttolomini;  ot%  tUciFtri^ti^art  of  S^^iUcni^tcuu 

A    DRAMA. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  SCHILLER. 


PREFACE. 


It  was  my  intention  to  have  prefixed  a  Life  of  Wal- 
lenstein  to  this  translation;  but  I  found  that  it  must 
either  have  occupied  a  space  wholly  disproportionate 
to  the  nature  of  the  publication,  or  have  been  merely 
a  meagre  catalogue  of  events  narrated  not  more 
fully  than  they  already  are  in  the  Play  itself  The 
recent  translation,  likewise,  of  Schiller's  History  of 
the  Thirty  Years'  War  diminished  the  motives  thereto. 
M2 


In  the  translation  I  endeavored  to  render  my  Author 
literally  wherever  I  was  not  prevented  by  absolute 
differences  of  idiom;  but  I  am  conscious,  that  in  two 
or  three  short  passages  I  have  been  guilty  of  dilating 
the  original ;  and,  from  anxiety  to  give  the  full 
meaning,  have  weakened  the  force.  In  the  metre  I 
have  availed  myself  of  no  other  liberties  than  those 
which  Schiller  had  permitted  to  himself,  except  tho 
occasional  breaking-up  of  the  line  by  the  substitu- 
tion of  a  trochee  for  an  iambic;  of  which  liberty,  so 
frequent  in  our  tragedies,  I  find  no  instance  in  these  ■. 
dramas 

S.  T.  Coleridge 
131 


122 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE  PICCOLOMINI,  ETC. 


ACT  L 

SCENE  I. 

An  old  Gothic  Chamber  in  the  Council-House  at  Pilsen, 
decorated  with  Colors  and  other  War  Insignia. 

Illo  mth  Butler  and  Isolani. 

ILLO. 

Ye  have  come  late — but  ye  are  come !  The  distance, 
Count  Isolan,  excuses  your  delay. 

ISOLANI. 

Add  this  too,  that  we  come  not  empty-handed. 
At  Donauwert*  it  was  reported  to  us, 
A  Swedish  caravan  was  on  its  way 
Transporting  a  rich  cargo  of  provision, 
Almost  six  hundred  wagons.     This  my  Croats 
Plunged  down  upon  and  seized,  this  weighty  prize  ! — 
We  bring  it  hither 

ILLO. 

Just  in  time  to  banquet 
The  illustrious  company  assembled  here. 

BUTLER. 

*Tis  all  alive !  a  stirring  scene  here ! 

ISOLANI. 

Ay! 
The  very  churches  are  all  full  of  soldiers. 

[Casts  his  eye  around. 
And  in  the  Council-house  too,  I  observe. 
You  're  settled,  quite  at  home !  Well,  well !  we  soldiers 
Must  shift  and  suit  us  in  what  way  we  can. 

ILLO. 

We  have  the  colonels  here  of  thirty  regiments. 
You  '11  find  Count  Tertsky  here,  and  Tiefenbach, 
Kolatto,  Goetz,  Maradas,  Hinnersam, 

The  Piccolomini,  both  son  and  father 

You'll  meet  with  many  an  unexpected  greeting 
From  many  an  old  friend  and  acquaintance.     Only 
Galas  is  wanting  still,  and  Altringer. 

BUTLER. 

Expect  not  Galas. 

ILLO  (hesitating). 
How  so  ?  Do  you  know 

ISOLANI  {interrupting  him). 
Max.  Piccolomini  here  ? — O  bring  me  to  him. 
I  see  him  yet  ('tis  now  ten  years  ago. 
We  were  engaged  with  Mansfeld  hard  by  Dessau), 
I  see  the  youth,  in  my  mind's  eye  I  see  him. 
Leap  his  black  war-horse  from  the  bridge  adown, 
And  t'ward  his  father,  then  in  extreme  peril, 
Beat  up  against  the  strong  tide  of  the  Elbe. 
■  The  down  was  scarce  upon  his  chin!  I  hear 
He  has  made  good  the  promise  of  his  youth. 
And  the  full  hero  now  is  finish'd  in  him. 

ILLO. 

You'll  see  him  yet  ere  evening.     He  conducts 
'  The  Duchess  Friedland  hither,  and  the  Princesst 
From  Carnthen.     We  expect  them  here  at  noon. 


*  A  town  about  12  German  miles  N.  E.  of  Ulm. 
t  The  dukes  in  Germany  boinp  always  reigning  powers,  their 
•  eons  and  daughters  are  entitled  Princes  and  Princesses. 


BUTLER. 

Both  wife  and  daughter  does  the  Duke  call  hither? 
He  crowds  in  visitants  from  all  sides. 


ISOLANI. 


Hm! 


So  much  the  better !  I  had  framed  my  mind 
To  hear  of  naught,  but  warlike  circumstance. 
Of  marches,  and  attacks,  and  batteries : 
And  lo !  the  Duke  provides,  that  something  too 
Of  gentler  sort,  and  lovely,  should  be  present 
To  feast  our  eyes. 

ILLO  {who  has  been  standing  in  the  attitude  of  medi 

iaiion,  to  Butler,  whom  he  leads  a  little  on  one 

side). 
And  how  came  you  to  know 
That  the  Count  Galas  joins  us  not  ? 

butler. 

Because 
He  importuned  me  to  remain  behind. 

ILLO  {with  warmth). 
And  you  ? — You  hold  out  firmly  ? 

[Grasping  his  hand  with  affection. 
Noble  Butler! 

BUTLER. 

After  the  obligation  which  the  Duke 
Had  laid  so  newly  on  me 

ILLO. 

I  had  forgotten 
A  pleasant  duty — Major-General, 
I  wish  you  joy ! 

ISOLANI. 

What,  you  mean,  of  his  regiment  ? 
I  hear,  too,  that  to  make  the  gift  still  sweeter, 
The  Duke  has  given  him  the  very  same 
In  which  he  first  saw  service,  and  since  then, 
Work'd  himself, step  by  step,  through  each  preferment, 
From  the  ranks  upwards.     And  verily,  it  gives 
A  precedent  of  hope,  a  spur  of  action 
To  the  whole  corps,  if  once  in  their  remembrance 
An  old  deserving  soldier  makes  his  way. 

BUTLER. 

I  am  perplex'd  and  doubtful,  whether  or  no 

I  dare  accept  this  your  congratulation. 

The  Emperor  has  not  yet  confirm'd  tlie  appointment 

ISOLANI. 

Seize  it,  friend !  Seize  it !  The  hand  which  in  tha^ 

post 
Placed  you,  is  strong  enough  to  keep  you  there, 
Spite  of  the  Emperor  and  his  Ministers  ? 

ILLO. 

Ay,  if  we  would  but  so  consider  it ! — 

If  we  would  all  of  us  consider  it  so ! 

The  Emperor  gives  us  nothing ;  from  the  Duke 

Comes  all — whate'er  we  hope,  whate'er  we  have 

ISOLANI  {to  Illo). 
My  noble  brother !  did  I  tell  you  how 
The  Duke  will  satisfy  my  creditors  ? 
Will  be  himself  my  banker  for  the  future. 
Make  me  once  more  a  creditable  man ! — 
And  this  is  now  the  third  time,  think  of  that ! 
This  kingly-minded  man  has  rescued  me 
From  absolute  ruin,  and  restored  my  honor. 

ILLO. 

O  that  his  power  but  kept  pace  with  his  wishes ! 
Why,  friend!   he'd  give  the  whole  world    to  his 

soldiers. 
But  at  Vienna,  brother ! — here 's  the  grievance ! — 
What  politic  schemes  do  they  not  lay  to  shorten 
132 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


123 


His  arm.  and  where  they  can,  to  clip  his  pinions. 
Then  these  new  dainty  requisitions !  these, 
Which  this  same  Queslenberg  brings  hither  ! — 

BUTLER. 

Ay! 
These  requisitions  of  the  Emperor, — 
1  too  have  heard  alwut  them ;  but  I  hope 
The  Duke  will  not  draw  back  a  single  hich ! 

ILLO. 

Not  from  his  right  most  surely,  unless  first 
— From  office ! 

BUTLER  {shocked  and  confused). 
Know  you  aught  then  ?   You  alarm  me. 
isoLANi  (at  the  same  time  with  Butler,  and  in  a  hur- 
rying voice). 
We  should  be  ruin'd,  every  one  of  us ! 

ILLO. 

No  more ! 
Yonder  I  see  our  worthy  friend*  approaching 
With  the  Lieutenant -General,  Piccolomini. 

butler  (shaking  his  head  significantly). 
I  fear  we  shall  not  go  hence  as  we  came. 


SCENE  11. 
Enter  Octavio  Piccolomini  and  Questeneerg. 
ocTAVio  (still  in  the  distance). 
Ay,  ay !  more  still !  Still  more  new  visitors  ! 
Acknowledge,  friend !  that  never  was  a  camp. 
Which  held  at  once  so  many  heads  of  heroes. 

[Approaching  nearer. 
Welcome,  Count  Isolani ! 

ISOLANL 

My  noble  brother, 
Evei.  now  am  I  arrived  ;  it  had  been  else  my  duty — 

OCTAVIO. 

And  Colonel  Butler — trust  me,  I  rejoice 

Tlius  to  renew  acquaintance  with  a  man 

Whose  worth  and  services  I  know  and  honor. 

See,  see,  my  friend ! 

There  might  we  place  at  once  before  our  eyes 

The  sum  of  war's  whole  trade  and  mystery — 

[Tb  QuESTENBERG,  presenting  Butler  otuI  Isolani 

at  the  same  time  to  hirru 
These  two  the  total  sum — Strength  and  Dispatch. 

questenbebg  (to  Octavio). 
And  lo  !  betwixt  them  both,  experienced  Prudence ! 
octavio  (preseTiting  Questeneerg  to  Butler  and 

Isolani). 
The  Chamberlain  and  War-commissioner  Queslen- 
berg, 
The  bearer  of  the  Emperor's  behests. 
The  long-tried  friend  and  patron  of  all  soldiers. 
We  honor  in  this  noble  visitor.       [  Universal  silence. 

ILLO  (moving  towards  Questeneerg). 
"Tis  not  the  first  time,  noble  Minister, 
You  have  shown  our  camp  this  honor. 
questeneerg. 

Once  before, 
I  stood  before  these  colors. 

ILLO. 

Perchance  too  you  remember  where  that  was. 
It  was  at  Znaim  t  in  Moravia,  where 


*  Spoken  with  a  sneer. 

t  A  town  not  far  from  the  Mine-Mountains,  on  the  high  road 
&om  Vienna  to  Prague. 


You  did  present  yourself  upon  the  part 
Of  the  Emperor,  to  supplicate  our  Duke 
That  he  would  straight  assume  the  chief  command. 

questeneerg. 
To  supplicate  ?    Nay,  noble  General ! 
So  far  extended  neither  my  commission 
(At  least  to  my  own  knowledge)  nor  my  zeal. 

ILLO. 

Well,  well,  then — to  compel  him,  if  you  choose. 
I  can  remember  me  right  well.  Count  Tilly 
Had  suffer'd  total  rout  upon  the  Lech. 
Bavaria  lay  all  open  to  the  enemy. 
Whom  there  was  nothing  to  delay  from  pressing 
Onwards  into  the  very  heart  of  Austria. 
At  that  time  you  and  Werdenberg  appear'd 
Before  our  General,  storming  him  with  prayers, 
And  menacing  the  Emperor's  displeasure, 
Unless  he  took  compassion  on  this  wretchedness. 

ISOLANI  (steps  up  to  them). 
Yes,  yes,  'tis  comprehensible  enough. 
Wherefore  with  your  commission  of  to-day 
You  were  not  all  too  willing  to  remember 
Your  former  one. 

questeneerg. 

Why  not.  Count  Isolan  ? 
No  contradiction  sure  exists  between  them. 
It  was  the  urgent  business  of  that  time 
To  snatch  Bavaria  from  her  enemy's  hand ; 
And  my  commission  of  to-day  instructs  me 
To  free  her  from  her  good  friends  and  protectors. 

ILLO. 

A  worthy  office !    After  with  our  blood 

We  have  wrested  this  Bohemia  from  the  Saxon, 

To  be  swept  out  of  it  is  all  our  thanks, 

The  sole  reward  of  all  our  hard-won  victories. 

questeneerg. 
Unless  that  wretched  land  be  doomed  to  suffer 
Only  a  change  of  evils,  it  must  be 
Freed  from  the  scourge  alike  of  friend  and  foe. 

ILLO. 

What  ?    'T  was  a  favorable  year ;  the  boors 
Can  answer  fresh  demands  already. 

questeneerg. 

Nay, 
If  you  discourse  of  herds  and  meadow-grounds — 

ISOLANI. 

The  war  maintains  the  war.    Are  the  boors  ruin'd. 
The  Emperor  gains  so  many  more  new  soldiers. 

questeneerg. 
And  is  the  poorer  by  even  so  many  subjects. 

ISOLANL 

Poh !   We  are  all  his  subjects. 

questeneerg. 
Yet  with  a  difference.  General !    The  one  fills 
With  profitable  industry  the  purse, 
The  others  are  well  sluU'd  to  empty  it 
The  sword  has  made  the  Emperor  poor ;  the  plow 
Must  reinvigorate  his  resources. 

ISOLANI. 

Sure! 
Times  are  not  yet  so  bad.    Methinks  I  see 

[Examining  with  his  eye  the  dress  and  ornamerUa 
of  Questeneerg. 
Good  store  of  gold  that  still  remains  uncoin'd. 
18  133 


1^4 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


aUESTENBERG. 

Thank  Heaven !  that  means  have  been  found  out  to 

hide 
Some  little  from  the  fingers  of  the  Croats. 

ILLO. 

There  !    The  Stavvata  and  the  Martinitz, 

On  whom  the  Emperor  heaps  his  gifts  and  graces, 

To  the  heart-burning  of  all  good  Bohemians — 

Those  minions  of  court  fiivor,  those  court  harpies, 

Who  fatten  on  the  wrecks  of  citizens 

Driven  from  their  house  and  home — who  reap  no 

harvests 
Save  in  the  general  calamity — 
Who  now,  with  kingly  pomp,  insult  and  mock 
The  desolation  of  their  country — these, 
Let  these,  and  such  as  these,  support  the  war, 
The  fatal  war,  which  they  alone  enkindled ! 

BUTLER. 

And  those  state-parasites,  who  have  their  feet 
So  constantly  beneath  the  Emperor's  table, 
Who  cannot  let  a  benefice  fall,  but  they 
Snap  at  it  with  dog's  hunger — they,  forsooth, 
Would  pare  the  soldier's  bread,  and  cross  his  reckon- 
ing! 

ISOLANI. 

My  life  long  will  it  anger  me  to  think. 
How  when  I  went  to  court  seven  years  ago. 
To  see  about  new  horses  for  our  regiment, 
How  from  one  antechamber  to  another 
They  dragg'd  me  on,  and  left  me  by  the  hour 
To  kick  my  heels  among  a  crowd  of  simpering 
Feast-fatten'd  slaves,  as  if  I  had  come  thither 
A  mendicant  suitor  for  the  crumbs  of  favor 
That  fall  beneath  their  tables.     And,  at  last, 
Whom  should  they  send  me  but  a  Capuchin ! 
Straight  I  began  to  muster  up  my  sins 
For  absolution — but  no  such  luck  for  me  ! 
This  was  the  man,  this  capuchin,  with  whom 
I  was  to  treat  concerning  the  army  horses : 
And  I  was  forced  at  last  to  quit  the  field. 
The  business  unaccomplish'd.     Afterwards 
The  Duke  procured  me,  in  three  days,  what  I 
Could  not  obtain  in  thirty  at  Vienna. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Yes,  yes !  your  travelling  bills  soon  foimd  their  way 

to  us : 
Too  well  I  know  we  have  still  accounts  to  settle. 

ILLO. 

War  is  a  violent  trade ;  one  cannot  always 

Finish  one's  work  by  soft  means ;  every  trifle 

Must  not  be  blacken'd  into  sacrilege. 

If  we  should  wait  till  you,  in  solemn  council, 

With  due  deliberation  had  selected 

The  smallest  out  of  four-and-twenty  e^ils, 

I'  faith  we  should  wait  long. — 

"Dash!  and  through  with  it!" — That's  the  better 

watchword. 
Then  after  come  what  may  come.  'Tis  man's  nature 
To  make  the  best  of  a  bad  thing  once  past, 
A  bitter  and  perplex'd  "  what  shall  I  do  ? " 
Is  worse  to  man  than  v.'orst  necessity. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Ay,  doubtless,  it  is  true :  the  Duke  does  spare  us 
The  trouijlesome  task  of  choosing. 

BUTLER. 

Yes,  the  Duke 
Cares  with  a  father's  feelings  for  his  troops ; 
But  how  the  Emperor  feels  for  us,  we  see. 


QUESTENBERG. 

His  cares  and  feehngs  all  ranks  share  alike. 
Nor  will  he  oflTer  one  up  to  another. 

ISOLANI. 

And  therefore  thrusts  he  us  into  the  deserts 
As  beasts  of  prey,  that  so  he  may  preserve 
His  dear  sheep  fattening  in  his  fields  at  home. 

QUESTENBERG  (witk  a  Sneer). 
Count !  this  comparison  you  make,  not  I. 

BUTLER. 

Why,  were  we  all  the  court  supposes  us, 
'Twere  dangerous,  sure,  to  give  us  liberty 

QUESTENBERG. 

You  have  taken  liberty — it  was  not  given  you. 

And  therefore  it  becomes  an  urgent  duty 

To  rein  it  in  with  curbs. 

OCTAVIO  {interposing  and  addressing  Questenberg) 

My  noble  friend. 
This  is  no  more  than  a  remembrancing 
That  you  are  now  in  camp,  and  among  warriors. 
The  soldier's  boldness  constitutes  his  freedom. 
Could  he  act  daringly,  unless  he  dared 
Talk  even  so  ?    One  runs  into  the  other. 
The  boldness  of  this  worthy  officer, 

[Pointing  to  BuTLER- 
Which  now  has  but  mistaken  in  its  mark, 
Preserved,  when  naught  but  boldness  could  preserve 

it, 
To  the  Emperor  his  capital  city,  Prague, 
In  a  most  formidable  mutiny 

Of  the  whole  garrison.  [Military  music  at  a  distance. 
Hah !  here  they  come ' 

ILLO. 

The  sentries  are  saluting  them  :  this  signal 
Announces  the  arrival  of  the  Duchess. 

ocTAVio  {to  Queste.nberg). 
Then  my  son  Max.  too  has  retuined.     'Twas  he 
Fetch'd  and  attended  them  from  Camthen  hither 

ISOLANI  {to  Illo). 
Shall  we  not  go  in  company  to  greet  them  ? 

ILLO. 

Well,  let  us  go. — Ho !  Colonel  Butler,  come. 

[To  OCTAVIO. 

You'll  not  forget,  that  yet  ere  noon  we  meet 
The  noble  Envoy  at  the  General's  palace. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Questenberg  and  Octavio. 


SCENE  III. 


Questenberg  and  Octavio. 
CiVEST'ENTi^RG{mth  signs  of  aversion  and  astonishment). 
What  have  I  not  been  forced  to  hear,  Octavio ! 
What  sentiments !  what  fierce,  uncurb'd  defiance  ! 
And  were  this  spirit  universal — 

OCTAVIO. 

Hm! 

You  are  now  acquainted  with  three-fourths  of  the 
army. 

questenberg. 
WTiere  must  we  seek  then  for  a  second  host 
To  have  the  custody  of  this  ?   That  Illo 
Thinks  worse,  I  fear  me,  than  he  speaks.    And  then 
This  Butler  too — he  cannot  even  conceal 
The  passionate  workings  of  his  ill  intentions. 

OCTAVIO. 

Quickness  of  temper- — irritated  pride  ; 
"Twas  nothing  more.     I  cannot  give  up  But]  r 
134 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


125 


I  know  a  spell  that  will  soon  dispossess 
The  evil  spirit  in  him. 

QUESTENBERG  {walking  up  and  dou»i  in  evident  disquiet.) 

Friend,  friend ! 
O !  this  is  worse,  far  worse,  than  we  had  sufTer'd 
Ourselves  to  dream  of  at  Vienna.    There 
We  saw  it  only  with  a  courtier's  eyes, 
Eyes  dazzled  by  the  splendor  of  the  throne. 
We  had  not  seen  the  War-chief,  the  Commander, 
The  man  all-powerful  in  his  camp.    Here,  here, 
'Tis  quite  another  thing. 

Here  is  no  Emperor  more — the  Duke  is  Emperor. 
Alas,  my  friend  !  alas,  my  noble  friend ! 
Tliis  walk  which  you  have  ta'en  me  through  the  camp 
Strikes  my  hopes  prostrate. 

OCTAVIO. 

Now  you  see  yourself 
Of  what  a  perilous  kind  the  ollice  is, 
Which  you  deliver  to  me  fi-om  the  Court. 
The  least  suspicion  of  the  General 
Costs  me  my  freedom  and  my  life,  and  would 
But  hasten  his  most  desperate  enterprise. 

at'ESTENBERG. 

WTiere  was  our  reason  sleeping  when  we  trusted 
This  madman  with  the  sword,  and  placed  such  power 
In  such  a  hand  ?  I  tell  you,  he  '11  refuse. 
Flatly  refuse,  to  obey  the  Imperial  orders. 
Friend,  he  can  do  't,  and  what  he  can,  he  will. 
And  then  the  impunity  of  his  defiance — 
Oh !  what  a  proclamation  of  our  w  eakness ! 

OCTAVIO. 

D'  ye  think  too,  he  has  brought  his  wife  and  daughter 

Without  a  purpose  hither  ?  Here  in  camp ! 

And  at  the  very  point  of  time,  in  which 

We  're  arming  for  tlie  war  ?  That  he  !  -is  taken 

These,  the  last  pledges  of  his  loyally, 

Away  from  out  the  J^mperor's  domains — 

Tliis  is  no  doubtful  token  of  the  nearness 

Of  some  eruption '. 

QUESTENBERG. 

How  shall  we  hold  footing 
Beneath  this  tempest,  which  collects  itself 
And  threats  us  from  all  quarters  ?  The  enemy 
Of  the  empire  on  our  borders,  now  already 
The  master  of  the  Danube,  and  still  farther, 
And  farther  still,  extending  every  hour ! 
In  our  interior  the  alarum-bells 
Of  insurrection — peasantry  in  arms — 
All  orders  discontented — and  the  army, 
Just  in  the  moment  of  our  expectation 
Of  aidance  from  it — lo !  this  very  army 
Seduced,  run  wild,  lost  to  all  discipline, 
Loosen'd,  and  rent  asunder  from  the  state 
And  from  their  sovereign,  the  blind  instrument 
Of  the  most  daring  of  mankind,  a  weapon 
Of  fearful  power,  which  at  his  will  he  wields ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay,  nay,  frienfl !  let  us  not  despair  too  soon. 
Men's  words  are  ever  bolder  than  their  deeds : 
Ajid  many  a  resolute,  who  now  appears 
Made  up  to  all  extremes,  will,  on  a  sudden 
Find  in  his  breast  a  heart  he  wot  not  of, 
Let  but  a  single  honest  man  speak  out 
The  true  name  of  his  crime !  Remember  too. 
We  stand  not  yet  so  wholly  unprotected. 
Coimls  Altringer  and  Galas  have  maintain'd 


Their  little  army  faithful  to  its  duty, 

And  daily  it  becomes  more  numerous. 

Nor  can  he  take  us  by  surprise  :  you  know 

I  hold  him  all  encompass'd  by  my  listeners. 

Whate'er  he  does,  is  mine,  even  while  't  is  doing — 

No  step  so  small,  but  instantly  I  hear  it ; 

Yea,  his  own  mouth  discloses  it. 

QUESTENBERG. 

'Tis  quite 
Incomprehensible,  that  he  detects  not 
The  foe  so  near  I 


Beware,  you  do  not  think, 
That  I,  by  lying  arts,  and  complaisant 
Hypocrisy,  have  skulked  into  his  graces : 
Or  vxith  the  substance  of  smooth  professions 
Nourish  his  all-confiding  friendship!  No — 
Compell'd  alike  by  prudence,  and  that  duty 
Which  we  all  owe  our  country,  and  our  sovereign. 
To  hide  my  genuine  feelings  from  him,  yet 
Ne'er  have  1  duped  him  with  base  counterfeits! 

QUESTENBERG. 

It  is  the  visible  ordinance  of  Heaven. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  know  not  what  it  is  that  so  attracts 

And  links  him  both  to  me  and  to  my  son. 

Comrades  and  friends  we  always  were — long  hab 

Adventurous  deeds  perfonn'd  in  company. 

And  all  those  many  and  various  incidents 

\Vhich  store  a  soldier's  memory  with  affections, 

Had  bound  us  long  and  early  to  each  other — 

Yet  I  can  name  the  day,  when  all  at  once 

His  heart  rose  on  me,  and  his  confidence 

Shot  out  in  sudden  growth.    It  was  the  morning 

Before  the  memorable  fight  at  Lutzner. 

Urged  by  an  ugly  dream,  I  sought  him  out, 

To  press  him  to  accept  another  charger. 

At  distance  from  the  tents,  beneath  a  tree, 

I  found  him  in  a  sleep.    WTien  I  had  waked  him 

And  had  related  all  my  bodings  to  him. 

Long  time  he  stared  upon  me,  like  a  man 

Astoiuided  ;  thereon  fell  upon  my  neck. 

And  manifested  to  me  an  emotion 

That  far  outstripp'd  the  worth  of  that  small  Service. 

Since  then  his  confidence  has  follow'd  me 

With  the  same  pace  that  mine  has  fled  from  him. 

QUESTENBERG. 

You  lead  your  son  into  the  secret  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

No! 

QUESTENBERG. 

What !  and  not  warn  him  either  what  bad  hands 
His  lot  has  placed  him  in  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

I  must  perforce 
Leave  him  in  wardship  to  his  innocence. 
His  young  and  open  soul — dissimulation 
Is  foreign  to  its  habits !  Ignorance 
Alone  can  keep  alive  the  cheerful  air, 
The  unembarrass'd  sense  and  light  I'ree  spirit 
That  make  the  Duke  secure. 

QUESTE.VBERG  {anxiously). 
My  honor'd  friend !  most  highly  do  I  deem 

Of  Colonel  Piccolomini — yet — if 

1  Reflect  a  little 

135 


126 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


OCTAVIO. 

I  must  venture  it. 
Hush  ! — There  he  comes ! 


SCENE  IV. 


Max.  Piccolomini,  Octavio  Piccolomini, 
questenberg. 

MAX. 

Ha !  there  he  is  himself.    Welcome,  my  father ! 

[He  embraces  his  father.    As  he  turns  round,  he 

observes  Questenberg,  arul  draws  back  with 

a  cold  and  reserved  air. 
You  are  engaged,  I  see.  I  '11  not  disturb  you. 

OCTAVIO. 

How,  Max.  ?  Look  closer  at  this  visitor. 
Attention,  Max.,  an  old  friend  merits — Reverence 
Belongs  of  right  to  the  envoy  of  your  sovereign. 

MAX.  (drily). 
Von  Questenberg ! — Welcome — if  you  bring  with  you 
Aught  good  to  our  head-quarters. 

QUESTENBERG  (seizing  his  hand). 

Nay,  draw  not 
Your  hand  away.  Count  Piccolomini ! 
Not  on  mine  own  account  alone  I  seized  it, 
And  nothing  common  will  I  say  therewith. 

[Taking  the  hands  of  both. 
Octavio — Max.  Piccolomini ! 

0  savior  names,  and  full  of  happy  omen  ! 

Ne'er  will  her  prosperous  genius  turn  from  Austria, 
While  two  such  stars,  with  blessed  influences 
Beaming  protection,  shine  above  her  hosts. 

MAX. 

Heh ! — Noble  minister !  You  miss  your  part. 

You  came  not  here  to  act  a  panegyric. 

You  're  sent,  I  know,  to  find  fault  and  to  scold  us — 

1  must  not  be  beforehand  with  my  comrades. 

ocTAvio  (to  Max.). 
He  comes  from  court,  where  people  are  not  quite 
So  well  contented  with  the  Duke,  as  here. 

MAX. 

What  now  have  they  contrived  to  find  out  in  him  ? 

That  he  alone  determines  for  himself 

What  he  himself  alone  doth  understand  ! 

Well,  therein  he  does  right,  and  will  persist  in 't. 

Heaven  never  meant  him  for  that  passive  thing 

That  can  be  struck  and  hammer'd  out  to  suit 

Another's  taste  and  fancy.    He  '11  not  dance 

To  every  tune  of  every  minister : 

It  goes  against  his  nature — he  can't  do  it 

He  is  possess'd  by  a  commanding  spirit, 

And  his  too  is  the  station  of  command. 

And  well  for  us  it  is  so !  There  exist 

Few  fit  to  rule  themselves,  but  few  that  use 

Their  intellects  intelligently. — Then 

Well  for  the  whole,  if  there  be  found  a  man, 

Who  makes  himself  what  nature  destined  him, 

The  pause,  the  central  point  to  thousand  thousands — 

Stands  fix'd  and  stately^  like  a  firm-built  column, 

Where  all  may  press  with  joy  and  confidence. 

Now  such  a  man  is  Wallenstein  ;  and  if 

Another  better  suits  the  court — no  other 

But  such  a  one  as  he  can  serve  the  army 

aiTESTEXBERG 

The  army  ?  Doubtless ! 


OCTAVIO  (to  Questenberg). 

Hush  !  Suppress  it,  friend ! 
Unless  some  end  were  answer'd  by  the  utterance.— 
Of  him  there  you  '11  make  nothing. 

MAX.  (continuing). 

In  their  distress 
They  call  a  spirit  up,  and  when  he  comes. 
Straight  their  flesh  creeps  and  quivers,  and   they 

dread  him 
More  than  the  ills  for  which  they  call'd  him  up. 
Tlie  uncommon,  the  subhme,  must  seem  and  be 
Like  things  of  every  day. — But  in  the  field. 
Ay,  there  the  Present  Being  makes  itself  felt 
The  personal  must  command,  the  actual  eye 
Examine.    If  to  be  the  chieftain  asks 
All  that  is  great  in  nature,  let  it  be 
Likewise  his  privilege  to  move  and  act 
In  all  the  correspondencies  of  greatness. 
The  oracle  within  him,  that  which  lives, 
He  must  invoke  and  question — not  dead  boolis, 
Not  ordinances,  not  mould-rotted  papers. 


My  son !  of  those  old  narrow  ordinances 
Let  us  not  hold  too  lightly.  They  are  weights 
Of  priceless  value,  which  oppress'd  mankind 
Tied  to  the  volatile  will  of  their  oppressors. 
For  always  formidable  was  the  league 
And  partnership  of  free  power  with  free  will. 
The  way  of  ancient  ordinance,  though  it  winds, 
Is  yet  no  devious  way.    Straight  forward  goes 
The  lightning's  path,  and  straight  the  fearful  path 
Of  the  cannon-ball.    Direct  it  flies  and  rapid, 
Shattering  that  it  may  reach,  and  shattering  what  il 

reaches. 
My  son !  the  road,  the  human  being  travels, 
That,  on  which  blessi.ng  comes  and  goes,  doth  follov? 
The  river's  course,  the  valley's  playful  windings. 
Curves  round  the  corn-field  and  the  hill  of  \'ines, 
Honoring  the  holy  bounds  of  property  I 
And  thus  secure,  though  late,  leads  to  its  end. 

aUESTENBERG. 

O  hear  your  father,  noble  youth !  hear  him, 
Who  is  at  once  the  hero  and  the  man. 


My  son,  the  nursling  of  the  camp  spoke  in  thee  ! 
A  war  of  fifteen  years 
Hath  been  thy  education  and  thy  school. 
Peace  hast  thou  never  vvdtness'd !  There  exists 
A  higher  than  the  warrior's  excellence. 
In  war  itself  war  is  no  ultimate  purpose. 
The  vast  and  sudden  deeds  of  violence, 
Adventures  wild,  and  wonders  of  the  moment. 
These  are  not  they,  my  son,  that  generate 
The  Calm,  the  Blissful,  and  the  enduring  Mighty ! 
Lo  there  !  the  soldier,  rapid  architect ! 
Builds  his  light  town  of  canvas,  and  at  once 
The  whole  scene  moves  and  bustles  momently, 
With  arms,  and  neighing  steeds,  and  mirth  and  quarre 
The  motley  market  fills  ,•  the  roads,  the  streams 
Are  crowded  vidth  new  freights,  trade  stirs  and  hurries 
But  on  some  morrow  morn,  all  suddenly. 
The  tents  drop  down,  the  horde  renews  its  march. 
Dreary,  and  solitary  as  a  church-yard 
The  meadow  and  down-trodden  seed-plot  lie 
And  the  year's  harvest  is  gone  utterly 
136 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


127 


O  let  the  Emperor  make  peace,  my  father ! 
Most  gladly  would  I  give  the  blood-stain'd  laurel 
For  the  first  violet*  of  the  leafless  spring, 
Pluck'd  in  those  quiet  fields  where  I  have  joumey'd 

OCTAVIO. 

WTiat  ails  thee  ?  What  so  moves  thee  all  at  once  ? 

MAX. 

Peace  have  I  ne'er  beheld  ?  I  have  beheld  it. 

From  thence  am  I  come  hither :  O !  that  sight, 

It  glimmers  still  before  me,  like  some  landscape 

Left  in  the  distance, — some  delicious  landscape ! 

My  road  conducted  me  through  countries  where 

The  war  has  not  yet  reach'd.  Life,  Ufe,  my  father — 

My  venerable  father,  Life  has  charms 

Which  we  have  ne'er  experienced.    We  have  been 

But  voyaging  along  its  barren  coasts. 

Like  some  pwor  ever-roaming  horde  of  pirates. 

That,  crowded  in  the  rank  and  narrow  ship, 

House  on  the  wild  sea  with  wild  usages, 

Kor  know  aught  of  the  main  land,  but  the  bays 

Where  safeliest  they  may  venture  a  thieves'  landing, 

XMiate'er  in  the  inland  dales  the  land  conceals 

Of  fair  and  exquisite,  O !  notliing,  nothing. 

Do  we  behold  of  that  in  our  rude  voyage. 

OCTAVIO  {attentive,  with  an  appearance  of 
uneasiness). 
And  so  your  journey  has  reveal'd  this  to  you  ? 

MAX. 

'T  was  the  first  leisure  of  my  life.    O  tell  me, 

What  is  the  meed  and  purpose  of  the  toil. 

The  painful  toil,  which  robb'd  me  of  my  youth. 

Left  me  a  heart  unsoul'd  and  solitary, 

A  spirit  uninform'd,  unomamented. 

For  the  camp's  stir  and  crowd  and  ceaseless  larum. 

The  neighing  war-horse,  the  air-shattering  trumpet, 

TTie  imvaried,  still  returning  hour  of  duty. 

Word  of  command,  and  exercise  of  arms — 

There  's  nothing  here,  there  's  notliing  in  all  this 

To  satisfy  the  heart,  the  gasping  heart ! 

Mere  bustling  nothingness,  where  the  soul  is  not — 

This  carmot  be  the  sole  feUcity, 

These  cannot  be  man's  best  and  only  pleasures ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Much  hast  thou  learnt,  my  son,  in  this  short  journey. 

MAX. 

0 !  day  thrice  lovely  f  when  at  length  the  soldier 

Returns  home  into  life ;  when  he  becomes 

A  fellow-man  among  his  fellow-men. 

The  colors  are  unfurl'd,  the  cavalcade 

Marshals,  and  now  the  buzz  is  hush'd,  and  hark ! 

Now  the  soft  peace-march  beats,  home,  brothers,  home ! 

The  caps  and  helmets  are  all  garlanded 

With  green  boughs,  the  Last  plundering  of  the  fields. 

The  city  gates  fly  open  of  themselves. 

They  need  no  longer  the  petard  to  tear  them. 

The  ramparts  are  all  fiU'd  with  men  and  women, 

\\'ith  peaceful  men  and  women,  that  send  onwards 

Kisses  and  welcoraings  upon  the  air, 

Wliich  they  make  breezy  with  affectionate  gestures. 

From  all  the  towers  rings  out  the  merry  peal, 


The  joyous  vespers  of  a  bloody  day. 

0  happy  man,  O  fortunate  !  for  whom 

The  well-knov\Ti  door,  tlie  faithful  arms  are  open, 
The  faithful  tender  arms  with  mute  embracing. 
QUESTENBERG  {apparently  much  affected), 
O!  that  you  should  speak 
Of  such  a  distant,  distant  time,  and  not 
Of  the  to-morrow,  not  of  this  to-day. 

MAX  {turning  round  to  him,  quick  and  vehement). 
Where  lies  the  fault  but  on  you  in  Vienna ! 

1  will  deal  openly  with  you,  Questenberg. 
Just  now,  as  first  I  saw  you  standing  here, 
(I  '11  own  it  to  you  freely)  indignation 
Crowded  and  press'd  my  inmost  soul  together. 
'Tis  ye  that  hinder  peace,  ye! — and  the  warrior, 
It  is  the  warrior  that  must  force  it  from  you. 
Ye  fret  the  General's  life  out,  blacken  him. 
Hold  him  up  as  a  rebel,  and  Heaven  knows 

What  else  still  worse,  because  he  spares  the  Saxons, 

And  tries  to  awaken  confidence  in  the  enemy ; 

Which  yet 's  the  only  way  to  peace :  for  if 

War  intermit  not  during  war,  how  then 

And  whence  can  peace  come  ? — Your  own  plagues 

fall  on  you .' 
Even  as  I  love  what 's  virtuous,  hate  I  you. 
And  here  make  I  this  vow,  here  pledge  myself; 
My  blood  shall  spurt  out  for  this  Wallenstein, 
And  my  heart  drain  ofl^  drop  by  drop,  ere  ye 
Shall  revel  and  dance  jubilee  o'er  his  ruin.       [Exit 


*  In  the  original, 

Den  blut'gen  Lorbeer  geb  ich  hin  mit  Freuden 
Fiirs  erste  Veilchcn.  das  der  Maerz  uns  bringt. 
Deb  diirflige  Pfand  der  neuveqiingten  Erde. 


SCENE  V. 

Questenberg,  Octavio  Piccolomini 

^  questenberg. 

Alas,  alas  I*and  stands  it  so  ? 

[Then  in  pressing  and  impatient  tones 
What,  friend  I  and  do  we  let  Jiim  go  away 
In  this  delusion — let  liim  go  away  ? 
Not  call  him  back  immediately,  not  open 
His  eyes  upon  the  spot  ? 

OCTAVIO  {recovering  himself  out  of  a  deep  study) 
He  has  now  open'd  mine, 
And  I  see  more  than  pleases  me. 
questenberg. 

What  is  it  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

Curse  on  this  journey ! 

questenberg. 

But  why  so  ?  What  is  it  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

Come,  come  along,  friend !  I  must  follow  up 
The  ominous  track  immediately.  Mine  eyes 
Are  open'd  now,  and  I  must  use  them.  Come ! 

[Draws  Questenberg  on  with  him, 

QUESTENBERG. 

WTiat  now  ?  Where  go  you  then  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

To  her  herself 

QUESTENBERG. 

OCTAVIO  {interrupting  him,  and  correcting  himself). 
To  the  Duke.  Come,  let  us  go — 'Tis  done,  '.is  done 
I  see  the  net  that  is  thrown  over  him. 
Oh !  he  returns  not  to  me  as  he  went. 

QUESTENBERG 

Nay,  but  explain  yourself 

137 


128 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


OCTAVIO. 

And  that  I  should  not 
Foresee  it,  not  prevent  this  journey !  Wherefore 
Did  I  keep  it  from  him  ? — You  were  in  the  right 
[  should  have  wam'd  him !  Now  it  is  too  late. 

aUESTENBERG. 

But  what 's  too  late  ?  Bethink  yourself,  my  friend, 
That  you  are  talking  absolute  riddles  to  me. 

OCTAVIO  {rnore  collected). 
Come  !  to  the  Duke's.    'Tis  close  upon  the  hour. 
Which  he  appointed  you  for  audience.    Come ! 
A  curse,  a  threefold  curse,  upon  this  journey ! 

[He  leads  Questenberg  off. 


SCENE  VI. 


Changes  to  a  spacious  Chamber  in  the  House  of  the 
Duke  of  Friedland. — Servants  employed  in  putting 
the  tables  and  chairs  in  order.  During  this  enters 
Sem,  like  an  old  Italian  doctor,  in  black  and  clothed 
somewhat  fantastically.  He  carries  a  white  staff, 
with  which  he  marks  out  the  quarters  of  the  heaven. 

FIRST   servant. 

Come — to  it,  lads,  to  it  I  Make  an  end  of  it.  I  hear 
the  sentry  call  out,  "  Stand  to  your  arms !"  They  will 
be  there  in  a  minute. 

SECOND  servant. 

Why  were  we  not  told  before  that  the  audience 
would  be  held  here  ?  Nothing  prepared — no  orders 
— no  instructions — 

third  servant. 

Ay,  and  why  was  the  balcony-chambe»  counter- 
manded, that  with  the  great  worked  carpet  ? — there 
one  can  look  about  one. 

FIRST  servant. 

Nay,  that  you  must  ask  the  mathematician  there. 
He  says  it  is  an  unlucky  chamber. 
second  servant. 
Poh !  stuff  and  nonsense !  That 's  what  I  call  ahum. 
A  chamber  is  a  chamber ;  what  much  can  the  place 
signify  in  the  affair  ? 

seni  {with  gravity). 
My  son,  there 's  nothing  insignificant. 
Nothing  !  But  yet  in  every  earthly  thing 
First  and  most  principal  is  place  and  time. 
first  servant  {to  the  secmul). 
Say  nothing  to  him,  Nat.  The  Duke  himself  must 
let  him  have  his  own  will. 

beni  (counts  the  chairs,  half  in  a  loud,  half  in  a  low 

voice,  till  he  comes  to  eleven,  which  he  repeats). 
Eleven !  an  evil  number  I  Set  twelve  chairs. 
Twelve!  twelve  signs  hath  the  zodiac:  five  and  seven, 
JTie  holy  numbers,  include  themselves  in  twelve. 

SECOND  SERVANT. 

And  what  may  you  have  to  object  against  eleven  ? 
I  should  like  to  know  that  now. 

,  SENI. 

Eleven  is  transgression ;  eleven  oversteps 
The  ten  commandments. 

SECOND  SERVANT. 

That's  good!  and  why  do  you  call  five  a  holy 
number  ? 

SENI. 

Five  is  the  soul  of  man :  for  even  as  man 
Is  mingled  up  of  good  and  evil,  so 


The  five  is  the  first  number  that's  made  up 
Of  even  and  odd. 

SECOND  SERVANT. 

The  foohsh  old  coxcomb ! 

FIRST  SERVANT. 

Ey !  let  him  alone  though.  I  like  to  hear  him , 
there  is  more  in  his  words  than  can  be  seen  at  firs* 
sight 

THIRD  SERVANT. 

Off,  they  come. 

SECOND  SERVANT. 

There !  at  the  side-door. 

[They  hurry  off.  Seni  follows  slowly.  A  Page 
brings  the  staff  of  command  on  a  red  cushion, 
and  places  it  on  the  table  near  the  Duke's  chair. 
They  are  announced  from  without,  and  the 
wings  of  the  door  fiy  open. 


SCENE  vn. 

Wallenstein,  Duchess. 

wallenstein. 
You  went  then  through  Vienna,  were  presented 
To  the  Queen  of  Hungary  ? 

DUCHESS. 

Yes ;  and  to  the  Empress  too, 
And  by  both  Majesties  were  we  admitted 
To  kiss  the  hand. 

WALLENSTEI.N. 

And  how  was  it  received, 
That  I  had  sent  for  wife  and  daughter  hither 
To  the  camp,  in  winter-time  1 

DUCHESS. 

I  did  even  that 
Which  you  commission'd  me  to  do.    I  told  them, 
You  had  determined  on  our  daughter's  marriage, 
And  wish'd,  ere  yet  you  went  into  the  field. 
To  show  the  elected  husband  his  betrothed. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  did  they  guess  the  choice  which  I  had  made  ? 

duchess. 
They  only  hoped  and  wish'd  it  may  have  fallen 
Upon  no  foreign  nor  yet  Lutheran  noble. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  you — what  do  you  wish,  Elizabeth  ? 

DUCHESS. 

Your  will,  you  know,  was  always  mine. 
WALLENSTEIN  {after  a  pause). 

Well  then? 
And  in  all  else,  of  what  kind  and  complexion 
Was  your  reception  at  the  court  ? 

[The  Duchess  casts  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  and 
remains  silent. 
Hide  nothing  from  me.    How  were  you  received  ? 

duchess. 
O !  my  dear  Lord,  all  is  not  what  it  was. 
A  canker-worm,  my  Lord,  a  canker-worm 
Has  stolen  into  the  bud. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ay !  is  it  so  ? 
What,  they  were  lax  ?  they  fail'd  of  the  old  respect 

DUCHESS. 

Not  of  respect.    No  honors  were  omitted, 
No  outward  courtesy  ?  but  in  the  place 
Of  condescending,  confidential  kindness. 
Familiar  and  endearing,  there  were  given  me 
138 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


129 


Only  these  honors  and  that  solemn  courtesy. 

Ah !  and  the  tenderness  which  was  put  on, 

Ft  was  the  guise  of  pity,  not  of  favor. 

Nil  Albrechfs  wife,  Duke  Albrechl's  princely  wife, 

Coimt  Ilarraeh's  noble  daughter,  should  not  so — 

Not  wholly  so  should  she  have  been  received. 

WALLENSTEIX. 

Yes,  yes ;  they  have  ta'en  offence.    My  latest  con- 
duct, 
ITiey  rail'd  at  it,  no  doubt. 

DUCHESS. 

O  that  they  had ! 
1  have  been  long  accustom'd  to  defend  you, 
To  heal  and  pacify  distemper'd  spirits. 
No ;  no  one  rail'd  at  you.     They  wrapp'd  them  up, 
O  Heaven  !  in  such  oppressive,  solemn  silence  ! — 
Here  is  no  every-day  misunderstanding. 
No  transient  pique,  no  cloud  that  passes  over : 
Something  most  luckless,  most  unhealable, 
Has  taken  place.     The  Queen  of  Hungary 
Used  formerly  to  call  me  her  dear  aunt. 
And  ever  at  departure  to  embrace  me — 

WALLEXSTEIN. 

Now  she  omitted  it  ? 

DUCHESS  {wiping  away  her  tears,  after  a  pause). 
She  did  embrace  me, 
But  then  first  when  I  had  already  taken 
My  formal  leave,  and  when  the  door  already 
Had  closed  upon  me,  then  did  she  come  out 
In  haste,  as  she  had  suddenly  bethought  herself, 
And  press 'd  me  to  her  bosom,  more  with  anguish 
Than  tenderness. 

WALLENSTEIX  (Seizes  her  hand  soothingly). 
Nay,  now  collect  yourself. 
And  what  of  Eggenberg  and  Lichtenstein, 
And  of  our  other  friends  there  ? 

DUCHESS  {s?mking  her  head). 

I  saw  none. 

WALLENSTEIX. 

The  ambassador  from  Spain,  who  once  was  wont 
To  plead  so  warmly  for  me  ? — 


DUCHESS. 


Silent,  silent ! 


WALLENSTEIX. 

These  sims  then  are  eclipsed  for  us.    Henceforward 
Must  we  roll  on,  our  own  fire,  our  own  light. 

DUCHESS. 

And  were  it — were  it,  my  dear  Lord,  in  that 
Which  moved  about  the  court  in  buzz  and  whisper. 
But  in  the  country  lei  itself  be  heard 
Aloud — in  that  which  Father  Lamormain 

In  sundry  hints  and 

WALLENSTEIX  {eagerly). 

Lamormain !  what  said  he  ? 

DUCHESS. 

Tliat  you  're  accused  of  having  daringly 

O'erstcpp'd  the  powers  intrusted  to  you,  charged 

With  traitorous  contempt  of  the  Emperor 

And  his  supreme  behests.     The  proud  Bavarian, 

He  and  the  Spaniards  stand  up  your  accusers — 

That  there 's  a  storm  collecting  over  you 

Of  far  more  fearful  menace  than  that  former  one 

Which  whirl'd  you  headlong  down  at  Regensburg. 

And  people  talk,  said  he,  of Ah ! — 

[Stifling  extreme  emotion. 


I  cannot  utter  it ! 


WALLENSTEIN. 

10  N 


Proceed ! 


Well! 


WALLENSTEIN. 

Proceed ! 

DUCHESS. 

They  talk- 

WALLENSTEIX. 


DUCHESS. 

Of  a  second {catches  her  voice  and  hesitates). 

WALLENSTEIX. 

Second 


DUCHESS. 


-Dismission. 


More  disgraceful 


WALLENSTEIX. 

Talk  they  ? 
[Strides  aa-oss  the  Chamber  in  vehement  agitaiio.  - 
O !  they  force,  they  thrust  me 
With  violence  against  my  own  will,  onward ! 

DUCHESS  {presses  near  to  him,  in  entreaty). 
O !  if  there  yet  be  time,  my  husband !  if 
By  giving  way  and  by  submission,  this 
Can  be  averted — my  dear  Lord,  give  way ! 
Win  down  your  proud  heart  to  it !   Tell  that  heart, 
It  is  your  sovereign  Lord,  your  Emperor, 
Before  whom  you  retreat.    O  let  no  longer 
Low  tricking  malice  blacken  your  good  meaning 
With  venomous  glosses.    Stand  you  up 
Shielded  and  liclm'd  and  weapon'd  with  the  truth. 
And  drive  before  you  into  uttermost  shame 
These  slanderous  liars  !  Few  firm  friends  have  we— 
You  know  it ! — The  swift  growth  of  our  good  fortune 
It  hath  but  set  us  up  a  mark  for  hatred. 
What  are  we,  if  the  sovereign's  grace  and  favor 
Stand  not  before  us  ? 


SCENE  VIII. 


Enter  the  Countess  Tertsky,  leading  in  her  hand  tht 
Princess  Thekla,  i-ichly  adorned  with  Brilliants. 

Countess,  Thekla,  Wallexstein,  Duchess. 

countess. 
How,  sister !    What,  already  upon  business  ! 

[Observing  the  countenance  of  the  Duches3, 
And  business  of  no  pleasing  kind  I  see. 
Ere  he  has  gladden'd  at  his  child.   The  first 
Moment  belongs  to  joy.     Here,  Friedland  !  father ! 
This  is  thy  daughter. 

[Thekla  approaches  with  a  shy  and  timid  air,  and 
bends  herself  as  about  to  kiss  his  hand.  He  receives 
her  in  his  arms,  and  remains  standing  for  some 
time  lost  in  the  feeling  of  her  presence. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes !  pure  and  lovely  hath  hope  risen  on  me  • 
I  take  her  as  the  pledge  of  greater  fortune. 

DUCHESS. 

'Twas  but  a  little  child  when  you  departed 
To  raise  up  that  great  army  for  the  Emperor : 
And  after,  at  the  close  of  the  campaign. 
When  you  retum'd  home  out  of  Pomerania, 
Your  daughter  was  already  in  the  convent. 
Wherein  she  has  remain'd  till  now. 


walle.vstein. 


The  while 


139 


130 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


We  in  the  field  here  gave  our  cares  and  toils 
To  make  her  great,  and  fight  her  a  free  way 
To  the  loftiest  earthly  good ;  lo  !  mother  Nature 
Within  the  peaceful  silent  convent  walls 
Has  done  her  part,  and  out  of  her  free  grace 
Hath  she  bestow'd  on  the  beloved  child 
The  godhke ;  and  now  leads  her  thus  adom'd 
To  meet  her  splendid  fortune,  and  my  hope. 

DUCHESS  {lo  ThEKLA). 

Thou  wouldst  not  have  recognized  thy  father, 
Wouldst  thou,  my  child  ?    She  counted  scarce  eight 

years, 
When  last  she  saw  your  face. 

THEKLA. 

O  yes,  yes,  mother ! 
At  the  first  glance  ! — My  father  is  not  alter'd. 
The  form  tliat  stands  before  me  falsifies 
No  feature  of  the  image  that  hath  hved 
So  long  within  me  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  voice  of  my  child ! 

[Then  after  a  pause. 
I  was  indignant  at  my  destiny, 
That  it  denied  me  a  man-child  to  be 
Heir  of  my  name  and  of  my  prosperous  fortune, 
And  re-illume  my  soon  extinguish'd  being 
In  a  proud  line  of  princes. 
I  wrong'd  my  destiny.     Here  upon  this  head, 
So  lovely  in  its  maiden  bloom,  will  I 
Let  fall  the  garland  of  a  life  of  war, 
Nor  deem  it  lost,  if  only  I  can  wreath  it, 
Transmitted  to  a  regal  ornament. 
Around  these  beauteous  brows. 

[He  clasps  her  in  his  arms  as  Piccolomi.M  enters. 


SCENE  IX. 


Enter  Max.  Piccolomini,  and  some  lime  after  Count 
Tertsky,  the  others  remaining  as  before. 

COUNTESS. 

There  comes  the  Paladin  who  protected  us. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Max. !  Welcome,  ever  welcome  !  Always  wert  thou 
The  morning-star  of  my  best  joys  ! 


No !  'twas  not  so  intended,  that  my  business 
Should  be  my  highest  best  good-fortune ! 

[Tertsky  enters,  and  deliveis  letters  to  the  DuEK 
which  he  hreaTis  open  hurryingly. 
COUNTESS  {to  Max.). 
Remimerate  your  trouble !    For  his  joy 
He  makes  you  recompense.    'Tis  not  unfitting 
For  you,  Count  Piccolomini,  to  feel 
So  tenderly — my  brother  it  beseems 
To  show  himself  for  ever  great  and  princely. 

THEKLA. 

Then  I  too  must  have  scruples  of  his  love ; 
For  his  munificent  hands  did  ornament  me 
Ere  yet  the  father's  heart  had  spoken  to  me. 

MAX. 

Yes ;  'tis  his  nature  ever  to  be  giving 
And  making  happy. 

]He  grasps  the  hand  of  the  DucHESS  xvilh  stiU  in- 
creasing  warmth. 

How  my  heart  pours  out 
Its  all  of  thanks  to  him !  O !  how  I  seem 
To  utter  all  things  in  the  dear  name  Friedland. 
While  I  shall  live,  so  long  will  I  remain 
The  captive  of  this  name  :  in  it  shall  bloom 
My  every  fortune,  every  lovely  hope. 
Inextricably  as  in  some  magic  ring 
In  this  name  hath  my  destiny  charm-bound  me ! 
COUNTESS  {who  during  this  time  has  been  anxiously 
watching  the  Duke,  and  remarks  that  he  is  lost  in 
thought  over  the  letters). 
My  brother  wishes  us  to  leave  him.     Come. 
WALLENSTEIN  {turns  himself  round  quick,  collects  Mm- 
self,  and  speaks  with  cheerfulness  to  the  Duchess). 
Once  more  I  bid  thee  welcome  to  the  camp. 
Thou  art  the  hostess  of  this  court.     You,  Max., 
Will  now  again  administer  your  old  office. 
While  we  perform  the  sovereign's  business  here. 
[Max.  Piccolomini  offers  the  Duchess  his  arm ;  the 
Countess  accompanies  the  Princess. 
TERTSKY  {calling  after  him). 
Max.,  we  depend  on  seeing  you  at  the  meeting. 


SCENE  X. 


My  General 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Till  now  it  was  the  Emperor  who  rewarded  thee, 
I  but  the  instrument.     This  day  thou  hast  bound 
The  father  to  thee.  Max. !  the  fortunate  father. 
And  this  debt  Friedland's  self  must  pay. 

MAX. 

My  prince ! 
You  made  no  common  hurry  to  transfer  it. 
I  come  with  shame  :  yea,  not  without  a  pang ! 
For  scarce  have  I  arrived  here,  scarce  deliver'd 
The  mother  and  the  daughter  to  your  arras, 
But  there  is  brought  to  me  from  your  equerry 
A  splendid  richly-plated  hunting-dress 

So  to  remunerate  me  for  my  troubles 

Yes,  yes,  remunerate  me  !  Since  a  trouble 
It  must  be,  a  mere  office,  not  a  favor 
Which  I  leapt  forward  to  receive,  and  which 
I  came  already  with  full  heart  to  thank  you  for. 


WALLENSTEIN,  CoUNT  TeRTSKY. 

WALLENSTEIN  {in  deep  thought  to  himself). 
She  hath  seen  all  things  as  they  are — It  is  so, 
And  squares  completely  with  my  other  notices. 
They  have  determined  finally  in  Vienna, 
Have  given  me  my  successor  already  ; 
It  is  the  king  of  Hungary,  Ferdinand, 
The  Emperor's  delicate  son !  he 's  now  their  savior 
He 's  the  new  star  that 's  rising  now  !  Of  us 
They  think  themselves  already  fairly  rid. 
And  as  we  were  deceased,  the  heir  already 
Is  entering  on  possession — Therefore — dispatch  ! 
[As  he  turns  round  he  observes  Tertsky,  and  gives 
him  a  letter. 
Count  Altringer  will  have  himself  excused. 
And  Galas  too — I  hke  not  this ! 

TERTSKY. 

And  if 
Thou  loiterest  longer,  all  will  fall  away. 
One  following  the  other. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Altringer 

140 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


131 


Is  master  of  the  TjtoI  passes.     I  must  forthwith 
Send  some  one  to  him,  that  he  let  not  in 
The  Spaniards  on  me  from  the  Milanese. 

Well,  and  the  old  Sesin,  that  ancient  trader 

In  contraband  negotiations,  he 

Has  shown  liimself  again  of  late.     What  brings  he 

•<"rom  the  Count  Thur  ? 

TERTSKY. 

The  Count  communicates, 
He  has  found  out  the  Swedish  chancellor 
At  Halberstadt,  where  the  convention's  held, 
Who  says,  you  've  tired  him  out,  and  that  he  '11  have 
No  further  dealings  with  you. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  why  so  ? 

TERTSKT. 

He  says,  you  are  never  in  earnest  in  your  speeches; 
That  you  decoy  the  Swedes — to  make  fools  of  them ; 
Will  league  yourself  with  Saxony  against  them. 
And  at  last  make  yourself  a  riddance  of  them 
With  a  paltry  sum  of  money. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

So  then,  doubtless. 
Yes,  doubtless,  this  same  modest  Swede  expects 
That  I  shall  yield  him  some  fair  German  tract 
For  his  prey  and  booty,  that  ourselves  at  last 
On  our  ovATi  soil  and  native  territory, 
May  be  no  longer  our  own  lords  and  masters ! 
An  excellent  scheme  !  No,  no !  They  must  be  off, 
Ofi;  off!  away !  we  want  no  such  neighbors. 

TERTSKY. 

Nay,  yield  them  up  that  dot,  that  speck  of  land- 
It  goes  not  from  your  portion.     If  you  win 
The  game,  what  matters  it  to  you  who  pays  it  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Off  with  them,  off!  Thou  understand'st  not  this. 

Never  shall  it  be  said  of  me,  I  parcell'd 

My  native  land  away,  dismember'd  Germany, 

Betray'd  it  to  a  foreigner,  in  order 

To  come  with  stealthy  tread,  and  filch  away 

My  own  share  of  the  plunder — Never !  never ! — 

No  foreign  power  shall  strike  root  in  the  empire. 

And  least  of  all,  these  Goths  !  these  hunger-wolves ! 

^Vho  send  such  envious,  hot  and  greedy  glances 

Towards  the  rich  blessings  of  our  German  lands ! 

I'll  have  their  aid  to  ca-st  and  draw  my  nets. 

But  not  a  single  fish  of  all  the  draught 

Shall  they  come  in  for. 

TERTSKY. 

You  will  deal,  however. 
More  fairly  with  the  Saxons  ?  They  lose  patience 
While  you  shift  ground  and  make  so  many  curves. 
Say,  to  what  purpose  all  these  masks  ?  Your  friends 
Are  phmged  in  doubts,  baffled,  and  led  astray  in  you. 
There  's  Oxenstein,  there 's  Amheim — neither  knows 
What  he  should  think  of  your  procrastinations, 
And  in  the  end  I  prove  the  liar ;  all 
Passes  through  me.     I  have  not  even  your  hand 
writing. 


Had  you  meant  nothing  further  than  to  gull  him 
For  the  Emperor's  service. 

WALLENSTEIN  {afUr  a  pause,  (hiring  which  he 
looks  narrowly  on  Tertsky). 

And  from  whence  dost  Owu  know 
That  I  'm  not  gulling  him  for  the  Emperor's  service  ? 
Whence  knowest  thou  that  I  'm  not  gulling  all  of  you? 
Dost  thou  know  me  so  well  ?  When  made  I  ihee 
The  intendant  of  my  secret  purposes  ? 
I  am  not  conscious  that  I  ever  open'd 
My  inmost  thoughts  to  thee.  The  Emperor,  it  is  true, 
Hath  dealt  with  me  amiss ;  and  if  I  would, 
I  could  repay  him  \vith  usurious  interest 
For  the  evil  he  hath  done  me.    It  delights  me 
To  know  my  power ;  but  whether  I  shall  use  it. 
Of  that,  I  should  have  thought  that  thou  couldst 

speak 
No  wiselier  than  thy  fellows. 

TERTSKY. 

So  hast  thou  always  play'd  thy  game  with  us. 

[Enter  lu  o 


SCENE  XI. 
Illo,  Wallenstein,  Tertsky. 

wallenstein. 
How  stand  affairs  w  ithout  ?  Are  they  prepared  ? 

ILLO. 

You'll  find  them  in  the  very  mood  you  wish 
They  know  about  the  Emperor's  requisitions, 
And  are  tumultuous. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

How  hath  Isolan 
Declared  liimself? 

ILLO. 

He 's  yours,  both  soul  and  body 
Since  you  built  up  again  his  Faro-bank. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  which  way  doth  Kolatto  bend  ?  Hast  thou 
Made  sure  of  "riefenbach  and  Deodale  ? 

ILLO. 

What  Piccolomini  does,  that  they  do  too. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

You  mean,  then,  I  may  venture  somewhat  with  theml 

ILLO. 

— If  you  are  assured  of  the  Piccolomini. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Not  more  assured  of  mine  own  self. 

TERTSKY. 

And  yet 
I  would  you  trusted  not  so  much  to  Octavio, 
The  fox ! 


AVALLENSTEIN. 

I  never  give  my  handwriting;  thou  knowest  it 


TERTSKY. 

But  how  can  it  be  hnown  that  you're  in  earnest, 
If  the  act  follows  not  upon  the  word  ? 
You  mast  yourself  acknowledge,  that  in  all 

Your  intercourses  hitherto  with  the  enemy,  „^ „  „,..,^  .., 

You  might  have  done  with  safety  all  you  have  done,  |  They  too  must  bind  themselves  to  me. 

19  141 


WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou  teachest  me  to  know  my  man  ? 
Sixteen  campaigns  I  have  made  with  that  old  warrior 
Besides,  I  have  his  horoscope  : 
We  both  are  bom  beneath  like  stars — in  short, 

[With  an  air  of  mystery- 
To  this  belongs  its  own  particular  aspect. 
If  therefore  thou  canst  warrant  me  the  rest 

ILLO. 

There  is  among  them  all  but  this  one  voice. 
You  must  not  lay  down  the  command.    I  hear 
They  mean  to  send  a  deputation  to  you. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

If  I  'm  in  aught  to  bind  myself  to  them. 


133 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


ILLO. 

Of  course. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Their  words  of  honor  they  must  give,  their  oaths, 
Give  them  in  writing  to  me,  promising 
Devotion  to  my  service  unconditional. 

ILLO. 

Why  not  1 

TERTSKY. 

Devotion  unconditional  ? 
The  exception  of  their  duties  towards  Austria 
They'll  always  place  among  the  premises. 
With  this  reserve 

WALLENSTEIN  (^shaking  his  Jiead). 
All  unconditional ! 
No  premises,  no  reserves. 

ILLO. 

A  thought  has  struck  me. 
Does  not  Count  Tertsky  give  us  a  set  banquet 
This  evening  ? 

TERTSKY. 

Yes ;  and  all  the  Generals 
Have  been  invited. 

ILLO  {to  WALLENSTEIN). 

Say,  will  you  here  fully 
Commission  me  to  use  my  own  discretion? 
I  '11  gain  for  you  the  Generals'  words  of  honor. 
Even  as  you  wish. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Gain  me  their  signatures! 
How  you  come  by  them,  that  is  your  concern. 

ILLO. 

And  if  I  bring  it  to  you,  black  on  white. 
That  all  the  leaders  who  are  present  here 
Give  themselves  up  to  you,  without  condition ; 
Say,  will  you  then — then  will  you  show  yourself 
In  earnest,  and  with  some  decisive  action 
Make  trial  of  your  luck  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  signatures ! 
Gain  me  the  signatures. 

ILLO. 

Seize,  seize  the  hour. 
Ere  it  slips  from  you.     Seldom  comes  the  moment 
In  lite,  which  is  indeed  sublime  and  weighty. 
To  make  a  great  decision  possible, 
O !  many  things,  all  transient  and  all  rapid, 
Must  meet  at  once  :  and,  haply,  they  thus  met 
May  by  that  confluence  be  enforced  to  pause 
Time  long  enough  for  wisdom,  though  too  short. 
Far,  far  too  short  a  time  for  doubt  and  scruple ! 
This  is  that  moment.     See,  our  army  chieftains. 
Our  best,  our  noblest,  are  assembled  around  you. 
Their  king-like  leader  I  On  your  nod  they  wait. 
The  single  threads,  which  here  your  prosperous  for- 

time 
Hath  woven  together  in  one  potent  web 
Instinct  with  destiny,  O  let  them  not 
Unravel  of  themselves.    If  you  permit 
These  chiefs  to  separate,  so  unanimous 
Bring  you  them  not  a  second  lime  together. 
"Tis  the  high  tide  that  heaves  the  stranded  ship, 
And  every  individual's  spirit  waxes 
In  the  great  stream  of  multitudes.     Behold 
They  are  still  here,  here  still !  But  soon  the  war 
Bursts  them  once  more  asunder,  and  in  small 
Particular  anxieties  and  interests 
■  Scatters  their  spirit,  and  the  sympathy 


Of  each  man  with  the  whole.     He  who  to-day 
Forgets  himself,  forced  onward  with  the  stream 
Will  become  sober,  seeing  but  himself, 
Feel  only  his  own  weakness,  and  with  speed 
Will  face  about,  and  march  on  in  the  old 
High  road  of  duty,  the  old  broad  trodden  road. 
And  seek  but  to  make  shelter  in  good  plight. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  time  is  not  yet  come. 

TERTSKY. 

So  you  say  always. 
But  when  vvill  it  be  time ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

^Vhen  I  shall  say  it. 

ILLO. 

You  '11  wait  upon  the  stars,  and  on  their  hours. 
Till  the  earthly  hour  escapes  you.    O,  believe  mc. 
In  your  owTi  bosom  are  your  destiny's  stars. 
Confidence  in  yourself,  prompt  resolution. 
This  is  your  Venus !  and  the  soul  malignant, 
The  only  one  that  harmeth  you,  is  Doubt. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou  speakest  as  thou  understand'st.     How  oft 
And  many  a  time  I've  told  thee,  Jupiter, 
That  lustrous  god,  was  setting  at  thy  birth. 
Thy  visual  power  subdues  no  mysteries ; 
Mole-eyed,  thou  mayest  but  burrow  in  the  earth, 
Blind  as  that  subterrestrial,  who  with  wan, 
Lead-color'd  shine  lighted  thee  into  life. 
The  common,  the  terrestrial,  thou  mayest  see, 
With  serviceable  cunning  knit  together 
Tlie  nearest  with  the  nearest ;  and  therein 
I  trust  thee  and  believe  thee  !  but  whate'er 
Full  of  mysterious  import  Nature  weaves 
And  fasliions  in  the  depths — the  spirit's  ladder. 
That  from  this  gross  and  visible  world  of  dust 
Even  to  the  starry  world,  with  thousand  rounds, 
Builds  itself  up ;  on  which  the  unseen  powers 
Move  up  and  down  on  heavenly  ministries — 
The  circles  in  the  circles,  that  approach 
The  central  sun  with  ever-narrowing  orbit — 
These  see  tlie  glance  alone,  the  unsealed  eye. 
Of  Jupiter's  glad  children  bom  in  lustre. 

[He  walks  across  the  chamber,  then  returns,  and 
standing  still,  proceeds. 
Tlie  heavenly  constellations  make  not  merely 
The  day  and  nights,  summer  and  spring,  not  merely 
Signify  to  the  husbandman  the  seasons 
Of  sowing  and  of  harvest.     Human  action, 
That  is  the  seed  too  of  contingencies, 
Strew'd  on  the  dark  land  of  futurity 
In  hopes  to  reconcile  the  powers  of  fate. 
Whence  it  behoves  us  to  seek  out  the  seed-time, 
To  watch  the  stars,  select  their  proper  hour?, 
And  trace  with  searching  eye  the  heavenly  houses 
Whether  the  enemy  of  growth  and  thriving 
Hide  himself  not,  malignant,  in  liis  comer. 
Tlierefore  permit  me  my  own  time.     Meanwhile 
Do  you  your  part.     As  yet  I  cannot  say 
What  I  shall  do — only,  give  way  I  will  not. 
Depose  me  too  they  shall  not.     On  these  points 
You  may  rely. 

PAGE  (entering). 
My  Lords,  the  Generals. 


WALLENSTEIN 


Let  them  come  in. 


142 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


133 


SCENE  XII. 

Wallen'stein,  Tertsky.Illo. —  To  them  enter  Ques- 
TENBERG,  OcTAVio  and  Max.  Piccolomini,  But- 
ler, IsoLAXi,  Maradas,  and  three  other  Generals. 
Wallenstein  motions  Questenber«,  toho  in  con- 
sequence takes  the  chair  directly  opposite  to  him;  the 
others  follow,  arranging  themselves  according  to 
their  rank.     There  reigns  a  momenlary  silence, 

WALLEXSTEIN. 

I  have  understood,  'tis  true,  the  sum  and  import 
Of  your  instructions,  Questenberg;    have  weigh'd 

them, 
And  form'd  my  final,  absolute  resolve  : 
Yet  it  seems  fitting,  that  the  Generals 
Should  hear  the  will  of  the  Emperor  from  your  mouth. 
May 't  please  you  then  to  open  your  commission 
Before  these  noble  Chieftains  ? 

QUESTENBERG. 

I  am  ready 
To  obey  you ;  but  will  first  entreat  your  Highness, 
And  all  these  noble  Chieftains,  to  consider, 
The  Imperial  dignity  and  sovereign  right 
Speaks  from  my  mouth,  and  not  my  own  presumption. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

We  excuse  all  preface. 

QUESTENBERG. 

When  his  Majesty 
The  Emperor  to  his  courageous  armies 
Presented  in  the  person  of  Duke  Friedland 
A  most  experienced  and  renown'd  commander, 
He  did  it  in  glad  hope  and  confidence 
To  give  thereby  to  the  fortune  of  the  war 
A  rapid  and  auspicious  change.     The  onset 
Was  favorable  to  his  royal  wishes. 
Bohemia  was  delivered  from  the  Saxons, 
The  Swede's  career  of  conquest  check'd !  These  lands 
Began  to  draw  breath  freely,  as  Duke  Friedland 
From  all  the  streams  of  Germany  forced  hither 
The  scatter'd  armies  of  the  enemy  ; 
Hither  invoked  as  round  one  magic  circle 
The  Rhinegrave,  Bernhard,  Banner,  Oxenstein, 
Yea,  and  that  never-conquer'd  King  himself; 
Here  finally,  belbre  the  eye  of  Niirnberg, 
The  fearful  game  of  battle  to  decide. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

May 't  please  you,  to  the  point. 

QUESTENBERG. 

In  Ntimberg's  camp  the  Swedish  monarch  left 
His  fame — in  Liitzen's  plains  his  life.     But  who 
Stood  not  astounded,  when  victorious  Friedland 
After  this  day  of  triiunph,  this  proud  day, 
March'd  toward  Bohemia  with  ihe  speed  of  flight, 
And  vanish'd  from  the  theatre  of  war; 
While  the  young  Weimar  hero  forced  his  way 
Into  Franconia,  to  the  Danube,  like 
Some  delving  winter-stream,  which,  where  it  rushes, 
Makes  its  own  channel ;  with  such  sudden  speed 
lie  march'd,  and  now  at  once  'fore  Regcnspurg 
Stood  to  the  affright  of  all  good  Catholic  Christians. 
Then  did  Bavaria's  well-deserving  Prince 
Entreat  swift  aidance  in  his  extreme  need  ; 
The  Emperor  sends  seven  horsemen  to  Duke  Fried- 
land, 
Seven  horsemen  couriers  sends  he  with  the  entreaty: 
He  superadds  his  own,  and  supplicates 
Where  as  the  sovereign  lord  he  can  command. 


In  vain  his  supplication !  At  this  moment 
The  Duke  hears  only  his  old  hate  and  grudge. 
Barters  the  general  good  to  gratify 
Private  revenge — and  so  falls  Regenspurg. 

WALLENSTELV. 

Max.,  to  what  period  of  the  war  alludes  he  ? 
My  recollection  fails  me  here  ! 


Ho  means 


When  we  were  in  Silesia. 


WALLENSTEIN. 

Ay  !  is  it  80  ? 
But  what  had  we  to  do  there  ? 


To  beat  out 
Tlie  Swedes  and  Saxons  from  the  province. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

True, 
In  that  description  which  the  Minister  gave 
I  seem'd  to  have  forgotten  the  whole  war. 

[To  QuESTENBEROt. 

Well,  but  proceed  a  little. 

QUESTENBERG. 

Yes ;  at  length 
Beside  the  river  Oder  did  the  Duke 
Assert  his  ancient  fame.     Upon  the  fields 
Of  Steinau  did  the  Swedes  lay  down  their  arms, 
Subdued  without  a  blow.     And  here,  with  others 
The  righteousness  of  Heaven  to  his  avenger 
Deliver'd  that  long-practised  stirrer-up 
Of  insurrection,  that  curse-laden  torch 
And  kindler  of  this  war,  Matthias  Thur. 
But  he  had  fallen  into  magnanimous  hands  ; 
Instead  of  punishment  he  found  reward. 
And  with  rich  presents  did  the  Duke  dismiss 
The  arch-foe  of  his  Emperor. 

WALLENSTEI.N  (Jailghs). 

I  faiow, 
I  know  you  had  already  in  Vienna 
Your  windows  and  balconies  all  forestall'd 
To  see  him  on  the  executioner's  cart. 
I  might  have  lost  the  battle,  lost  it  too 
With  infamy,  and  still  retain'd  your  graces- 
But,  to  have  cheated  them  of  i  spectacle, 
Oh !  that  the  good  folks  of  Vicjana  never, 
No,  never  can  forgive  me  ! 

QUESTENBERG. 

So  Silesia 
Was  freed,  and  all  things  loudly  call'd  the  Duke 
Into  Bavaria,  now  press'd  hard  on  all  sides. 
And  he  did  put  his  troops  in  motion :  slowly, 
Quite  at  his  ease,  and  by  the  longest  road 
He  traverses  Bohemia  ;  but  ere  ever 
He  hath  once  seen  the  enemy,  faces  roimd. 
Breaks  up  the  march,  and  takes  to  winter-quarters 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Tlie  troops  were  pitiably  destitute 
Of  every  necessary,  every  comfort. 
The  winter  came.     Wliat  thinks  his  Majesty 
His  troops  are  made  of?  A  n't  we  men  ?  subjected 
Like  other  men  to  wet,  and  cold,  and  all 
The  circumstances  of  necessity  ? 
O  miserable  lot  of  ihe  poor  .soldier! 
Wherever  he  comes  in,  all  flee  before  him. 
And  when  he  goes  away,  the  general  curse 
Follows  him  on  his  route.     All  must  be  seized, 

143 


134 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Nothing  is  given  him.     And  compell'd  to  seize 
From  every  man,  he 's  every  man's  abhorrence. 
Behold,  here  stand  my  Generals.     Karaffa! 
Count  Deodate  !  Butler !  Tell  this  man 
How  long  the  soldiers'  pay  is  in  arrears. 

BUTLER. 

Already  a  full  year. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  'tis  the  hire 
That  constitutes  the  hireling's  name  and  duties, 
The  soldier's  pay  is  the  soldier's  covenant.* 

aUESTENBERG. 

Ah !  this  is  a  far  other  tone  from  that, 

In  which  the  Duke  spoke  eight,  nine  years  ago. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes !  'tis  my  fault,  I  know  it :  I  myself 
Have  spoilt  the  Emperor  by  indulging  him. 
Nine  years  ago,  during  the  Danish  war, 
I  raised  him  up  a  force,  a  mighty  force. 
Forty  or  fifty  thousand  men,  that  cost  him 
Of  his  own  purse  no  doit.     Through  Saxony 
The  fury  goddess  of  the  war  march'd  on. 
E'en  to  the  surf-rocks  of  the  Baltic,  bearing 
The  terrors  of  his  name.     That  was  a  time ! 
In  the  whole  Imperial  realm  no  name  like  mine 
Honor'd  with  festival  and  celebration — 
And  Albrecht  Wallenstein,  it  was  the  title 
Of  the  third  jev^el  in  his  crown! 
But  at  the  Diet,  when  the  Princes  met 
At  Regensburg,  there,  there  the  whole  broke  out, 
There  'twas  laid  open,  there  it  was  made  known, 
Out  of  what  money-bag  I  had  paid  the  host. 
And  what  was  now  my  thank,  what  had  I  now, 
That  I,  a  faithful  servant  of  the  Sovereign, 
Had  loaded  on  myself  the  people's  curses. 
And  let  the  Princes  of  the  empire  pay 
The  expenses  of  this  war,  that  aggrandizes 
The  Emperor  alone — AVhat  thanks  had  I  ? 
What  ?  I  was  offer'd  up  to  their  complaints, 
Dismiss'd,  degraded  ! 

QUESTENBERG. 

But  your  Highness  knows 
What  little  freedom  he  possess'd  of  action 
In  that  disastrous  Diet. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Death  and  hell ! 
/  had  that  which  could  have  procured  him  freedom, 
No!  since  'twas  proved  so  inauspicious  to  me 
To  serve  the  Emperor  at  the  empire's  cost, 
I  have  been  taught  far  other  trains  of  thinking 
Of  the  empire,  and  the  diet  of  the  empire. 
From  the  Emperor,  doubtless,  I  received  this  stafii 
But  now  I  hold  it  as  the  empire's  general — 
For  the  common  weal,  the  universal  interest, 
And  no  more  for  that  one  man's  aggrandizement! 
But  to  the  point.     What  is  it  that's  desired  of  me? 

QUESTENBERG. 

First,  his  Imperial  Majesty  hath  will'd 


*  The  original  is  not  translatable  into  English; 

Und  Bein  Sold 

Muss  deni  .Soldaten  werden,  darnach  heisst  er. 

It  might  perhaps  have  been  tbna  rendered  : 

And  that  for  which  he  sold  his  services, 
The  soldier  mnst  receive. 
But  a  false  or  doubtful  elymolopy  is  no  more  than  a  dull  pun. 


That  without  pretexts  of  delay  the  army 
Evacuate  Bohemia. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In  this  season  ? 
And  to  what  quarter  wills  the  Emperor 
That  we  direct  our  course  ? 

QUESTENBERG. 

To  the  enemy. 
His  Majesty  resolves,  that  Regensburg 
Be  purified  from  the  enemy  ere  Easter, 
That  Lutheranism  may  be  no  longer  preach'd 
In  that  cathedral,  nor  heretical 
Defilement  desecrate  the  celebration 
Of  that  pure  festival. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

My  generals, 
Can  this  be  realized  ? 

ILLO. 

'Tis  not  possible. 


BUTLER. 


It  can't  be  realized. 


QUESTENBERG. 

The  Emperor 
Already  hath  commanded  Colonel  Suys 
To  advance  toward  Bavaria. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  did  Suys  ? 

QUESTENBERG. 

That  which  his  duty  prompted.     He  advanced 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What !  he  advanced  ?  And  I,  his  general, 
Had  given  him  orders,  peremptory  orders, 
Not  to  desert  his  station !  Stands  it  thus 
With  my  authority  ?  Is  this  the  obedience 
Due  to  my  office,  which  being  thrown  aside. 
No  war  can  be  conducted  ?  Chieftains,  speak. 
You  be  the  judges,  generals !  What  deserves 
That  officer,  who  of  his  oath  neglectful 
Is  guilty  of  contempt  of  orders  ? 

ILLO. 

Death. 
WALLENSTEIN  {raising  his  voice,  as  all,  but  Illo,  had 

remained  silent,  and  seemingly  scruptdous). 
Count  Piccolomini !  what  has  he  deserved  ? 

MAX.  PICCOLOMINI  {after  a  long  pause). 
According  to  the  letter  of  the  law, 
Death. 

ISOLANI. 

Death. 

BUTLER. 

Death,  by  the  laws  of  war. 
[QUESTENBERG  risBs  from  his  seat,  Wallenstein 
follows  ,•  all  the  rest  rise. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

To  this  the  law  condemns  him,  and  not  I. 
And  if  I  show  him  favor,  'twill  arise 
From  the  reverence  that  I  owe  my  Emperor 

QUESTENBERG. 

If  SO,  I  can  say  nothing  further — here .' 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  accepted  the  command  but  on  conditions : 

And  this  ihe  first,  that  to  the  diminution 

Of  my  authority  no  human  being. 

Not  even  the  Emperor's  self,  should  be  entitled 

To  do  aught,  or  to  say  aught,  with  the  army 

If  I  stand  warranter  of  the  event, 

144 


THE  PICCOLOMINl. 


135 


Placing  my  honor  and  my  head  in  pledge, 
Needs  must  I  have  full  mastery  in  all 
The  means  thereto.    What  rendcr'd  this  Gustavus 
Kesistless,  and  unconquer'd  upon  earlh  ? 
This — that  he  was  the  monarch  in  his  army] 
A  monarch,  one  who  is  indeed  a  monarch. 
Was  never  yet  subdued  but  by  his  equal. 
But  to  the  point !  The  best  is  yet  to  come. 
Attend  now,  generals! 

QUESTENBERG. 

The  Prince  Cardinal 
Begins  his  route  at  the  approach  of  spring 
From  the  Milanese ;  and  leads  a  Spanish  army 
Through  Germany  into  the  Nelherlands. 
That  he  may  march  secure  and  unimpeded, 
'Tis  the  Emperor's  will  you  grant  him  a  detachment 
Of  eight  horse  regiments  from  the  army  here. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes,  yes  !  I  understand  I — Eight  regiments !  Well, 
Right  well  concerted,  father  Lamormain  I 
Eight  thousand  horse!  Yes,  yes!  'Tis  as  it  should  be! 
I  see  it  coming. 

aUESTENBERG. 

There  is  nothing  coming. 
All  stands  in  front :  the  coimsel  of  state-prudence, 
The  dictate  of  necessity ! 

WALLENSTEI.V. 

What  then  ? 
WTiat,  my  Lord  Envoy  ?  May  I  not  be  suffer'd 
To  understand,  that  folks  are  tired  of  seeing 
The  sword's  hilt  in  my  grasp :  and  that  your  court 
Snatch  eagerly  at  this  pretence,  and  use 
The  Spanish  title,  to  drain  off  my  forces, 
To  lead  into  the  empire  a  new  army 
Unsubjected  to  my  control  ?  To  throw  me 
Plumply  aside, — I  am  still  too  powerful  for  you 
To  venture  that.     My  stipulation  runs, 
That  all  the  Imperial  forces  shall  obey  me 
Where'er  the  German  is  the  native  language. 
Of  Spanish  troops  and  of  Prince  Cardinals 
That  take  their  route,  as  visitors,  through  the  empire, 
There  stands  no  syllable  in  my  stipulation. 
No  syllable  !  And  so  the  politic  court 
Steals  in  a  tiptoe,  and  creeps  round  behind  it ; 
First  makes  me  weaker,  then  to  be  dispensed  with, 
Till  it  dares  strike  at  length  a  bolder  blow 
And  make  short  work  with  me. 
What  need  of  all  these  crooked  ways.  Lord  Envoy  ? 
Straight  forward,  man!  His  compact  with  me  pinches 
The  Emperor.     He  would  that  I  moved  off! — 
Well ! — I  will  gratify  him ! 

[Here  there  commences  an  agitation  among  the 
Generals,  which  increases  continually. 
It  grieves  me  for  my  noble  officers'  sakes ! 
I  see  not  yet,  by  what  means  they  will  come  at 
The  moneys  they  have  advanced,  or  how  obtain 
The  recompease  their  services  demand. 
Still  a  new  leader  brings  new  claimants  forward, 
And  prior  merit  superannuates  quickly. 
There  serve  here  many  foreigners  in  the  army. 
And  were  the  man  in  all  else  brave  and  gallant, 
I  was  not  went  to  make  nice  scrutiny 
After  his  pedigree  or  catechism. 
This  will  be  otherwise,  i'  the  time  to  come. 
Well — me  no  longer  it  concerns.     [He  seals  himself. 


MAX.  PICCOLOMINl. 

Forbid  it  Heaven,  that  it  should  come  to  this! 
Our  troops  will  swell  in  dreadful  fermentation — 
The  Emperor  is  abused — it  cannot  be. 

ISOLANI. 

It  cannot  be  ;  all  goes  to  instant  wreck. 

WALLENSTEI.V. 

Thou  hast  said  truly,  faithful  Isolani ! 
What  we  with  toil  and  foresight  have  built  up 
Will  go  to  wreck — all  go  to  instant  wreck. 
What  then  ?  another  chieftain  is  soon  found, 
Another  army  likewise  (who  dares  doubt  it  ?) 
Will  flock  from  all  sides  to  the  Emperor, 
At  the  first  beat  of  his  recruiting  drum. 

[During  this  speech,  Isolani,  Tertsky,  Illo, 

and   Maradas  talk  confusedly  with  great 

agitation. 

MAX.  PICCOLOMINl  {busily  and  passionately  going 
from  one  to  another,  and  soothing  them. 
Hear,  my  commander !  Hear  me,  generals  ! 
Let  me  conjure  you,  Duke  !  Determine  nothing, 
Till  we  have  met  and  represented  to  you 
Our  joint  remonstrances. — Nay,  calmer!  Friends! 
I  hope  all  may  be  yet  set  right  again. 

tertsky. 
Away !  let  us  away !  in  the  antechamber 
Find  we  the  others.  [They  go. 

BUTLER  (to  QuESTENBERG). 

If  good  counsel  gain 
Due  audience  from  your  wisdom,  my  Lord  Envoy ! 
You  will  be  cautious  how  you  show  yourself 
In  public  for  some  hours  to  come — or  hardly 
Will  that  gold  key  protect  you  from  maltreatment, 

[Commotions  heard  from  without. 
wallenstein. 

A  salutary  counsel Thou,  Octavio ! 

Wilt  answer  for  the  safety  of  our  guest. 
Farewell,  Von  Questenberg ! 

[Questexberg  is  about  to  speak. 
Nay,  not  a  word. 
Not  one  word  more  of  that  detested  subject ! 
You  have  perform'd  your  duty — W'e  know  how 
To  separate  the  office  from  the  man. 

[As  Questenberg  is  going  off  with  Octavio  ; 
GoETZ,  Tiefenbach,  Kolatto,  2jress  in ; 
several  other  Generals  following  them. 

GOETZ. 

^Vhe^e  's  he  who  means  to  rob  us  of  our  general  ? 

TIEFENBACH  (at  the  Same  time). 
What  are  we  forced  to  hear?  That  thou  wilt  leave  us? 

KOLATTO  (at  the  same  time). 
We  will  live  with  thee,  we  will  die  with  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN  (with  stateliness,  and  pointing  to  Illo). 
There !  the  Feld-Marshal  knows  our  will,  [Exit. 

[While  all  are  going  off  the  Stage,  the  curtain 
drops. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  L 

Scene — A  small  Cfiamber. 

Illo  and  Tertsky. 

TERTSKY. 

Now  for  this  evening's  business !  How  intend  you 
To  manage  with  the  generals  at  the  banquet  ? 
145 


i36 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


ILLO. 

Attend  I  We  frame  a  formal  declaration, 

Whereiia  we  to  the  Duke  consign  ourselves 

Collectively,  to  be  and  to  remain 

His  both  with  life  and  limb,  and  not  to  spare 

Tlie  last  drop  of  our  blood  for  him,  provided 

So  doing  we  infringe  no  oath  or  duty, 

We  may  be  under  to  the  Emperor. — Mark ! 

This  reservation  we  expressly  make 

In  a  particular  clause,  and  save  the  conscience. 

Tsow  hear !  This  formula  so  framed  and  worded 

Will  be  presented  to  them  for  perusal 

Before  the  banquet.    No  one  will  find  in  it 

Cause  of  offence  or  scruple.     Hear  now  further ! 

After  the  feast,  when  now  the  vap'ring  A^ine 

Opens  the  heart,  and  shuts  the  eyes,  we  let 

A  counterfeited  paper,  in  the  which 

This  one  particular  clause  has  been  left  out, 

Go  round  for  signatures. 

TERTSKY. 

How !  think  you  then 
That  they'll  believe  themselves  bound  by  an  oath, 
Which  we  had  trick'd  them  into  by  a  juggle  ? 

ILLO. 

We  shall  have  caught  and  caged  them !  Let  them  then 
Beat  their  wings  bare  against  the  wires,  and  rave 
Loud  as  they  may  against  our  treachery ; 
At  court  their  signatures  will  be  believed 
Far  more  than  their  most  holy  affirmations. 
Traitors  they  are,  and  must  be ;  therefore  wisely 
Will  make  a  virtue  of  necessity. 

TERTSKY. 

Well,  well,  it  shall  content  me ;  let  but  something 
Be  done,  let  only  some  decisive  blow- 
Set  us  in  motion. 

ILLO. 

Besides,  "tis  of  subordinate  importance 
How,  or  how  far,  we  may  thereby  propel 
The  Generals.    'Tis  enough  that  we  persuade 
The  Duke  that  they  are  his — Let  him  but  act 
In  liis  determined  mood,  as  if  he  had  them, 
And  he  will  have  them.    Where  he  plunges  in, 
He  makes  a  whirlpool,  and  all  stream  down  to  it. 

TERTSKY. 

His  policy  is  such  a  labyrinth, 
That  many  a  lime  when  I  have  thought  myself 
Close  at  his  side,  he 's  gone  at  once,  and  left  me 
Ignorant  of  the  ground  where  I  was  standing. 
He  lends  the  enemy  his  ear,  permits  me 
To  write  to  them,  to  Arnheim ;  to  Sesina 
Himself  comes  forward  blank  and  undisguised  ; 
Talks  wth  us  by  the  hour  about  his  plans. 

And  when  I  think  I  have  him — off  at  once 

He  has  slipp'd  from  me,  and  appears  as  if 
He  had  no  scheme,  but  to  retain  liis  place. 

ILLO. 

He  give  up  his  old  plans  I  I  '11  fell  you,  friend  ! 
His  soul  is  occupied  with  nothing  else, 
Even  in  his  sleep — They  are  his  thoughts,  his  dreams, 
That  day  by  day  he  questions  for  this  purpose 
The  motions  of  the  planets 

TERTSKY. 

Ay  I  you  know 
This  night,  that  is  now  coming,  he  with  Seni 
Shuts  himself  up  in  the  astrological  tower 
To  make  joint  observations — for  I  hear, 


It  is  to  be  a  night  of  weight  and  crisis ; 

And  something  great,  and  of  long  expectation. 

Is  to  make  its  procession  in  the  heaven. 

ILLO. 

Come  !  be  we  bold  and  make  dispatch.    The  work 
In  this  next  day  or  two  must  thrive  and  grow 
More  than  it  has  for  years.     And  let  but  only 

Things  first  turn  up  auspicious  here  below 

Mark  what  I  say — the  right  stars  too  will  show  them- 
selves. 
Come,  to  the  Generals.    All  is  in  the  glow, 
And  must  be  beaten  while  'tis  malleable. 

TERTSKY. 

Do  you  go  thither,  Illo.    I  must  stay. 
And  wait  here  for  the  countess  Tertsky.     Know, 
That  we  too  are  not  idle.    Break  one  string, 
A  second  is  in  readiness. 

ILLO. 

Yes!  Yes! 
I  saw  your  lady  smile  with  such  sly  meaning. 
What 's  in  the  wind  ? 


TERTSKY. 

A  secret. 


Hush! 


she  comes. 
[Exit  Illo. 


SCENE  II. 


(The  Countess  steps  out  from  a  Clout), 
Count  aTid  Countess  Tertsky. 

TERTSKY. 

Well — is  she  coining  ? — I  can  keep  him  back 
No  longer. 

COUNTESS. 

She  will  be  there  instantly, 
You  only  send  him. 

TERTSKY. 

I  am  not  quite  certain, 
I  must  confess  it.  Countess,  whether  or  not 
We  are  earning  the  Duke's  thanks  hereby.  You  know 
No  ray  has  broke  out  from  him  on  this  point. 
You  have  o'erruled  me,  and  yourself  know  best 
How  far  you  dare  proceed. 

COUNTESS. 

I  take  it  on  me. 
[Talking  to  herself,  while  she  is  advancing 
Here's  no  need  of  full  powers  and  commissions — 
My  cloudy  Duke !  we  understand  each  other — 
And  without  words.    What,  could  I  not  unriddle. 
Wherefore  the  daughter  should  be  sent  for  hither, 
Why  first  he,  and  no  other,  should  be  chosen 
To  fetch  her  hither  ?  This  sham  of  betrothing  her 

To  a  bridegroom,*  when  no  one  knows — No!  no! ■ 

This  may  blind  others  !  I  see  through  thee,  Brother ' 
But  it  beseems  thee  not,  to  draw  a  card 
At  such  a  game.     Not  yet ! — It  all  remains 

Mutely  deliver'd  up  to  my  finessing 

Well — thou  shall  not  have  been  deceived,  Duke 

Friedland ' 
In  her  who  is  thy  sister. 

SERVANT  {enters). 

The  commanders ! 

TERTSKY  {to  the  CoUNTESS). 

Take  care  you  heal  his  fancy  and  affections — 

*  In  Germany,  after  honorable  addresses  have  been  paid  and 
formally  accepted,  the  lovers  are  called  Bride  and  Bridegroom, 
even  though  the  marriage  should  not  take  place  Ull  years  after- 
wards.  j^g 


THE  PICCOLOMINL 


137 


Possess  him  with  a  reverie,  and  send  him, 
Absent  and  dreaming,  to  tlie  banquet;  that 
He  may  not  boggle  at  the  signature. 

COUNTESS. 

Take  you  care  of  your  guests ! — Go,  send  him  hither. 

TERTSKV. 

All  rests  upon  his  undersigning. 

cou.vTESS  {interrupting  him). 
Go  to  your  guests !  Go— — 

iLLo  (cotnes  hack). 

Where  art  staying,  Tertsky  ? 
The  house  is  full,  and  all  expecting  you. 

TERTSKY. 

Instantly!  Instantly! 

[To  the  Countess. 
And  let  him  not 
Stay  here  too  long.    It  might  awake  suspicion 

In  the  old  man 

countess. 

A  truce  with  your  precautions ! 
[Exeunt  TertsIvY  and  Illo. 


SCENE  III. 


Countess,  Max.  Piccolomini. 
MAX.  (peeping  in  on  the  stage  shylij). 
Aunt  Tertsky !  may  I  venture  ?  ' 

[Advances  to  the  middle  of  the  stage,  and  looks 
around  him  with  uneasiness. 

She 's  not  here  ! 
WHiere  is  she  ? 

countess. 
Look  but  somewhat  narrowly 
[n  yonder  comer,  lest  perhaps  she  lie 
Conceal'd  behind  that  screen. 

MAX. 

There  lie  her  gloves  ! 
[Snatches  at  them,  but  the  Countess  takes  them 
herself. 
You  unkind  Lady !  You  refuse  me  this — 
You  make  it  an  amusement  to  torment  me. 

countess. 
And  this  the  thank  you  give  me  for  my  trouble  ? 

MAX. 

O,  if  you  felt  the  oppression  at  my  heart ! 
Since  we've  been  here,  so  to  constrain  myself — 
With  such  poor  stealth  to  hazard  words  and  glances — 
These,  these  are  not  my  habit.s  ! 
countess. 

You  have  still 
Many  new  habits  to  acquire,  young  friend  ! 
But  on  this  proof  of  your  obedient  temper 
I  must  continue  to  insist ;  and  only 
On  this  condition  can  I  play  the  agent 
For  your  concerns. 

MAX. 

But  wherefore  comes  she  not  ? 
Where  is  she  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Into  my  hands  you  must  place  it 
Whole  and  entire.  Whom  could  you  find,  indeed. 
More  zealously  atlected  to  your  interest  ? 
No  soul  on  earth  must  know  it — not  your  father. 
//t!  must  not,  above  all. 

MAX. 

Alas  I  what  danger  ? 


Here  is  no  face  on  which  I  might  concentre 
All  the  enraptured  soul  slirs  up  within  me. 

0  Lady !  tell  nic.    Is  all  changed  around  me  ? 
Or  is  it  only  I  ? 

I  find  myself. 
As  among  strangers !  Not  a  trace  is  left 
Of  all  my  former  wishes,  former  joys. 
Where  has  it  vanish'd  to  >.  There  was  a  time 
When  even,  melhought,  with  such  a  world  as  this 

1  wa-s  not  discontented.    Now,  how  flat ! 
How  stale  !  No  life,  no  bloom,  no  flavor  in  it ! 
My  comrades  are  intolerable  to  me. 

My  father — Even  to  him  I  can  say  nothing. 
My  arms,  my  military  duties — O  ! 
They  are  such  weaiyiiig  toys ! 

COUNTESS. 

But,  gentle  friend ! 
I  must  entreat  it  of  your  condescension. 
You  would  be  pleased  to  sink  your  eye,  and  favor 
With  one  short  glance  or  two  this  poor  stale  world 
Where  even  now  much,  and  of  much  moment, 
Is  on  the  eve  of  its  completion. 

MAX. 

Something, 
I  can't  but  know,  is  going  forward  round  me. 
I  see  it  gathering,  crowding,  driving  on. 
In  wild  uncustomary  movements.  Well, 
In  due  time,  doubfless,  it  will  reach  even  me. 
Where  think  you  I  have  been,  dear  lady  ?  Nay, 
No  raillery.    The  turmoil  of  the  camp, 
The  spring-tide  of  acquaintance  rolling  in. 
The  pointless  jest,  the  empty  conversation, 
Oppress'd  and  stiffen'd  me.    I  gasp'd  for  air — 
I  could  not  breathe — I  was  constrain'd  to  fly, 
To  seek  a  silence  out  for  my  full  heart ; 
And  a  pure  spot  wherein  to  feel  my  happiness. 
No  smiling.  Countess !    In  the  church  was  I. 
There  is  a  cloister  here  to  the  heaven's  gate,* 
Thither  I  went,  there  found  myself  alone. 
Over  the  altar  hung  a  holy  mother ; 
A  wretched  painting  'twas,  yet  'twas  the  friend 
That  I  was  seeking  in  this  moment.    Ah, 
How  oft  have  I  beheld  that  glorious  form 
In  splendor,  'mid  ecstatic  worshippers  ; 
Yet,  still  it  moved  me  not !  and  now  at  once 
Was  my  devotion  cloudless  as  my  love. 

COUNTESS. 

Enjoy  your  fortune  and  feUcity  ! 

Forget  the  world  around  you.    Meantime,  friendship 

Shall  keep  strict  vigils  for  you,  anxious,  active. 

Only  be  manageable  when  that  friendship 

Points  you  the  road  to  full  accomplishment. 

How  long  may  it  be  since  you  declared  your  passion  1 

MAX. 

This  morning  did  I  hazard  the  first  word. 

COUNTESS. 

This  morning  the  first  time  in  twenty  days  ? 

MAX. 

'Twas  at  that  hunting-castle,  betwixt  here 

And  Nefwmuck,  where  you  had  join'd  us,  and — 

That  was  the  last  relay  of  the  whole  journey ! 


*  I  am  doubtful  whether  this  he  the  dedication  of  the  cloister, 
or  the  name  of  one  of  the  city  gates,  near  which  it  stood.  I 
have  translated  it  in  the  former  sense :  but  feartui  of  having 
made  some  blunder,  I  add  the  original. — Es  isl  ein  Kloster  hior 
:«r  Himmelspforte. 

147' 


138 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


In  a  balcony  we  were  standing  mute, 

And  gazing  out  upon  the  dreary  field  : 

Before  us  the  dragoons  were  riding  onward, 

The  safeguard  which  the  Duke  had  sent  us — heavy 

The  inquietude  of  parting  lay  upon  me, 

And  trembling  ventured  I  at  length  these  words : 

This  all  reminds  me,  noble  maiden,  that 

To-day  I  must  take  leave  of  my  good  fortune. 

A  few  hours  more,  and  you  will  find  a  father. 

Will  see  yourself  surrounded  by  new  friends, 

And  I  henceforth  shall  be  but  as  a  stranger, 

Lost  in  the  many — "  Speak  with  my  aunt  Tertsky !" 

With  hurrying  voice  she  interrupted  me. 

She  falter'd.    I  beheld  a  glowing  red 

Possess  her  beautiful  cheeks,  and  from  the  ground 

Raised  slowly  up,  her  eye  met  mine — no  longer 

Did  I  control  myself 

[The  Princess  Thekla  appears  at  the  door,  and 

remains  standing,  observed  by  the  Countess, 

but  not  by  Piccolomini. 

With  instant  boldness 
I  caught  her  in  my  arms,  my  mouth  touch'd  hers ; 
There  was  a  rustling  in  the  room  close  by ; 
It  parted  us — 'T  was  you.   What  since  has  happen'd, 
You  know. 

COUNTESS  (after  a  pause,  with  a  stolen  glance 
at  Thekla). 
And  is  it  your  excess  of  tnodesty  ; 
Or  are  you  so  incurious,  that  you  do  not 
Ask  me  too,  of  my  secret  ? 

MAX. 

Of  your  secret  ? 
countess. 
Why,  yes !  When  in  the  instant  after  you 
1  stepp'd  into  the  room,  and  found  my  niece  there. 
What  she  in  this  first  moment  of  the  heart 
Ta'en  with  surprise — 

MAX.  (ivith  eagerness). 
Well? 


SCENE  IV. 

Thekla  (hurries  forward),  Countess,  Max. 

Piccolomini. 

thekla  (to  the  Countess). 

Spare  yourself  the  trouble : 
That  hears  he  better  from  myself 

MAX.  (stepping  backioard). 

My  Princess ! 
What  have  you  let  her  hear  me  say,  aunt  Tertsky  ? 

thekla  (to  the  Countess). 
Has  he  been  here  long  ? 

countess. 

Yes ;  and  soon  must  go. 
Where  have  you  stay'd  so  long  ? 

THEKLA. 

Alas !  my  mother 
Wept  so  again !  and  I — I  see  her  suffer, 
Yet  cannot  keep  myself  from  being  happy. 

MAX. 

Now  once  again  I  have  courage  to  look  on  you. 
'  To-day  at  noon  I  could  not. 
'  The  dazzle  of  the  jewels  that  play'd  round  you 

Ilid  the  beloved  from  me. 

THEKLA. 

Then  you  saw  me 
'  With  your  eye  only — and  not  with  your  heart  ? 


This  morning,  when  I  found  you  in  the  circle 

Of  all  your  kindred,  in  your  father's  arms. 

Beheld  myself  an  alien  in  this  circle, 

O !  what  an  impulse  felt  I  in  that  moment 

To  fall  upon  his  neck,  to  call  h'lm  father .' 

But  his  stern  eye  o'erpower'd  the  swelling  passion — 

It  dared  not  but  be  silent.    And  those  brilliants. 

That  like  a  crown  of  stars  enwreathed  your  brows. 

They  scared  me  too!  0  wherefore,  wherefore  should  he 

At  the  first  meeting  spread  as  'twere  the  ban 

Of  excommunication  round  you, — wherefore 

Dress  up  the  angel  as  for  sacrifice, 

And  cast  upon  the  light  and  joyous  heart 

The  mournful  burthen  of  his  station  ?  Fitly 

May  love  dare  woo  for  love ;  but  such  a  splendor 

Might  none  but  monarchs  venture  to  approach. 

THEKLA. 

Hush !  not  a  word  more  of  this  mummery  • 
You  see  how  soon  the  burthen  is  thrown  off 

[To  the  Countess. 
He  is  not  in  spirits.    Wherefore  is  he  not  ? 
'Tis  you,  aunt,  that  have  made  him  all  so  gloomy! 
He  had  quite  another  nature  on  the  journey — 
So  calm,  so  bright,  so  joyous  eloquent. 

[To  Max. 
It  was  my  wish  to  see  you  always  so. 
And  never  otherwise ! 


You  find  yourself 
In  your  great  father's  arms,  beloved  lady ! 
All  in  a  new  world,  which  docs  homage  to  you, 
And  which,  were't  only  by  its  novelty, 
Delights  your  eye. 

THEKLA. 

Yes ;  I  confess  to  you 
That  many  things  delight  me  here :  this  camp, 
This  motley  stage  of  warriors,  which  renews 
So  manifold  the  image  of  my  fancy, 
And  binds  to  life,  binds  to  reality, 
Wliat  hitherto  had  but  been  present  to  me 
As  a  sweet  dream ! 

MAX. 

Alas !  not  so  to  me. 
It  makes  a  dream  of  my  reality. 
Upon  some  island  in  the  ethereal  heights 
I  've  lived  for  these  last  days.    This  mass  of  men 
Forces  me  down  to  earth.    It  is  a  bridge 
That,  reconducting  to  my  former  life. 
Divides  me  and  my  heaven. 

THEKLA. 

The  game  of  life 
Looks  cheerful,  when  one  carries  in  one's  heart 
The  unalienable  treasure.    'Tis  a  game. 
Which  having  once  review'd,  I  turn  more  joyous 
Back  to  my  deeper  and  appropriate  bliss. 

[Breaking  off,  and  in  a  sportive  tone 
In  this  short  time  that  I  've  been  present  here. 
What  new  unheard-of  things  have  I  not  seen ! 
And  yet  they  all  must  give  place  to  the  wonder 
Which  this  mysterious  castle  guards. 

countess  (recollecting). 

And  what 
Can  this  be  then?  Methought  I  was  acquainted 
With  all  the  dusky  comers  of  this  house 
148 


THE  PICGOLOMINI. 


139 


THEKLA  (siniliug). 
Ay,  but  the  road  tliereto  is  watch'd  by  spirits : 
Two  grifliiis  still  stand  sentry  at  the  door. 

COUNTESS  {laiig/is). 
Tlic  astrological  tower! — How  happens  it 
That  tliis  same  sanctuary,  whose  access 
Is  to  all  otliers  so  impracticable, 
Opens  before  you  even  at  your  approach  ? 

TIll'.KLA. 

A  dwarfish  old  man  \\ith  a  friendly  face 

And  snow-white  hairs,  whose  gracious  services 

Were  mine  at  first  siglit,  open"d  me  the  doors. 

MAX. 

That  is  the  Duke's  astrologer,  old  Seni. 

THEKI^V. 

He  questioned  me  on  many  points  ;  for  instance, 
When  I  was  bom,  what  month,  and  on  what  day, 
Whether  by  day  or  in  the  night. 

COUNTESS. 

He  wish'd 
To  erect  a  figure  for  your  horoscope. 

THEKLA. 

My  hand  too  he  examined,  shook  his  head 

With  much  sad  meaning,  and  the  lines,  methought, 

Did  not  square  over-truly  with  his  wishes. 

COUNTESS. 

Well,  Princess,  and  what  found  you  in  this  tower  ? 
My  highest  privilege  has  been  to  snatch 
A  side-glance,  and  away  ! 

THEKLA. 

It  was  a  strange 
Sensation  that  came  o'er  me,  when  at  first 
From  the  broad  sunshine  I  slepp'd  in ;  and  now 
The  narrowing  line  of  day-liglil,  that  ran  after 
The  closing  door,  was  gone ;  and  all  about  me 
'Twas  pale  and  dusky  night,  with  many  shadows 
Fantastically  cast.     Here  six  or  seven 
Colossal  statues,  and  all  kings,  stood  round  me 
In  a  half-circle.     Each  one  in  his  hand 
A  sceptre  bore,  and  on  his  head  a  star  ; 
And  in  the  tower  no  other  light  was  there 
But  from  these  stars :  all  seem'd  to  come  from  them. 
"  These  are  the  planets,"  said  that  low  old  man, 
"  They  govern  worldly  fates,  and  for  that  cause 
Are  imaged  here  as  kings.     He  farthest  from  you, 
Spiteful,  and  cold,  an  old  man  melancholy, 
With  bent  and  yellow  forehead,  he  is  Saturn. 
He  opposite,  the  king  with  the  red  light, 
An  arm'd  man  for  the  battle,  that  is  Mars : 
And  both  these  bring  but  little  luck  to  man." 
But  at  his  side  a  lovely  lady  stood, 
The  star  upon  her  head  was  soft  and  bright, 
And  that  was  Venus,  the  bright  star  of  joy. 
On  the  left  hand,  lo!  Mercury,  with  wings. 
Quite  in  the  middle  glitter'd  silver  bright 
A  cheerful  man,  and  with  a  monarch's  mien  ; 
And  this  was  Jupiter,  my  father's  star ; 
And  at  his  side  I  saw  the  Sun  and  Moon. 

MAX. 

O  never  rudely  will  I  blame  his  faith 

In  the  might  of  stars  and  angels  I  'Tis  not  merely 

The  human  being's  Pride  that  peoples  space 

With  life  and  mystical  predominance  : 

Since  hkewi.se  for  the  stricken  heart  of  Love 

This  visible  nature,  and  this  common  world, 

Is  all  too  narrow :  yea,  a  deeper  import 


Lurks  in  the  legend  told  my  infant  years 

Than  lies  upon  that  truth,  we  live  to  learn. 

For  fable  is  Love's  world,  his  home,  his  birth-placo 

Delightedly  dwells  he  'mong  fiiys  and  talismans, 

And  spirits  ;  and  delightedly  believes 

Divinities,  being  himself  divine. 

The  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets, 

The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion, 

The  Power,  the  Beauty,  and  the  Majesty, 

That  had  her  haunts  in  dale,  or  piny  mountain. 

Or  forest  by  slow  stream,  or  pebbly  spring. 

Or  chasms  and  wat'ry  depths  ;  all  these  have  vanish'd. 

They  live  no  longer  in  the  failh  of  reason ! 

But  still  the  heart  dolh  need  a  language,  still 

Doth  the  old  instinct  bring  back  the  old  names. 

And  to  yon  starry  world  they  now  are  gone, 

Spirits  or  gods,  that  used  to  share  this  earth 

With  man  as  with  their  friend;*  and  to  the  lover 

Yonder  they  move,  from  yonder  visible  sky 

Shoot  influence  down :  and  even  at  this  day 

'Tis  Jupiter  who  brings  whate'er'is  great, 

And  Venus  who  bruigs  every  thing  that 's  fair ! 

THEKLA. 

And  if  this  be  the  science  of  the  stars, 

I  too,  with  glad  and  zealous  industry. 

Will  learn  acquaintance  with  this  cheerful  faith. 

It  is  a  gentle  and  affectionate  thought, 

That  in  immeasurable  heights  above  us. 

At  our  first  birth,  the  wreath  of  love  was  woven, 

With  sparkhng  stars  for  flowers. 

COUNTESS. 

Not  only  roses, 
But  thorns  too  hath  the  heaven  ;  and  well  for  you 
Leave  they  your  wreath  of  love  inviolate  : 
What  Venus  twined,  the  bearer  of  glad  fortune, 
The  sullen  orb  of  Mars  soon  tears  to  pieces. 

MAX. 

Soon  will  his  gloomy  empire  reach  its  close. 

Blest  be  tlie  General's  zeal :  into  the  laurel 

Will  ho  inweave  the  olive-branch,  presenting 

Peace  to  the  shouting  nations.     Then  no  wish 

Will  have  remain'd  for  his  great  heart !  Enough 

Has  he  perform'd  for  glory,  and  can  now 

Live  for  himself  and  his.     To  his  domains 

Will  he  reUre ;  he  has  a  stately  seat 

Of  fairest  view  at  Gitschin  ;  Reichenberg, 

And  Friedland  Castle,  both  lie  pleasantly — 

Even  to  the  foot  of  the  huge  mountains  here 

Stretches  the  chase  and  covers  of  his  forests : 

His  ruling  passion,  to  create  the  splendid, 

He  can  indulge  without  restraint;  can  give 

A  princely  patronage  to  every  art, 

And  to  all  worth  a  sovereign's  protection. 

Can  build,  can  plant,  can  watch  the  starry  courses — 

COUNTESS. 

Yet  I  would  have  you  look,  and  look  again, 
Before  you  lay  aside  your  arms,  young  friend  ! 
A  gentle  bride,  as  she  is,  is  well  worth  it, 
That  you  should  woo  and  win  her  with  the  sword. 


O,  that  the  sword  could  win  her ! 


What  was  that  ? 


♦  No  more  of  talk,  where  god  or  angel  guest 
With  man,  as  with  his  friend  familiar,  used 
To  sit  indulgent.  Paradise  Lost,  B.  IX 

20  149 


140 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Did  you  hear  nothing  ?  Seem'd,  as  if  I  heard 
Tumult  and  larum  in  the  banquet-room. 

[Exit  Countess. 


SCENE  V. 
Thekla  and  Max.  Piccolomini. 

THEKLA  {as  soon  as  the  Countess  is  out  of  sight,  in  a 

quick  low  voice  to  Piccolomini). 
Don't  trust  them!    They  are  false  ! 

MAX. 

Impossible ! 

THEKLA. 

Trust  no  one  here  but  me.     I  saw  at  once, 
They  had  a  purpose. 

MAX. 

Purpose  I  but  what  purpose  ? 
And  how  can  we  be  instrumental  to  it  ? 

THEKLA. 

I  know  no  more  than  you ;  but  yet  believe  me  : 
There 's  some  design  in  this !  To  make  us  happy, 
To  realize  our  union — trust  me,  love ! 
They  but  pretend  to  wish  it. 

MAX. 

But  these  Tertskys 

Why  use  we  them  at  all  ?   Why  not  your  mother  ? 
Excellent  creature  !  she  deserves  from  us 
A  full  and  filial  confidence. 

THEKLA. 

She  doth  love  you, 
Doth  rale  you  high  before  all  others — but — 
But  such  a  secret — she  would  never  have 
The  courage  to  conceal  it  from  my  father. 
For  her  own  peace  of  mind  we  must  preserve  it 
A  secret  from  her  too. 

MAX. 

Why  any  secret  ? 
I  love  not  secrets.     Mark,  what  I  will  do. 
I  '11  throw  me  at  your  father's  feet — let  him 
Decide  upon  my  fortunes  I — He  is  true, 
He  wears  no  mask — he  hates  all  crooked  ways — 
He  is  so  good,  so  noble ! 

THEKLA  (falls  on  his  necJc). 
That  are  you ! 

MAX. 

You  knew  him  only  since  this  morn,  but  I 
Have  lived  ten  years  already  in  his  presence. 
And  who  knows  whether  in  this  very  moment 
He  is  not  merely  waiting  for  us  both 
To  own  our  loves,  in  order  to  unite  us  ? 

You  are  silent  ? 

You  look  at  me  with  such  a  hopelessness  I 
What  have  you  to  object  against  your  father  ? 

THEKLA. 

I  ?  Nothing.  Only  he 's  so  occupied — 
He  has  no  leisure  time  to  think  about 
The  happiness  of  us  two.  [Taking  his  hand  tenderly. 

Follow  me ! 
Let  us  not  place  too  great  a  faith  in  men. 
These  Tertskys — we  will  still  be  grateful  to  them 
For  every  kindness,  but  not  trust  them  further 
Than  they  deserve  ; — and  in  all  else  rely — 
On  our  own  hearts  ! 

MAX. 

O !  shall  we  e'er  be  happy  ? 


THEKLA. 

Are  we  not  happy  now  ?    Art  thou  not  mme  ? 

Am  I  not  thine  >.    There  lives  within  my  soul 

A  lofty  courage — 'tis  love  gives  it  me! 

I  ought  to  be  less  open — ought  to  hide 

My  heart  more  from  thee — so  decorum  dictates 

But  where  in  this  place  couldst  thou  seek  for  truth. 

If  in  my  mouth  thou  didst  not  find  it  ? 


SCENE  VI. 


To  them  enters  the  Countess  Tertskv. 

COUNTESS  {in  a  pressing  manner). 

Come  ! 
My  husband  sends  me  for  you — It  is  now 
The  latest  moment. 

[They  not  appearing  to  attend  to  what  she  fiay» 
she  steps  between  them. 
Part  you ! 

THEKLA. 

O,  not  yet ! 
It  has  been  scarce  a  moment. 

COUNTESS. 

Ay !    Then  time 
Flies  swiftly  with  your  Highness,  Princess  niece  ' 

MAX. 

There  is  no  hurry,  aunt. 

COUNTESS. 

Away !  away ! 
Tlie  folks  begin  to  miss  you.  Twice  already 
His  father  has  ask'd  for  him. 

THEKLA. 

Ha !  his  father  ! 

COUNTESS. 

You  understand  that,  niece  ! 

THEKLA. 

Why  needs  he 
To  go  at  all  to  that  society  ? 
'Tis  not  liis  proper  company.    They  may 
Be  worthy  men,  but  he's  too  young  for  them. 
In  brief,  he  suits  not  such  society. 

COUNTESS. 

You  mean,  you  'd  rather  keep  him  wholly  here  ? 

THEKLA  (uith  energy). 
Yes !  you  have  hit  it,  aunt !   That  is  my  meaning 
Leave  him  here  wholly  !   Tell  the  company — 

COUNTESS. 

What  ?  have  you  lost  your  senses,  niece  ? — 
Count,  you  remember  the  conditions.     Come ' 

MAX.  {to  Thekla). 
Lady,  I  must  obey.    Farewell,  dear  lady  ! 
[Thekla  turns  away  from  him  with  a  quick  motion 
What  say  you  then,  dear  lady  ? 

THEKLA  {without  looking  at  him). 

Nothing.    Go ! 

MAX. 

Can  I,  when  you  are  angry 

[He  draws  up  to  her,  their  eyes  meet,  she  stands 
silent  a  moment,  then  throws  herself  into  his 
arms  ;  he  presses  her  fast  to  his  heart. 

COUNTESS. 

Off!    Heavens  !  if  any  one  should  come  . 

Hark  !  What 's  that  noise  !  it  comes  this  way. Off' 

Max.  tears  himself  away  out  of  her  arms,and  goes. 
Tlie  Countess  accompanies  him.    Thekla 
150 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


141 


follows  him  with  her  eyes  at  frst,  walks  rest- 
lessly across  the  room,  then  stops,  and  remains 
standing,  lost  in  thought.  A  guitar  lies  on  the 
table,  she  seizes  it  as  by  a  sudden  emotion,  and 
after  she  has  played  a  while  an  irregular  and 
Tnelancholi/  symphony,  she  falls  gradually  into 
the  music,  and  sings. 

THEKLA  (plays  and  sings). 
The  cloud  doth  gather,  the  greenwood  roar. 
The  damsel  paces  along  the  shore ; 
The  billows  they  tumble  with  might,  with  might  ; 
And  she  flings  out  her  voice  to  the  darksome  night ; 

Her  bosom  is  swelling  with  sorrow  ; 
The  world  it  is  empty,  the  heart  will  die, 
There 's  nothing  to  wish  for  beneath  the  sky  : 
Thou  Holy  One,  call  thy  child  away ! 
've  lived  and  loved,  and  that  was  to-day — 

Make  ready  my  grave-clothes  to-morrow.* 


SCENE  vn. 

Countess  (returns),  Thekla. 

COUNTESS. 

Fie,  lady  niece  !  to  throw  yourself  upon  him, 

Like  a  poor  gift  to  one  who  cares  not  for  it, 

And  so  must  be  flung  after  him  !  For  you, 

Duke  Friedland's  only  child,  I  should  have  thought. 

It  had  been  more  beseeming  to  have  shown  yourself 

More  chary  of  your  person. 

THEKLA  (rising). 

And  what  mean  you  ? 


*  I  found  it  not  in  my  power  to  translate  this  song  wiih  literal 
fidelity,  preserving  at  the  same  time  the  Alcaic  Movement;  and 
have  therefore  added  the  original  with  a  prose  translation.  Some 
of  my  readers  may  be  more  fortunate. 

THEKLA  (spiell  und  singt). 
Der  Eichwald  brauset,  die  Wolken  ziehn, 
Das  MEPgdlein  wandelt  an  Ufers  Griin, 
Es  bricht  sich  die  Welle  mit  Macht,  mit  Macht, 
Und  sie  singt  hinaus  in  die  finstre  Nacht, 

Das  Auge  von  VVeinen  getriibet . 
Das  Herz  ist  gestorben,  die  Welt  ist  leer, 
Und  weiter  giebt  sie  dem  Wunsche  nichts  mehr. 
Uu  Heilige,  rufe  dein  Kind  zuriick, 
Ich  habe  genosscn  das  irdische  Gliick, 

Ich  habe  gelebt  und  geleibet. 

LITERAL  TRANSLATION. 
THEKLA  [plays  and  sings). 
The  oak-forest  bellows,  the  clouds  gather,  the  damsel  walks 
to  anJ  fro  on  the  green  of  the  shore :  the  wave  breaks  with 
might,  with  might,  and  she  sings  out  into  the  dark  night,  her 
eye  discolored  with  weeping :  the  heart  is  dead,  the  world  is 
empty,  and  further  gives  it  nothing  more  to  the  wish.  Thou  Holy 
One,  cell  thy  child  home.  I  have  enjoyed  the  happiness  of  this 
world.  I  have  lived  and  have  loved. 

I  cannot  but  add  here  an  imitation  of  this  song,  with  which 
the  author  of  "The  Tale  of  Rosamund  Gray  and  Blind  Mar- 
garet" has  favored  me.  and  which  appears  to  me  to  have  caught 
the  happiest  manm  r  of  our  old  ballads. 

The  cloud.s  are  blackenine,  the  storms  threat'ning, 

The  cavern  doth  mutter,  the  greenwood  moan; 
Billows  are  breaking,  the  damsel's  heart  aching. 
Thus  in  the  dark  night  she  singeth  alone. 
Her  eye  upward  roving: 
The  world  is  empty,  the  heart  is  dead  surely, 

In  this  world  plainly  all  seemeth  amiss: 
To  thy  heaven,  Holy  One,  lake  home  thy  little  one. 
I  have  partaken  of  all  earth's  bliss. 
Both  living  and  loving. 
O 


COU.NTESS. 

I  mean,  niece,  that  you  should  not  have  forgotten 
Who  you  are,  and  who  he  is.     But  perchance 
That  never  once  occurr'd  to  you. 

THEKLA. 

What  then  ? 

COUNTESS. 

That   you  're    the   daughter   of  the    Prince,   Duke 
Friedland. 

THEKLA. 

Well — and  what  farther  ? 

COUNTESS 

Wliat  ?  a  pretty  question ! 

THEKLA. 

He  was  horn  that  which  we  have  but  become 
He 's  of  an  ancient  Lombard  family 
Son  of  a  reigning  princess. 

COUNTESS. 

Are  you  dreaming  ? 
Talking  in  sleep  ?  An  excellent  jest,  forsooth ! 
We  shall  no  doubt  right  courteously  entreat  him 
To  honor  with  his  hand  the  richest  heiress 
In  Europe. 

THEKLA. 

That  will  not  be  necessary. 

COUNTESS. 

Methinks  'twere  well  though  not  to  run  the  hazard 

THEKLA. 

His  father  loves  him  :  Count  Octavio 
Will  interpose  no  difTiculty 

COUNTESS. 

His! 
His  father!  His  !  but  yours,  niece,  what  of  yours? 

THEKLA. 

Why  I  begin  to  think  you  fear  his  father, 
So  anxiously  you  hide  it  from  the  man  ! 
His  father,  his,  I  mean. 

COUNTESS  (looks  at  her  as  scrutinizing). 
Niece,  you  are  false. 

THEKLA. 

Are  you  then  wounded  ?  O,  be  friends  with  me ! 

COUNTESS. 

You  hold  your  game  for  won  already.     Do  not 
Triumph  too  soon ! — 

THEKLA  (interrupting  Iter,  and  attempting  to  soothe 
her). 
Nay,  now,  be  friends  with  me 

COUNTESS. 

It  is  not  yet  so  far  gone. 

THEKLA 

I  believe  you. 

COUNTESS. 

Did  you  suppose  your  father  had  laid  out 

His  most  important  life  in  toils  of  war, 

Denied  himself  each  quiet  earthly  bliss. 

Had  banish'd  slumber  from  his  tent,  devoted 

His  noble  head  to  care,  and  for  this  onlv. 

To  make  a  hajipierpair  of  you?  At  length 

To  draw  you  from  your  convent,  and  conduct 

In  easy  triumph  to  your  arms  the  man 

That  chanced  to  ple.isc  your  eyes  !  All  this,  methinks 

He  might  have  purchased  at  a  cheaper  rate. 

THEKLA. 

That  which  he  did  not  plant  for  me  might  yot 
Bear  me  fair  fruitage  of  its  owti  accord. 
And  if  my  friendly  and  affectionate  fate, 

151 


142 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Out  of  his  fearful  and  enormous  being, 
Will  but  prepare  the  joys  of  life  for  me — 

COUNTESS. 

Thou  see'st  it  with  a  lovelorn  maiden's  eyes. 
Cast  thine  eye  round,  bethink  thee  who  thou  art. 
Into  no  house  of  joyance  hast  thou  stepp'd, 
For  no  espousals  dost  thou  find  the  walls 
Deck'd  out,  no  guests  the  nuptial  garland  wearing. 
Here  is  no  splendor  but  of  arms.     Or  think'st  thou 
That  all  these  thousands  are  here  congregated 
To  lead  up  the  long  dances  at  thy  wedding ! 
Thou  see'st  thy  father's  forehead  full  of  thought, 
Thy  mother's  eye  in  tears :  upon  the  balance 
Lies  the  great  destiny  of  all  our  house. 
Leave  now  the  puny  wish,  the  girlish  feeling, 

0  thrust  it  far  behind  thee  !  Give  thou  proof, 
Thou'rt  the  daughter  of  the  Mighty — his 
Who  where  he  moves  creates  the  wonderful. 
Not  to  herself  the  woman  must  belong, 
Armex'd  and  bound  to  alien  destinies : 

But  she  performs  the  best  part,  she  the  wisest. 
Who  can  transmute  the  alien  into  self. 
Meet  and  disarm  necessity  by  choice ; 
And  what  must  be,  take  freely  to  her  heart. 
And  bear  and  foster  it  with  mother's  love. 

THEKLA. 

Such  ever  was  my  lesson  in  the  convent. 

1  had  no  loves,  no  wishes,  knew  myself 
Only  as  his— his  daughter,  his,  the  Mighty ! 
His  fame,  the  echo  of  whose  blast  drove  to  me 
From  the  far  distance,  waken'd  in  my  soul 
No  other  thought  than  this — I  am  appointed 
To  offer  up  myself  in  passiveness  to  him. 

COUNTp;SS. 

That  is  thy  fate.     Mould  thou  thy  wishes  to  it. 
I  and  thy  mother  gave  thee  the  example. 

THEKLA. 

My  fate  hath  shown  me  him,  to  whom  behoves  it 
That  I  should  offer  up  myself     In  gladness 
Him  will  I  follow. 

COUNTESS 

Not  thy  fate  hath  shown  him ! 
Thy  heart,  say  rather — 'twas  thy  heart,  my  child! 

THEKLA. 

Fate  hath  no  voice  but  the  heart's  impulses. 
I  am  all  his !  His  present — his  alone. 
Is  this  new  life,  which  lives  in  me  ?  He  hath 
A  right  to  his  own  creature.     What  was  I 
Ere  his  fair  love  infused  a  soul  into  me  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Thou  wouldst  oppose  thy  father  then,  should  he 
Have  otherwise  detenuined  with  thy  person  ? 

[Thekla  remains  silent.    The  Countess  continues. 
Thou  mean'st  to  force  him  to  thy  liking  ? — Child, 
His  name  is  Friedland. 

THEKLA. 

My  name  too  is  Friedland. 
He  shall  have  found  a  genuine  daughter  in  me. 

countess. 
What!  he  has  vanquish'd  all  impediment. 
And  in  the  wilful  mood  of  his  own  daughter 
Shall  a  new  struggle  rise  for  him  ?  Child  !  child  ! 
As  yet  thou  hast  seen  thy  father's  smiles  alone  ; 
The  eye  of  his  rage  thou  hast  not  seen.    Dear  child, 
I  will  not  frighten  thee.     To  that  extreme, 
I  trust,  it  ne'er  shall  come.     His  will  is  yet 


Unknown  to  me :  'tis  possible  his  aims 
May  have  the  same  direction  as  thy  wish. 
But  this  can  never,  never  be  his  will 
That  thou,  the  daughter  of  his  haughty  fortune.* 
Should'st  e'er  demean  thee  as  a  love-sick  maiden; 
And  hke  some  poor  cost-nothing,  fling  thyself 
Toward  the  man,  who,  if  that  high  prize  ever 
Be  destined  to  await  him,  yet,  with  sacrifices 
The  highest  love  can  bring,  must  pay  for  it. 

{Exit  Countess 

THEKLA  {who  during  the  last  speech  had  been  standing 

evidently  lost  in  her  reflections). 
I  thank  thee  for  the  hint.     It  turns 
My  sad  presentiment  to  certainty. 
And  it  is  so ! — Not  one  friend  have  we  here. 
Not  one  true  heart !  we  've  nothing  but  ourselves ! 

0  she  said  rightly — no  auspicious  signs 
Beam  on  this  covenant  of  our  affections. 
This  is  no  theatre,  where  hope  abides : 

The  dull  thick  noise  of  war  alone  stirs  here  ; 
And  Love  himself,  as  he  were  arm'd  in  steel. 
Steps  forth,  and  girds  him  for  the  strife  of  death. 

[Music  from  the  hanquet-room  is  heard 
There's  a  dark  spirit  walking  in  our  house. 
And  swiftly  will  the  Destiny  close  on  us. 
It  drove  me  hither  from  my  calm  asylum, 
It  mocks  my  soul  with  charming  witchery, 
It  lures  me  forward  in  a  seraph's  shape ; 

1  see  it  near,  I  see  it  nearer  floating. 

It  draws,  it  pulls  me  with  a  godhke  power — 
And  lo  !  the  abyss — and  thither  am  I  moving — 
I  have  no  power  within  me  not  to  move  I 

[The  music  from  the  hanquet-rooni  becomes  louder 
O  when  a  house  is  doom'd  in  fire  to  perish. 
Many  and  dark,  heaven  drives  his  clouds  together, 
Yea,  shoots  his  lightnings  down  from  sunny  heights, 
Flames  burst  from  out  the  subterraneous  chasms, 
*And  fiends  and  angels  mingling  in  their  fury, 
Sling  fire-brands  at  the  burning  edifice. 

[Exit  Thekla. 


SCENE  VIII 


A  large  Saloon  lighted  iip  with  festal  Splendor ;  in 
the  midst  of  it,  and  in  the  Centre  of  the  Stage,  a 
Table  richly  set  out,  at  tuhich  eight  Generals  are 
sitting,  among  whom  are  Octavio  Piccolomini, 
Tertsky,  and  Maradas.  Right  and  left  of  this, 
but  farther  back,  two  other  Tables,  at  each  of  which 
six  Persons  are  placed.  The  Middle  Door,  which 
is  standing  open,  gives  to  the  Prospect  a  fourth 
Table,  with  the  same  Number  of  Persoris.  More 
fortuard  sta7ids  the  Sideboard.  The  whole  front  of 
the  Stage  is  kept  open  for  the  Pages  and  Servants  in 
waiting.  All  is  in  motion.  The  Band  of  Music 
belonging  to  Tertsky's  Regiment  march  across  the 
Stage,  and  draw  np  round  the  Tables.  Before  they 
are  quite  off  from  the  Front  of  the  Stage,  Max. 
Piccolomini  appears,  Tertsky  advances  towards 


«  There  are  few,  who  will  not  have  taste  enough  to  laugh 
at  the  two  concluding  lines  of  this  soliloquy;  and  still  fewer,  I 
would  fain  hope,  who  would  not  have  been  more  disposed  to 
shudder,  had  I  given  a  faittiful  translation.  For  the  readers 
of  German  I  have  added  the  original  • 

Blind-wUthend  schleudert  selbsi  der  GoM  der  Freude 
Den  Pechkranz  in  das  brennende  Gcbseude. 
152 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


143 


him  wiOi  a  Paper,  Isolani  comes  up  to  meet  him 
with  a  Beaker  or  Service-Cup. 

Tertskv,  Isola;ji,  Max.  Piccolomini. 

ISOLANI. 

Here  brother,  what  we  love  !  Why,  where  hast  been  ? 

Off  to  thy  place — quick !  Tertsky  here  has  given 

The  mother's  holiday  wine  up  to  free  booty. 

Here  it  goes  on  as  at  the  Heidelberg  castle. 

Already  hast  thou  lost  the  best.     They're  giving 

At  yonder  table  ducal  crowns  in  shares; 

There    Sternberg's  lands  and  chattels  are  put  up, 

With  Eggenberg's,  Stawata's,  Lichtenstein's, 

And  all  the  great  Bohemian  feodalities. 

Be  nimble,  lad  I  and  sometliing  may  turn  up 

For  thee — who  knows  ?   off — to  thy  place  !  quick ! 

march ! 
riEFENBACH  and  GoETZ  (,call  out  from  the  second  and 
third  tables). 
Count  Piccolomini ! 

TERTSKY. 

Stop,  ye  shall  have  him  in  an  instant. — Read 
Tins  oath  here,  whether  as  'tis  here  set  forth, 
The  wonling  satisfies  you.     They  've  all  read  it, 
Each  in  his  turn,  and  each  one  will  subscribe 
His  individual  signature. 

MAX.  {reads). 
"  Ingratis  servire  nefas." 

ISOLANI. 

That  sounds  to  my  ears  very  much  like  Latin, 
And  being  interpreted,  pray  what  may 't  mean  ? 

TERTSKY. 

No  honest  man  will  serve  a  thankless  master. 

MAX. 

"  Inasmuch  as  our  supreme  Commander,  the  illus- 
trious Duke  of  Friedland,  in  consequence  of  the  man- 
ifold affronts  and  grievances  which  he  has  received, 
had  expressed  his  determination  to  quit  the  P'mperor, 
but  on  our  unanimous  entreaty  has  graciously  con- 
sented to  remain  still  with  the  army,  and  not  to  part 
from  us  without  our  approbation  thereof,  so  we,  col- 
lectively and  each  in  particular,  in  the  stead  of  an  oath 
personally  taken,  do  hereby  oblige  ourselves— like- 
wse  by  him  honorably  and  faithfully  to  hold,  and  in 
nowise  whatsoever  from  him  to  part,  and  to  be  ready 
to  shed  for  his  interests  the  last  drop  of  our  blood,  so 
far,  namely,  as  our  oath  to  the  Emperor  will  permit. 
{These  last  words  are  repeated  ly  Isolani.)  In  testi- 
mony of  which  we  subscribe  our  names." 

TERTSKY. 

Now  I— are  you  wdlling  to  subscribe  this  paper  ? 

ISOLANI. 

Why  should  he  not  ?    All  officers  of  honor 
Can  ''o  It,  ay,  must  do  it— Pen  and  ink  here ! 

TERTSKV. 

Nay,  let  it  rest  till  after  meal. 

ISOLANI  {drawing  Max.  along). 
Come,  Max. 
iBoth  seat  themselves  at  their  table. 


SCENE  IX. 

Tertsky,  Neumann. 
TERTSKY  {beckons  to  Neumann  v>ho  is  uniting  at  the 

side-table,  and  steps  forward  with  him  to  the  edge  of 

the  stage). 
Have  you  the  copy  with  you,  Neumann  ?    Give  it. 
It  may  be  changed  for  the  other ! 

NEUMANN. 

I  have  copied  it 
Letter  by  letter,  line  by  line ;  no  eye 
Would  e'er  discover  other  difference. 
Save  only  the  omission  of  that  clause, 
According  to  your  Excellency's  order. 

TERTSKY. 

Right !  lay  it  yonder,  and  away  with  this — 
It  has  perform'd  its  business--lo  the  fire  with  it-  - 
[Neumann  lays  the  copy  on  the  table,  and  steps 
back  again  to  the  side-table. 


SCENE  X. 

Illo  {comes  out  from  the  second  chamber),  Tertsky 

ILLO. 

How  goes  it  with  young  Piccolomini  ? 

TERTSKY. 

All  right,  I  think.     He  has  started  no  objectien. 

ILLO. 

He  is  the  only  one  I  fear  about — 

He  and  his  father.     Have  an  eye  on  both ! 

TERTSKY. 

How  looks  it  at  your  table  ?  you  forget  not 
To  keep  them  warm  and  stirring  ? 

ILLO. 

O,  quite  cordial, 
They  are  quite  cordial  in  the  scheme.  We  have  them. 
And  'tis  as  I  predicted  too.     Already 
It  is  the  talk,  not  merely  to  maintain 
1'he  Duke  in  station.   "  Since  we  're  once  for  all 
Together  and  unanimous,  why  not," 
Says  Montecuculi,  "  ay,  why  not  onward. 
And  make  conditions  with  ihe  Emperor 
Tliere  in  his  own  Vienna  ? "    Trust  me,  Count, 
Were  it  not  for  these  said  Piccolomini, 
We  might  have  spared  ourselves  the  cheat. 

TERTSKY. 

And  Butler 
How  goes  it  there  ?   Hush .' 


SCENE  XI. 


To  them  enter  Butler  from  the  second  table. 

BUTLER. 

Don't  disturb  yourselves. 
Field  Marshal,  I  have  understood  you  perfectly. 
Good  luck  be  to  the  scheme ;  and  as  for  me, 

[  With  an  air  of  mysterv. 
You  may  depend  upon  me. 

ILLO  {with  vivacittf). 

May  we,  Butler  ? 

BUTLER. 

With  or  without  the  clause,  all  one  to  me ! 
You  understand  me  ?    My  fidelity 
The  Duke  may  put  to  any  proof— I  'm  with  him  ! 
Tell  him  so !  I  'm  the  Emperor's  officer, 

153 


144 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


As  long  as  'tis  his  pleasure  to  remain 

The  Emperor's  general !  and  Friedland's  servant, 

As  soon  as  it  shall  please  him  to  become 

His  own  lord. 

TERTSKY. 

You  would  make  a  good  exchange. 
No  stern  economist,  no  Ferdinand, 
Is  he  to  whom  you  plight  your  services. 

BUTLER  (with  a  haughty  look). 
I  do  not  put  up  my  fidelity 
To  sale,  Count  Tertsky !    Half  a  year  ago 
I  would  not  have  advised  you  to  have  made  me 
An  overture  to  that,  to  which  I  now 
Offer  myself  of  my  own  free  accord. — 
But  that  is  past !  and  to  the  Duke,  Field  Marshal, 
I  bring  myself  together  with  my  regiment. 
And  mark  you,  'tis  my  humor  to  believe, 
The  example  which  I  give  will  not  remain 
Without  an  influence. 

ILLO. 

Who  is  ignorant. 
That  the  whole  army  look  to  Colonel  Butler, 
As  to  a  Ught  that  moves  before  them  ? 

BUTLER. 

Ey? 
Then  I  repent  me  not  of  that  fidelity 
Which  for  tlie  length  of  forty  years  I  held, 
If  in  my  sixtieth  year  my  old  good  name 
Can  purchase  for  me  a  revenge  so  full. 
Start  not  at  what  I  say,  sir  Generals ! 
My  real  motives — they  concern  not  you. 
And  you  yourselves,  I  trust,  could  not  expect 
That  this  your  game  had  crook'd  my  judgment — or 
That  fickleness,  quick  blood,  or  such  like  cause. 
Has  driven  the  old  man  from  the  track  of  honor. 
Which  he  so  long  had  trodden. — Come,  my  friends ! 
I'm  not  lliereto  determined  with  less  firmness, 
Because  I  know  and  have  look'd  steadily 
At  that  on  which  I  have  determined. 


Say, 
And  speak  roundly,  what  are  we  to  deem  you  ? 


A  friend  I  I  give  you  here  my  hand  !  I  'ra  your's 

With  all  I  have.  Not  only  men,  but  money 

Will  the  Duke  want. — Go,  tell  him,  sirs  ! 

I've  earn'd  and  laid  up  somewhat  in  his  service. 

I  lend  it  him ;  and  is  he  my  survivor. 

It  has  been  already  long  ago  bequeath'd  loim. 

He  is  my  lieir.     For  me,  I  stand  alone 

Here  in  the  world ;  naught  know  I  of  the  feeling 

That  binds  the  husband  to  a  wife  and  children. 

My  name  dies  with  me,  my  existence  ends. 

ILLO. 

'Tis  not  yo)ir  money  that  he  needs — a  heart 
Like  yours  weighs  tons  of  gold  dowTi,  weiglis  down 
millions ! 

BUTLER. 

I  came  a  simple  soldier's  boy  from  Ireland 
To  Prague — and  with  a  master,  whom  I  buried. 
From  lowest  stable  duty  I  climb'd  up. 
Such  was  the  fate  of  war,  to  this  high  rank. 
The  plaything  of  a  whimsical  good  fortune. 
And  Wallenstein  too  is  a  child  of  luck ; 
love  a  fortune  that  is  like  my  own. 


ILLO. 

All  powerful  souls  have  kindred  with  each  other 

BUTLER. 

This  is  an  awful  moment !  to  the  brave. 
To  the  determined,  an  auspicious  moment. 
The  Prince  of  Weimar  arms,  upon  the  Maine 
To  found  a  mighty  dukedom.    He  of  Halberstadt, 
That  Mansfeld,  wanted  but  a  longer  life 
To  have  mark'd  out  with  his  good  sword  a  lordship 
That  should  reward  his  courage.    Who  of  these 
Equals  our  Friedland  ?  there  is  nothing,  nothing 
So  high,  but  he  may  set  the  ladder  to  it ! 

TERTSKY 

That 's  spoken  like  a  man ! 

BUTLER. 

Do  you  secure  the  Spaniard  and  Italian — 
I  'U  be  your  warrant  for  the  Scotchman  Lesly. 
Come,  to  the  company! 

TERTSKY. 

Where  is  the  master  of  the  cellar  ?   Ho ! 

Let  the  best  wines  come  up.    Ho !  cheerly,  boy ! 

Luck  comes  to-day,  so  give  her  hearty  welcome. 

[Exeunt,  each  to  his  tahl& 


SCENE  XIL 


The  Master  of  the  Cellar  advancing  mth  Neumann, 
Servants  passing  backwards  and  forivards. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

The  best  wine !  O :  if  my  old  mistress,  his  lady 
mother,  could  but  see  these  wild  goings  on,  she  would 
turn  herself  round  in  her  grave.  Yes,  yes,  sir  officer . 
'tis  all  down  the  hill  with  this  noble  house  !  no  end, 
no  moderation  I  And  this  marriage  with  the  Duke's 
sister,  a  splendid  coiuiexion,  a  very  splendid  connex- 
ion I  but  I  will  tell  you,  sir  officei;,  it  loolis  no  good. 

NEU.MANN. 

Heaven  forbid !  Why,  at  this  very  moment  the 
whole  prospect  is  in  bud  and  blossom ! 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

You  think  so  ? — Well,  well !  much  may  be  said 
on  that  head. 

FIRST  SERVANT  {comes). 

Burgundy  for  the  fourth  table. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

Now,  sir  lieutenant,  if  this  an't  the  seventieth 
flask— 

FIRST  SERVANT. 

Wliy,  the  reason  is,  that  German  lord,  Tiefen- 
bach,  sits  at  that  table. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR  {contiuuivg  his  discoursB 
to  Neumann). 

They  are  soaring  too  higli.  They  would  rival 
kings  and  electors  in  their  pomp  and  splendor;  and 
wherever  the  Duke  leaps,  not  a  minute  does  my  gra- 
cious master,  the  count,  loiter  on  the  brink {to  the 

Servants.) — What  do  you  stand  there  listening  for  ?  I ' 
will  let  you  know  you  have  legs  presently.  Off!  see 
to  the  tables,  see  to  the  flasks !  Look  there !  CounX 
Palfi  has  an  empty  glass  before  him ! 

RUNNER  {crimes). 

Tlie  great  service-cup  is  wanted,  sir ;  that  rich 
gold  cup  with  the  Bohemian  arms  on  it.  The  Count 
says  you  know  which  it  is. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

Ay!  that  was  made  for  Frederick's  coronation  by 
154 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


145 


Jhe  nrtist  William — tliere  was  not  such  another  prize 
m  the  whole  booty  at  Prague. 

RUNNER. 

The  same ! — a  health  is  to  go  round  in  liim. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR  {stiaking  his  head  while  he 
fetches  and  rinses  the  cups). 
This  will  be  sometliing  for  the  tale-bearers — this 
goes  to  Vienna. 

NEUiMANN. 

Permit  me  to  look  at  it. — Well,  this  is  a  cup  in- 
deed! How  heavy!  as  w-ell  as  it  may  be,  being  all 
gold. — And  what  neat  things  are  embossed  on  it! 
how  natural  and  elegant  they  look! — There,  on 
that  first  quarter,  let  me  see.  That  proud  Amazon 
there  on  horseback,  she  that  is  taking  a  leap  over 
the  crosier  and  mitres,  and  carries  on  a  wand  a  hat 
together  with  a  banner,  on  which  there  's  a  goblet 
represented.  Can  you  tell  me  what  all  this  signifies  ? 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

The  woman  whom  you  see  here  on  horseback,  is 
the  Free  Election  of  the  Bohemian  Crown.  That  is 
signified  by  the  round  hat,  and  by  that  fiery  steed  on 
which  she  is  riding.  The  hat  is  the  pride  of  man ; 
for  he  who  cannot  keep  his  hat  on  before  kings  and 
emperors  is  no  free  man. 

NEWMAN.V. 

Bui  what  is  the  cup  there  on  the  banner  ? 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

The  cup  signifies  the  freedom  of  the  Bohemian 
Church,  as  it  wa.s  in  our  forefathers'  times.  Our  fore- 
fathers in  the  wars  of  the  Hussites  forced  from  the 
Pope  this  noble  privilege :  for  the  Pope,  you  know, 
will  not  grant  the  cup  to  any  layman.  Your  true 
Moravian  values  nothing  beyond  the  cup ;  it  is  his 
costly  jewel,  and  has  cost  the  Bohemians  their  precious 
blood  in  many  and  many  a  battle. 

NEWMANN. 

And  what  says  that  chart  that  hangs  in  the  air 
tliere,  over  it  all  ? 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

That  signifies  the  Bohemian  letter-royal,  which  we 
forced  from  the  Emperor  Rudolph — a  precious,  never 
to  be  enough  valued  parchment,  that  secures  to  the 
new  church  the  old  privileges  of  free  ringing  and 
open  psalmody.  But  since  he  of  Sleirmark  has  ruled 
over  us,  that  is  at  an  end ;  and  after  the  battle  at 
Prague,  in  which  Count  Palatine  Frederick  lost  crown 
and  empire,  our  faith  hangs  upon  the  pulpit  and  the 
altar — and  our  brethren  look  at  their  homes  over 
their  shoulders;  but  the  letter-royal  the  Emperor 
himself  cut  to  pieces  with  liis  scissars. 

NEUMANN. 

Why,  my  good  master  of  the  cellar !  you  are  deep 
read  in  the  chronicles  of  your  country ! 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

So  were  my  forefathers,  and  for  that  reason  were 
tlie  minstrels,  and  served  under  Procopius  and  Ziska. 
Peace  l>e  with  their  ashes !  Well,  well !  they  fought 
for  a  good  cause  though — There  !  carry  it  up ! 

NEWMAN.V. 

.  Stay!  let  me  but  look  at  this  second  quarter.  Look 
Uiere  !  That  is,  w  hen  at  Prague  Ca.stle  the  Imperial 
Counsellors,  Mariinitz  and  Stawata,  were  hurled 
down  head  over  heels.  'Tisevenso!  there  stands 
Count  Thur,  who  commands  it. 

[Runner  takes  the  service-cup  and  goes  cff  with  it. 


MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

0  let  me  never  more  hear  of  that  day.  It  was  the 
three-and-twenlicth  of  May,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 
one  thousand,  six  hundred,  and  eighteen.  It  seems 
to  me  as  it  were  but  yesterday — from  that  unlucky 
day  it  all  began,  all  the  heart-aches  of  the  country. 
Since  that  day  it  is  now  sixteen  years,  and  there  has 
never  once  been  peace  on  the  earth. 

[Health  drunk  aloud  at  the  second  table 
The  Prince  of  Weimar!  Hurra! 

[At  the  third  and  fourth  table 
Long  live  Prince  William !  Long  Uve  Duke  Bernard ! 
Hurra ! 

[Music  strikes  up 

FIRST  SERVANT. 

Hear  'em !  Hear  'em !  What  an  uproar ! 

SECOND  SERVANT  [comes  in  running). 
Did  you  hear  ?   They  have  drunk  the  prince  of 
Weimar's  health. 

THIRD  SERVANT. 

The  Swedish  Chief  Commander ! 

FIRST  SERVANT  (speaking  at  the  same  time). 
The  Lutheran ! 

SECOND  SERVANT. 

Just  before,  when  Count  Deodate  gave  out  the 
Emperor's  health,  they  were  all  as  mum  as  a  nibbling 
mouse. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

Po,  po!  When  the  wine  goes  in,  strange  things 
come  out.  A  good  servant  hears,  and  hears  not! — 
You  should  be  nothing  but  eyes  and  feet,  except 
when  you  are  called  to. 

SECOND  SERVANT. 

[To  the  Runner,  to  whom  he  gives  secretly  a  flash 
of  wine,  keeping  his  eye  on  the  Master  of  the. 
Cellar,  standing  between  him  and  the  Runner. 
Quick,  Thomas!  before  the  Master  of  the  Cellar 
runs  this  way — 't  is  a  flask  of  Frontignac  I — Snapped 
it  up  at  the  tJiird  table — Canst  go  off  with  it  ? 
RUNNER  {hides  it  in  his  pocket). 
All  right ! 

[Exit  the  Second  Servant 
THIRD  SERVANT  (aside  to  the  First). 
Be  on  the  hark.  Jack !    that  we  may  have  right 
plenty  to  tell  to  father  Quivoga — He  will  give  us 
right  plenty  of  ab.solution  in  return  for  it. 

FIRST  SERVANT. 

For  that  very  purpose  I  am  always  having  some- 
thing to  do  behind  Illo's  chair. — He  is  the  man  for 
speeches  to  make  you  stare  with ! 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR  (tO  NeUMANN). 

Wlio,  pray,  may  that  swarthy  man  be,  he  with  the 
cross,  that  is  chatting  so  confidentially  w  ith  Esterhats  ? 

NEWMANN. 

Ay !  he  loo  is  one  of  those  to  whom  they  confide 
too  much.  He  calls  himself  Maradas,  a  Spaniard  is 
he. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR  (impalientll/). 

Spaniard !  Spaniard  I — I  tell  you,  friend,  notliing 
good  comes  of  those  Spaniards.  All  these  outlandish 
fellows*  are  little  better  than  rogues. 


11 


02 


*  There  \a  a  humnr  in  the  ori?inal  which  cannot  be  given  in 
the  translation.  "  V\o  H'elschen  al\e,^ '  etc.  whicli  word  in  clas- 
sical Germiin  means  the  llnlians  alone;  hnt  in  lis  first  sense, 
and  at  present  in  the  rul^ar  use  of  the  word,  signifies  foreigners 
in  general.  Our  word  wiilnuls,  I  suppose,  means  outlandish 
nuts — Walla:  nuccs,  in  German  "Welschc  Niisse."    T. 


146 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


NEWMANN. 

Fy,  fy !  you  should  not  say  so,  friend.  There  are 
among  them  our  very  best  generals,  and  those  on 
whom  the  Duke  at  this  moment  relies  the  most. 

MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR. 

[Taking  the  flash  out  of  the  Runner' s  pocket. 
My  son,  it  will  be  broken  to  pieces  in  your  pocket. 
[Tertsky  hurries  in,  fetches  away  the  paper,  and 
calls  to  a  Servant  for  Pen  and  Ink,  and  goes  to 
the  back  of  the  Stage. 
MASTER  OF  THE  CELLAR  {to  the  Servants^. 
The  Lieutenant-General  stands  up.^Be   on  the 
watch. — Now !  They  break  up. — Off,  and  move  back 
the  forms. 

[  They  rise  at  all  the  tables,  the  Servants  hurry  off 
the  front  of  the  Stage  to  the  tables ;  part  of  the 
guests  come  forward. 


SCENE  XIII. 


OcTAVio  PiccoLOMiNi  enters  tnio  conversation  with 
Maradas,  and  both  place  themselves  quite  on  the 
edge  of  the  Stage  on  one  side  of  the  Proscenium. 
On  the  side  directly  opposite.  Max.  Piccolomim,  by 
himself,  lost  in  thought,  and  taking  no  part  in  any 
thing  that  is  going  forward.  The  middle  space  be- 
tween both,  but  rather  more  distant  from  the  edge  of 
the  Stage,  is  filed  up  by  Butler,  Isolani,  Goetz, 
TiEFENBACH,  and  Kolatto. 
isolani  (wihile  the  Company  is  coming  forward). 
Good  night,  good  night,  Kolatto  I  Good  night,  Lieu- 
tenant-General ! — I  should  rather  say,  good  morning. 

goetz  {Jo  TiEFENBACH). 

Noble  brother !  {making  the  usual  compliment  after 
meals). 

TIEFENBACH. 

Ay!  'twas  a  royal  feast  indeed. 

GOETZ. 

Yes,  my  Lady  Countess  understands  these  matters. 
Her  mother-in-law,  Heaven  rest  her  soul,  taught  her! 
— Ah!  that  was  a  housewife  for  you! 

TIEFENBACH. 

There  was  not  her  like  in  all  Bohemia  for  setting 
out  a  table. 

OCTAVIO  (aside  to  Maradas). 

Do  me  the  favor  to  talk  to  me — talk  of  what  you 
•yvill — or  of  nothing.  Only  preserve  the  appearance 
at  least  of  talking.  I  would  not  wish  to  stand  by 
myself,  and  yet  I  conjecture  that  there  will  be  goings 
on  here  worthy  of  our  attentive  observation.  {He 
continues  to  fix  his  eye  on  the  whole  following  scene). 
ISOLANI  {on  the  point  of  going). 

Lights!  lights! 

tertsky  [advancing  voith  the  Paper  to  Isolani). 

NoMe  brother;  two  minutes  longer! — Here  is 
something  to  subscribe. 

ISOLANI. 

Subscribe  as  much  as  you  like — but  you  must  ex 
cuse  me  from  reading  it. 

TERTSKY. 

There  is  no  need.  It  is  the  oath,  which  you  have 
already  read. — Only  a  few  marks  of  your  pen ! 

[Isolani  hands  over  the  Paper  to  Octavio  respect- 
fully. 

TERTSKY. 

Nay,  nay,  first  come  first  served.    There  ir,  no  p;e- 


cedence  here.  (Octavio  runs  over  the  Paper  with 
apparent  indifference.  Tertsky  watches  him  at  some 
distance). 

GOETZ  {to  Tertsky) 
Noble  Count !  with  your  permission — Good  night. 

TERTSKY. 

Wliere  's  the  hurry  ?  Come,  one  other  composing 
draught.  {To  the  servants) — Ho ! 

GOETZ. 

Excuse  me — an't  able. 

TERTSKY. 

A  thimble-full ! 

GOETZ. 

Excuse  me. 

TIEFENBACH  {sitS  down). 

Pardon  me,  nobles ! — This  standing  does  not  agree 
with  me. 

TERTSKY. 

Consult  only  your  own  convenience.  General ! 

TIEFENBACH. 

Clear  at  head,  sound  in  stomach — only  my  legs 
won't  carry  me  any  longer. 

ISOLANI  {pointing  at  his  corpulence). 
Poor  legs !  how  should  they  ?  such  an  unmerciful 
load  !  (Octavio  subscribes  his  name,  and  reaches  over 
the  Paper  to  Tertsky,  who  gives  it  to  Isolani  ;  and 
he  goes  to  the  table  to  sign  his  name). 

TIEFENBACH. 

'Twas  that  war  in  Pomerania  that  first  brought  it 
on.  Out  in  all  weathers — ice  and  snow — no  help  for 
it. — I  shall  never  get  the  better  of  it  all  the  days  of 
my  life. 

GOETZ. 

Why,  in  simple  verity,  your  Swede  makes  no  nice 
inquiries  about  the  season. 

TERTSKY  {observing  Isolani,  whose  hand  trembles 
excessively,  so  that  he  can  scarce  direct  his  pen).  Have 
you  had  that  ugly  complaint  long,  noble  brother? — 
Dispatch  it. 

ISOLAM. 

The  sins  of  youth !  I  have  already  tried  the  cha- 
lybeate waters.    Well — I  must  bear  it. 

[Tertsky  gives  the  Paper  to  Maradas  ;  he  steps 
to  the  table  to  subscribe. 

OCTAVIO  {advancing  to  Butler). 
You  are  not  over-fond  of  the  orgies  of  Bacchus, 
Colonel !    I  have  observed  it.     You  would,  I  think, 
find  yourself  more  to  your  liking  in  the  uproar  of  a 
battle,  than  of  a  feast. 

BUTLER. 

I  must  confess,  'tis  not  in  my  way. 

OCTAVIO  {stepping  nearer  to  him  friendlily). 

Nor  in  mine  either,  I  can  assure  you ;  and  I  am 
not  a  little  glad,  my  much-honored  Colonel  Butler,  that 
we  agree  so  well  in  our  opinions.  A  half-dozen  good 
friends  at  most,  at  a  small  round  table,  a  glass  of 
genuine  Tokay,  open  hearts,  and  a  rational  conversa 
tion — that 's  my  taste  ! 

BUTLER. 

And  mine  too,  when  it  can  be  had. 

[The  paper  comes  to  Tiefenbach,  ivho  glances 
over  it  at  the  same  time  vtith  Goetz  and 
Kolatto.  Maradas  in  the  mean  time  re- 
turns to  Octavio.  All  this  takes  place,  the 
conversation  with  Butler  proceeding  vn 
interrupted. 

156 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


147 


ocTAVio  {introducing  Maradas  to  Butler. 
Don  Balthasar  Maradas  !    likewise  a  man  of  our 
stamp,  and  long  ago  your  admirer.       [Butler  bows. 
OCTAVIO  (continuing). 
You  are  a  stranger  here— 't  was  but  yesterday  you 
arrived — you  are  ignorant  of  the  ways  and  means 
here.    'T  is  a  wretched  place — I  know,  at  our  age, 
one  loves  to  be  snug  and  quiet — What  if  you  moved 
your  lodgings? — Come,  be  my  visitor.  (Butler  inakes 
a  low  bow).   Nay,  without  compliment ! — For  a  friend 
like  you,  I  have  still  a  corner  remaining. 
butler  (coldly). 
Your  obliged   humble   servant,   my  Lord  Lieu- 
tenant-General ! 

[The  paper  comes  to  Butler,  who  goes  to  the  table 
to  subscribe  it.     The  front  of  the  stage  is  va- 
cant, so  that  both  the  Piccolominis,  each  on 
the  side  where  he  had  been  from  the  com- 
mencement of  the  scene,  remain  alone. 
OCTAVIO  (after  having  some  time  watched  his  son  in 
silence,  advances  somewhat  nearer  to  him).    You  were 
long  absent  from  us,  friend ! 

MAX. 

I urgent  business  detained  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

And,  I  observe,  you  are  still  absent ! 

MAX. 

You  know  this  crowd  and  bustle  always  makes 
me  silent. 

OCTAVIO  (advancing  still  nearer). 

May  I  be  permitted  to  ask  what  the  business  was 
that  detained  you  ?  Terlsky  knows  it  without 
asking ! 

MAX. 

What  does  Tertsky  know  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

He  was  the  only  one  who  did  not  miss  you. 
ISOLANI  (who  has  been  attending  to  them  from  some 
distance,  steps  up). 
Well  done,  father !    Rout  out  his  baggage  !    Beat 
up  his  quarters !  there  is  something  there  that  should 
not  be. 

TERTSKY  (with  the  paper). 
Is  there  none  wanting  ?    Have  the  whole  sub- 
scribed ? 

OCTAVIO. 

All. 

TERTSKY  (calling  cdoxtd). 
Ho !  Who  subscribes  ? 

BUTLER  (to  Tertsky). 
Count  the  names.   There  ought  to  be  just  thirty. 

TERTSKY. 

Here  is  a  cross. 

TIEFENBACH. 

That 's  my  mark. 

ISOLANI. 

He  cannot  \vTite  ;   but  his  cross  is  a  good  cross, 
and  is  honored  by  Jews  as  well  as  Christians. 
OCTAVIO  (presses  on  to  Max.). 
Come,  General  I  let  us  go.    It  is  late. 

TERTSKY. 

One  Piccolomini  only  has  signed. 

ISOLANI  (pointing  to  Max.). 

Look!  that  is  your  man,  that  statue  there,  who 
has  had  neither  eye,  ear,  nor  tongue  for  us  the  whole 
evening.  (Max.  receives  the  paper  from  Tertsky, 
which  fie  looks  upon  vacantly). 


SCENE  XIV. 

To  these  enter  Illo  from  the  inner  room.  He  lias  in 
his  hand  the  golden  service-cup,  and  is  extremely 
distempered  with  drinking  .■  Goetz  and  Butler 
follow  him,  endeavoring  to  keep  him  back. 

ILLO. 

What  do  you  want  ?  Let  me  go. 

goetz  and  butler. 
Drink  no  more,  Illo !  For  heaven's  sake,  drink  no 
more. 

ILLO  (goes  up  to  OcTAVio,  and  shakes  him  cordially 
by  the  hand,  and  then  drinks). 
Octavio !  1  bring  this  to  you !  Let  all  grudge  be 
drovraed  in  this  friendly  bowl !  I  know  well  enough, 
ye  never  loved  me — Devil  take  me  .'—and  I  never 
loved  you ! — I  am  always  even  with  people  in  that 
way ! — Let  what 's  past  be  past — that  is,  you  under- 
stand— forgotten  .'  I  esteem  you  infinitely.  (£/»- 
bracing  him  repeatedly).  You  have  not  a  dearer 
friend  on  earth  than  I — but  that  you  know.  The 
fellow  that  cries  rogue  to  you  calls  me  villain — and 
I  '11  strangle  him  ! — my  dear  friend  ! 

TERTSKY  (whispering  to  him). 
Art  in  thy  senses  ?  For  heaven's  sake,  Illo,  think 
where  you  are ! 

ILLO  (aloud). 
What  do  you  mean  ? — There  are  none  but  friends 
here,  are  there  ?  (Looks  round  the  whole  circle  with  a 
jolly  and  triumphant  air.)    Not  a  sneaker  among  us, 
thank  Heaven ! 

TERTSKY  (to  Butler,  eagerly). 
Take  him  off  with  you,  force  him  off;  I  entreat 
you,  Butler ! 

butler  (to  Illo). 
Field  Marshal !  a  word  with  you.    (Leads  him  to 
the  sideboard.) 

ILLO  (cordially). 
A  thousand  for  one  ;  Fill — Fill  it  once  more  up  • 
to  the  brim. — To  this  gallant  man's  health  ! 
ISOLANI  (to  Max.,  who  all  the  while  has  been  staring 
on  the  paper  with  fxed  but  vacant  eyes). 
Slow  and  sure,  my  noble  brother  ? — Hast  parsed 
it  all  yet  ? — Some  words  yet  to  go  through  ? — Ha  ! 
MAX.  (waking  as  from  a  dream). 
What  am  I  to  do  ? 

TERTSKY,  and  at  the  same  time  isolani. 
Sign  your  name.  (Octavio  directs  his  eyes  on  him 
with  intense  anxiety). 

MAX.  (returns  the  paper). 
Let  it  stay  till  to-morrow.    It  is  business — to-day  I , 
am  not  sufficiently  collected.     Send  it  to   me   to- 
morrow. 

tertsky. 
Nay,  collect  yourself  a  little. 

ISOLANI. 

Awake,  man  !  awake  ! — Come,  thy  signature,  and 
have  done  with  it!  What?  Thou  art  the  youngest, 
in  the  whole  company,  and  wouldst  be  wiser  than 
all  of  us  together  ?  Look  there  !  thy  father  has. 
signed — we  have  all  signed. 

TERTSKY  (to  Octavio). 

Use  your  influence.    Instruct  him. 

OCTAVIO. 

My  son  is  at  the  age  of  discretion. 

ILLO  (leaves  the  service-cup  on  the  sideboard  . 
What 's  the  dispute  ? 

21  157 


148 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


TERTSKY. 

He  declines  subscribing  the  paper. 

MAX. 

I  say,  it  may  as  well  stay  till  to-morrow. 

ILLO. 

It  cannot  stay.  We  have  all  subscribed  to  it — 
and  so  must  you. — You  must  subscribe. 

MAX. 

lllo,  good  night ! 

JLLO. 

No !  You  come  not  off  so !  The  Duke  shall  learn 
who  are  his  friends.  (All  collect  round  Illo  arid 
Max.) 

MAX. 

What  my  sentiments  are  towards  the  Duke,  the 
Duke  knows,  every  one  knows — what  need  of  this 
wild  stuff? 

ILLO. 

This  is  the  thanks  the  Duke  gets  for  his  partiality 
to  Italians  and  foreigners. — Us  Bohemians  he  holds 
for  little  better  than  dullards — nothing  pleases  him 
but  what 's  outlandish. 
TERTSKY  (in  extreme  embarrassment,  to  the  Commaml- 

ers,  who  at  Illo's  words  give  a  sudden  start,  as 

preparing  to  resent  them). 

It  is  the  wine  that  speaks,  and  not  his  reason. 
Attend  not  to  him,  I  entreat  you. 

ISOLANI  {v)ith  a  bitter  laugh). 

Wine  invents  nothing :  it  only  tattles. 

ILLO. 

He  who  is  not  with  me  is  against  me.  Your  tender 
consciences  !  Unless  they  can  slip  out  by  a  back- 
door, by  a  puny  proviso 

TERTSKY  {interrupting  him). 
He  is  stark  mad — don't  Usten  to  him ! 

ILLO  (raising  his  voice  to  the  highest  pitch). 
Unless  they  can  slip  out  by  a  proviso. — What  of 
the  proviso  ?  The  devil  take  tliis  proviso ! 
MAX.  {has  his  attention  roused,  and  looks  again  into  the 
paper). 
What  is  there  here  then  of  such  perilous  import  ? 
You  make  me  curious — I  must  look  closer  at  it. 
TERTSKY  {in  a  low  voice  to  Illo). 
What  are  you  doing,  Illo  ?  You  are  ruining  us. 

TIEFENBACH    (to  KOLATTO). 

Ay,  ay !  I  observed,  that  before  we  sat  down  to 
supper,  it  was  read  differently. 

GOETZ. 

Why,  I  seemed  to  think  so  too. 

ISOLANI. 

What  do  I  care  for  that  ?  Where  there  stand  other 
names,  mine  can  stand  too. 

TIEFENBACH. 

Before  supper  there  vms  a  certain  proviso  therein, 

■  or  short  clause   concerning  our  duties  to  the  Em- 
peror. 

BUTLER  {to  one  of  the  Commanders). 
For  shame,  for  shame !  Bethink  you.  What  is  the 
main  business  here  ?  The  question  now  is,  whether 
we  shall  keep  our  General,  or  let  him  retire.  One 
'  must  not  take  these  things  too  nicely  and  over-scru- 
pulously. 

ISOLANI  {to  one  of  the  Genetals). 
Did  the  Duke  make  any  of  these  provisoes  when 

■  he  gave  you  your  regiment  ? 

TERTSKY  (to  GOETZ). 

Or  when  he  gave  you  the  office  of  army-pur- 
veyancer,  which  brings  you  in  yearly  a  thousand 
pistoles ! 


He  is  a  rascal  who  makes  us  out  to  be  rogues.  If 
there  be  any  one  that  wants  satisfaction,  let  him  say 
so, — I  am  his  man. 

TIEFENBACH. 

Softly,  softly !  'T  was  but  a  word  or  two. 
MAX.  (having  read  the  paper  gives  it  hack). 
Till  to-morrow,  therefore ! 

ILLO  {stammering  with  rage  and  fury,  loses  all  conU 
mand  over  himself,  and  presents  the  paper  to  Max. 
with  one  hand,  and  his  sword  in  the  other) 

Subscribe — Judas ! 

ISOLANI. 

Out  upon  you,  Illo ! 

ocTAVio,  TERTSKY,  BUTLER  (all  together). 
Down  with  the  sword  I 
MAX.  (rushes  on  him  suddenly  and  disarms  him,  then 

to  Count  Tertsky). 
Take  him  off  to  bed. 

[Max.  leaves  the  stage.  Illo  cursing  and  raving  is 
held  back  by  seme  of  the  Officers,  and  amidst 
a  universal  confusion  the  Curtain  drops. 


ACT  m. 

SCENE  I. 
A  Cliamber  in  Piccolomini's  Mansion. — It  is  Night. 

Octavio  Piccolomini.     a  Valet  de  Chambre,  with 
Lights. 

octavio. 

And  when  my  son  comes  in,  conduct  him  hither. 

What  is  the  hour  ? 

VALET. 

'T  is  on  the  point  of  morning. 

OCTAVIO. 

Set  down  the  light.    We  mean  not  to  vmdress 
You  may  retire  to  sleep. 

[Exit  Valet.  Octavio  paces,  musing,  across  th* 
chamber  ;  Max.  Piccolomini  enters  unob- 
served, and  looks  at  his  father  for  some  mo- 
ments in  silence. 

max. 
Art  thou  offended  with  me  ?  Heaven  knows 
That  odious  business  was  no  fault  of  mine. 
'T  is  true,  indeed,  I  saw  thy  signature. 
What  thou  hadst  sanction'd,  should  not,  it  might  seem. 
Have  come  amiss  to  me.    But — 't  is  my  nature — 
Tliou  know'st  that  in  such  matters  I  must  follow 
My  own  light,  not  another's. 

octavio  (goes  up  to  him,  and  embraces  him). 
Follow  it, 

0  follow  it  still  further,  my  best  son ! 
To-night,  dear  boy  !  it  hath  more  faithfully 
Guided  thee  than  the  example  of  thy  father. 

max. 
Declare  thyself  less  darkly. 

octavio. 

I  will  do  so. 
For  after  what  has  taken  place  this  night. 
There  must  remain  no  secrets  'twixt  us  two. 

[Both  seat  themselws. 
Max.  Piccolomini !  what  thinkest  thou  of 
The  oath  that  was  sent  round  for  signatures  ? 
max. 

1  hold  it  for  a  thing  of  harmless  import, 
Although  I  love  not  these  set  declarations. 

158 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


149 


OCTAVIO. 

And  on  no  other  ground  hast  thou  refused 
The  signature  they  fain  had  wrested  from  thee  ? 

MAX. 

It  was  a  serious  business 1  was  absent — 

The  affair  itself  seem'd  not  so  urgent  to  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

Be  open,  Max.    Thou  hadst  then  no  suspicion  ? 

MAX. 

Suspicion !  what  suspicion  ?  Not  the  least 

OCT.^VIO. 

Thank  thy  good  Angel,  Piccolomini : 

He  drew  thee  back  unconscious  from  the  alqrss. 

MAX. 

I  know  not  what  thou  meanest. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  will  tell  thee. 
Fain  would  they  have  extorted  from  thee,  son, 
The  sanction  of  thy  name  to  villany  ; 
Yea,  with  a  single  flourish  of  thy  pen, 
Made  thee  renounce  thy  duty  and  thy  honor ! 

MAX  (rises). 
Octavio ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Patience !  Seat  yourself.    Much  yet 
Hast  thou  to  hear  from  me,  friend ! — hast  for  years 
Lived  in  incomprehensible  illusion. 
Before  thine  eyes  is  Treason  drawing  out 
As  black  a  web  as  e'er  was  spun  for  venom : 
A  power  of  hell  o'erclouds  thy  understanding. 
I  dare  no  longer  stand  in  silence — dare 
No  longer  see  thee  wandering  on  in  darkness. 
Nor  pluck  the  bandage  from  tliine  eyes. 

MAX. 

My  father ! 
Yet,  ere  thou  speakest,  a  moment's  pause  of  thought! 
If  your  disclosures  should  appear  to  be 
Conjectures  only — and  almost  I  fear 
They  will  be  nothing  further — spare  them  f  I 
Am  not  in  that  collected  mood  at  present, 
Thiit  I  could  listen  to  them  quietly. 

OCTAVIO. 

The  deeper  cause  thou  hast  to  hate  this  light. 

The  more  impatient  cause  have  I,  my  son. 

To  force  it  on  thee.    To  the  innocence 

And  wisdom  of  thy  heart  I  could  have  trusted  thee 

With  calm  assurance — but  I  see  the  net 

Preparing — and  it  is  thy  heart  itself 

Alarms  me  for  thine  innocence — that  secret, 

[Fixing  his  eye  stedfastly  on  his  son's /ace. 
Which  thou  concealest,  forces  mine  from  me. 

[Max.  attempts  to  answer,  but  hesitates,  and  casts 
his  eyes  to  the  ground  embarrassed. 
OCTAVIO  {after  a  pause). 

Know,  then,  they  are  duping  thee! — a  most  foul 
game 

With  thee  and  with  us  all — nay,  hear  me  calmly — 

The  Duke  even  now  is  playing.    He  a.ssumes 

The  mask,  as  if  he  would  forsake  the  army ; 

And  in  this  moment  makes  he  preparations 

That  army  from  the  Emperor  to  steal. 

And  carry  it  over  to  the  enemy ! 

MAX. 

That  low  Priest's  legend  I  know  well,  but  did  not 
Expect  to  hear  it  from  thy  mouth. 

OCTAVIO. 

That  mouth. 


From  which  thou  hearest  it  at  this  present  moment, 
Doth  warrant  thee  that  it  is  no  Priest's  legend. 


IIow  mere  a  maniac  they  supposed  the  Duke ! 
What,  he  can  meditate  '! — the  Duke  ? — can  dream 
That  he  can  lure  away  full  tliirty  thousand 
Tried  troops  and  true,  all  honorable  soldiers. 
More  than  a  thousand  noblemen  among  them. 
From  oaths,  from  duty,  from  their  honor  lure  them, 
And  make  them  all  unanimous  to  do 
A  deed  that  brands  them  scoundrels  ? 


Such  a  deed. 
With  such  a  front  of  infamy,  the  Duke 
Noways  desires — what  he  requires  of  us 
Bears  a  far  gentler  appellation.    Notliing 
He  wishes,  but  to  give  the  Empire  peace. 
And  so,  because  the  Emperor  hates  this  peace, 
Therefore  the  Duke — the  Duke  will  force  him  to  it 
All  parts  of  the  empire  will  he  pacify, 
And  for  his  trouble  will  retain  in  payment 
(What  he  has  already  in  his  gripe) — Bohemia ! 

MAX. 

Has  he,  Octavio,  merited  of  us. 

That  we — that  we  should  think  so  vilely  of  him  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

What  we  would  think  is  not  the  question  here. 
The  affair  speaks  for  itself— and  clearest  proofs ! 
Hear  me,  my  son — 't  is  not  unknown  to  thee. 
In  what  ill  credit  with  the  court  we  stand. 
But  little  dost  thou  know,  or  guess,  what  tricks, 
Wliat  base  intrigues,  what  lying  artitices, 
Have  been  employ'd — for  this  sole  end — to  sow 
Mutiny  in  the  camp !  All  bands  are  loosed — 
Loosed  all  the  bands,  that  link  the  officer 
To  his  liege  Emperor,  all  that  bind  the  soldier 
Affectionately  to  the  citizen. 
Lawless  he  stands,  and  threateningly  beleaguers 
The  state  he 's  bound  to  guard.    To  such  a  height 
'Tis  swoln,  that  at  this  hour  the  Emperor 
Before  his  armies — liis  own  armies — trembles ; 
Yea,  in  his  capital,  his  palace,  fears 
The  traitors'  poniards,  and  is  meditating 

To  hurry  off  and  hide  his  tender  offspring 

Not  from  the  Swedes,  not  from  the  Lutherans — 
No !  from  his  own  troops  hide  and  hurry  them ! 

MAX. 

Cease,  ceeise !  thou  torturest,  shatterest  me.    I  know 
That  oft  we  tremble  at  an  empty  terror ; 
But  the  false  phantasm  brings  a  real  misery 

OCTAVIO. 

It  is  no  phantasm.     An  intestine  war. 
Of  all  the  most  unnatural  and  cruel. 
Will  burst  out  into  flames,  if  instantly 
We  do  not  fly  and  stifle  it.     The  Generafs 
Are  many  of  them  long  ago  won  over; 
The  subalterns  are  vacillating — whole 
Regiments  and  garrisons  are  vacillating. 
To  foreigners  our  strong-holds  are  intrusted  ; 
To  that  suspected  Schafgotch  is  the  whole 
Force  of  Silesia  given  up :  to  Tertsky 
Five  regiments,  foot  and  horse — to  Isolani, 
To  lUo,  Kinsky,  Butler,  the  best  troops. 

MAX. 

Likewise  to  both  of  us. 


150 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


OCTAVIO. 

Because  the  Duke 
Believes  he  has  secured  us — means  to  lure  us 
Still  further  on  by  splendid  promises. 
To  me  he  portions  forth  the  princedoms,  Glatz 
And  Sagan ;  and  too  plain  I  see  the  angel 
With  which  he  doubts  not  to  catch  thee. 


No!  no! 


I  tell  thee — ^no ! 


OCTAVIO. 

O  open  yet  thine  eyes ! 
And  to  what  purpose  thuik'st  thou  he  has  call'd  us 
Hither  to  Pilsen  ?  to  avail  himself 
Of  our  advice  ? — O  when  did  Friedland  ever 
Need  our  advice? — Be  calm,  and  listen  to  me. 
To  sell  ourselves  are  we  called  hither,  and 
Decline  we  that — to  be  his  hostages. 
Therefore  doth  noble  Galas  stand  aloof; 
Thy  father,  too,  thou  wouldst  not  have  seen  here, 
If  higher  duties  had  not  held  him  fetter'd. 

MAX. 

He  makes  no  secret  of  it — needs  make  none — 
That  we  're  called  hither  for  his  sake — he  owns  it. 
He  needs  our  aidance  to  maintain  himself— 
He  did  so  much  for  us ;  and  't  is  but  fair 
That  we  too  should  do  somewhat  now  for  him. 

OCTAVIO. 

And  know'st  thou  what  it  is  which  we  must  do  ? 
That  Illo's  drunken  mood  betray'd  it  to  thee. 
Bethink  thyself— what  hast  thou  heard,  what  seen  ? 
The  counterfeited  paper — the  omission 
Of  that  particular  clause,  so  full  of  meaning. 
Does  it  not  prove,  that  they  would  bind  us  down 
To  nothing  good  ? 

MAX. 

That  counterfeited  paper 
Appears  to  me  no  other  than  a  trick 
Of  Illo's  own  device.     These  underhand 
Traders  in  great  men's  interests  ever  use 
To  urge  and  hurry  all  things  to  the  extreme. 
They  see  the  Duke  at  variance  with  the  court. 
And  fondly  think  to  serve  him,  when  they  widen 
The  breach  irreparably.    Trust  me,  father. 
The  Duke  knows  nothing  of  all  this. 

OCTAVIO. 

It  grieves  me 
That  I  must  dash  to  earth,  that  I  must  shatter 
A  faith  so  specious  !  but  I  may  not  spare  thee  ! 
For  this  is  not  a  time  for  tenderness. 
Thou  must  take  measures,  speedy  ones — must  act. 
I  therefore  will  confess  to  thee,  that  all 
Which  I  've  intrusted  to  thee  now — that  all 
Which  seems  to  thee  so  unbelievable. 
That — yes,  I  will  tell  thee — (a  pause) — Max. !  I  had 

it  all 
From  his  own  mouth — from  the  Duke's  mouth  I  had  it. 

MAX.  {in  excessive  agitation'^. 
No ! — no ! — never ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Himself  confided  to  me 
What  I,  'tis  true,  had  long  before  discover'd 
By  other  means — himself  confided  to  me. 
That  'twas  his  settled  plan  to  join  the  Swedes; 
And,  at  the  head  of  the  united  armies 
Cgmpel  the  Emperor 


MAX. 

He  is  passionate  : 
The  Court  has  stung  him — he  is  sore  all  over 
With  injuries  and  affronts ;  and  in  a  moment 
Of  irritation,  what  if  he,  for  once, 
Forgot  himself?  He's  an  impetuous  man. 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay,  in  cold  blood  he  did  confess  this  to  me  • 
And  having  construed  my  astonishment 
Into  a  scruple  of  his  power,  he  show'd  me 
His  written  evidences — show'd  me  letters. 
Both  from  the  Saxon  and  the  Swede,  that  gave 
Promise  of  aidance,  and  defined  the  amount. 

MAX. 

It  cannot  be ! — can  not  be ! — can  not  be ! 

Dost  thou  not  see,  it  cannot  ? 

Thou  wouldst  of  necessity  have  shown  him 

Such  horror,  such  deep  lothing — that  or  he 

Had  taken  thee  for  his  better  genius,  or 

Thou  stood'st  not  now  a  living  man  before  me — 

OCTAVIO. 

I  have  laid  open  my  objections  to  him. 
Dissuaded  him  with  pressing  earnestness  ; 
But  my  ahhorrence,  the  full  sentiment 
Of  my  whole  heart — that  I  have  stiU  kept  sacred 
To  my  own  consciousness. 

MAX. 

And  thou  hast  been 
So  treacherous  ?  That  looks  not  like  my  father ! 
I  trusted  not  thy  words,  when  thou  didst  tell  me 
Evil  of  him !  much  less  can  I  now  do  it, 
That  thou  calumniatest  thy  own  self. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  did  not  thrust  myself  into  his  secrecy. 

MAX. 

Uprightness  merited  his  confidence. 

OCTAVIO. 

He  was  no  longer  worthy  of  sincerity. 

MAX. 

Dissimulation,  sure,  was  still  less  worthy 
Of  thee,  Octavio ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Gave  I  him  a  cause 
To  entertain  a  scruple  of  my  honor  ? 

MAX. 

That  he  did  not,  evinced  his  confidence. 

OCTAVIO. 

Dear  son,  it  is  not  always  possible 
Still  to  preserve  that  infant  purity 
Which  the  voice  teaches  in  our  inmost  heart, 
Still  in  alarum,  for  ever  on  the  watch 
Against  the  wiles  of  wicked  men :  e'en  Virtue 
Will  sometimes  bear  away  her  outward  robes 
Soil'd  in  the  wrestle  with  Iniquity. 
This  is  the  curse  of  every  evil  deed. 
That,  propagating  still,  it  brings  forth  evil. 
I  do  not  cheat  my  better  soul  with  sophisms : 
I  but  perform  my  orders ;  the  Emperor 
Prescribes  my  conduct  to  me.     Dearest  boy. 
Far  better  were  it,  doubtless,  if  we  all 
Obey'd  the  heart  at  all  times ;  but  so  doing. 
In  this  our  present  sojourn  with  bad  men, 
We  must  abandon  many  an  honest  object. 
'Tis  now  our  call  to  serve  the  Emperor; 
By  what  means  he  can  best  be  served — the  heart 
May  whisper  what  it  will — this  is  our  call ! 

160 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


151 


It  seems  a  thing  appointed,  that  to-day 
I  should  not  comprehend,  not  understand  thee. 
'JTlie  Duke,  tliou  say'st,  did  honesily  pour  out 
llis  heart  to  thee,  but  for  an  evil  purpose; 
And  thou  dishoneslly  hast  cheated  him 
For  a  good  purpose !  Silence,  I  entreat  thee — 
RIy  friend,  thou  stealest  not  from  me — 
Let  me  not  lose  my  father ! 

ocTAVio  {suppressing  resentment). 
As  yet  tliou  know'st  not  all,  my  son.    I  have 
Yet  somewhat  to  disclose  to  thee.         [-After  a  pause. 

Duke  Friedland 
Hath  qiade  his  preparations.     He  relies 
Upon  his  stars.    He  deems  us  unprovided, 
And  thinks  to  fall  upon  us  by  surprise. 
Yea,  in  his  dream  of  hope,  he  grasps  already 
The  golden  circle  in  his  hand.    He  errs. 
We  ton  have  been  in  action — he  but  grasps 
His  evil  fate,  most  evil,  most  mysterious! 

MAX. 

•  O  nothing  rash,  my  sire !  By  all  that 's  good 
Let  me  invoke  thee — no  precipitation ! 

OCTAVTO. 

With  light  tread  stole  he  on  his  evil  way. 
And  light  tread  hath  Vengeance  stole  on  after  him. 
Unseen  she  stands  already,  dark  behind  him — 
But  one  step  more — he  shudders  in  her  grasp ! 
Thou  hast  seen  Questenberg  with  me.    As  yet 
Thou  Iviiow'st  but  his  ostensible  commission : 
He  brought  with  him  a  private  one,  my  son ! 
And  that  was  for  me  only. 

MAX. 

May  I  know  it  ? 

OCTAVIO  {seizes  the  patent). 

Max.! 
[A  pause. 

In  this  disclosure  place  I  in  thy  hands 

The  Empire's  welfare  and  thy  father's  life. 
Pear  to  thy  inmost  heart  is  VVallenstein : 
A  powerful  tie  of  love,  of  veneration. 
Hath  knit  thee  to  him  from  thy  earliest  youth. 
Thou  nourishest  the  wish. — O  let  me  still 
Anticipate  thy  loitering  confidence  ! 
The  hope  thf>u  nourishest  to  knit  thyself 
Yet  closer  to  mm 

MAX. 

Father 

OCTAVIO. 

O  my  son ! 
I  trust  thy  heart  undoubtingly.    But  am  I 
Equally  sure  of  thy  collectedness  ? 
Wilt  thou  be  able,  with  calm  countenance, 
To  enter  this  min's  presence,  when  that  I 
Have  trusted  to  thee  his  whole  fate  ? 

MAX. 

According 
As  thou  dost  trust  me,  father,  with  his  crime. 

[OcTAVio  takes  a  paper  out  of  his  escritoire,  and 
gives  it  to  him. 

MAX. 

What  ?  how  ?  a  full  Imperial  patent ! 


Read  it. 
MAX.  (just  glnnres  on  it). 
Duke  Friedland  sentenced  and  condemn'd ! 


Even  so. 
MAX.  {throws  down  the  paper). 
O  this  is  too  much !  O  unhappy  error ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Read  on.     Collect  thyself. 

MAX.  {after  he  has  read  further,  with  a  look  of  affright 
and  astonishment  on  his  father. 

How!  what!  Thou!  thou 

OCTAVIO. 

But  for  the  present  moment,  till  the  King 
Of  Hungary  may  safely  join  the  army, 
Is  the  command  assign'd  to  me. 

MAX. 

And  think'st  thou. 
Dost  thou  believe,  that  thou  wilt  tear  it  from  him  ? 
O  never  hope  it ! — Father!  father!  father! 
An  inauspicious  office  is  enjoin'd  thee. 
This  paper  here — this !  and  wilt  thou  enforce  it  ? 
The  mighty  in  the  middle  of  his  host. 
Surrounded  by  his  thousands,  him  wouldst  thou 
Disarm — degrade !  Thou  art  lost,  both  thou  and  all 
of  us. 

OCTAVIO. 

What  hazard  I  incur  thereby,  I  know. 
In  the  great  hand  of  God  I  stand.    The  Almighty 
Will  cover  with  his  shield  the  Imperial  house, 
And  shatter,  in  his  wrath,  the  work  of  darkness. 
The  Emperor  hath  true  servants  still ;  and  even 
Here  in  the  camp,  there  are  enough  brave  men 
Who  for  the  good  cause  will  fight  gallantly. 
The  faithful  have  been  warn'd — the  dangerous 
Are  closely  watch'd.     I  wait  but  the  first  step, 
And  then  immediately 

MAX. 

What!  on  suspicion? 
Immediately  ? 

OCTAVIO.  • 

The  Emperor  is  no  tyrant. 
The  deed  alone  he  '11  punish,  not  the  wish. 
The  Duke  hath  yet  his  destiny  in  his  power. 
Let  him  but  leave  the  treason  imcompleted, 
He  will  be  silently  displaced  from  office. 
And  make  way  to  his  Emperor's  royal  son. 
An  honorable  exile  to  his  castles 
Will  be  a  benefaction  to  him  rather 
Than  punishment.     But  the  first  open  step 

MAX. 

What  callest  thou  such  a  step  ?  A  wicked  step 
Ne'er  will  he  take ;  but  thou  mightest  easily, 
Yea,  thou  hast  done  it,  misinterpret  him. 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay,  howsoever  pimishable  were 

Duke  Friedland's  purposes,  yet  still  the  steps 

Which  he  hath  taken  openly,  pennit 

A  mild  construction.    It  is  my  intention 

To  leave  this  paper  wholly  unenforced 

Till  some  act  is  committed  which  convicts  him 

Of  a  high-treason,  without  doubt  or  plea, 

And  that  shall  sentence  him. 


But  who  the  judge  ? 


Thyself. 


For  ever,  then,  this  paper  will  lie  idle 
'61 


152 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


OCTAVIO. 

Too  soon,  I  fear,  its  powers  must  all  be  proved. 
After  the  counter-promise  of  this  evening, 
It  caimot  be  but  he  must  deem  himself 
Secure  of  the  majority  with  its  ; 
And  of  the  army's  general  sentiment 
He  hath  a  pleasing  proof  in  that  petition 
Wnicn  tnou  delivered'st  to  him  from  the  regiments. 
Add  this  too — I  have  letters  that  the  Rhinegrave 
Hath  changed  his  route,  and  travels  by  forced  marches 
To  the  Bohemian  Forests.    What  this  purports, 
Remains  imknown ;  and,  to  confirm  suspicion, 
This  night  a  Swedish  nobleman  arrived  here. 

MAX. 

I  have  thy  word.  Thou  'It  not  proceed  to  action 
Before  thou  hast  convinced  me— me  myself. 

OCTAVIO. 

Is  it  possible  ?  Still,  after  all  thou  know'st, 
Canst  thou  believe  still  in  his  innocence  ? 

MAX.  {with  enthusiasm). 
Thy  judgment  may  mistake ;  my  heart  can  not. 

[Moderates  his  voice  and  manner. 
These  reasons  might  expound  thy  spirit  or  mine ; 
But  they  expound  not  Friedland — I  have  faith : 
For  as  he  knits  his  fortunes  to  the  stars. 
Even  so  doth  he  resemble  tViem  in  secret. 
Wonderful,  still  inexplicable  courses ! 
Trust  me,  they  do  him  wrong.    All  will  be  solved. 
These  smokes  at  once  will  kindle  into  flame — 
The  edges  of  this  black  and  stormy  cloud 
Will  brighten  suddenly,  and  we  shall  view 
The  unapproachable  glide  out  in  splendor. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  will  await  it. 


SCENE  II. 

OcTAVio  and  Max.  as  before.   To  them  the  Valet  of 
THE  Chamber. 

OCTAVIO. 

How  now,  then  ? 

valet. 
A  dispatch  is  at  the  door. 

OCTAVIO. 

So  early  ?  From  whom  comes  he  then  ?  Who  is  it  ? 

VALET. 

That  he  refused  to  tell  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

Lead  him  in ; 
And,  hark  you — let  it  not  transpire. 

[Exit  Valet  ;  the  Cornet  steps  in. 

OCTAVIO. 

Hai !  Comet — is  it  you  ?  and  from  Count  Galas  ? 
Give  me  your  letters. 

CORNET. 

The  Lieutenant-General 
Trusted  it  not  to  letters. 

OCTAVIO 

And  what  is  it  ? 

CORNET. 

He  bade  me  tell  you — Dare  I  speak  openly  here  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

My  son  knows  all 

CORNET. 

We  have  him. 


OCTAVIO. 

Whom? 

CORNET. 

Sesina, 
The  old  negotiator. 

OCTAVIO  {eagerly). 
And  you  have  him  ? 

CORNET. 

In  the  Bohemian  Forest  Captain  Mohrbrand 
Found  and  secured  him  yester-morning  early ; 
He  was  proceeding  then  to  Regensburg, 
And  on  him  were  dispatches  for  the  Swede. 

OCTAVIO. 

And  the  dispatches 

CORNET. 

The  Lieutenant-General 
Sent  them  that  instant  to  Vienna,  and 
The  prisoner  with  them. 

OCTAVIO. 

This  is,  indeed,  a  tiding ! 
That  fellow  is  a  precious  casket  to  us, 
Inclosing  weighty  things. — Was  much  tound  on  him' 

CORNET. 

I  think,  six  packets,  with  Count  Tertsky's  arms. 

OCTAVIO. 

None  in  the  Duke's  own  hand  ? 


CORNET. 


Not  that  I  luiow 


And  old  Sesina  ? 


CORNET. 

He  was  sorely  frighten'd, 
When  it  was  told  him  he  must  to  Vienna. 
But  the  Count  Altringer  bade  him  take  heart, 
Would  he  but  make  a  full  and  free  confession. 

OCTAVIO. 

Is  Altringer  then  with  your  Lord  ?  I  heard 
That  he  lay  sick  at  Linz. 

CORNET. 

These  three  days  past 
He 's  with  my  master,  the  Lieutenant-General, 
At  Frauenberg.    Already  have  they  sixty 
Small  companies  together,  chosen  men  ; 
Respectfully  they  greet  you  with  assurances, 
That  they  are  only  waiting  your  commands. 

OCTAVIO. 

In  a  few  days  may  great  events  take  place. 
And  when  must  you  return  ? 

CORNET. 

I  wait  your  orders. 

OCTAVIO. 

Remain  till  evening. 

[Cornet  signifies  his  assent  and  obeisance,  and  is 
going. 

No  one  saw  you — ha  ? 

cornet. 
No  living  creature.    Through  the  cloister  wicket 
The  Capuchins,  as  usual,  let  me  in. 

OCTAVIO. 

Go,  rest  your  limbs,  and  keep  yourself  conceal'd 
I  hold  it  probable,  that  yet  ere  evening 
I  shall  dispatch  you.  The  development 
Of  this  affair  approaches :  ere  the  day, 
That  even  now  is  dawning  in  the  heaven, 

162 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


158 


Ere  this  eventful  day  hath  set,  the  lot 

That  must  decide  our  fortunes  will  be  drawn. 

[Exit  Cornet. 


SCENE  III. 
OcTAVio  oTid  Max.  Piccolomini. 

OCTAVIO. 

Well — and  what  now,  son  ?  All  will  soon  be  clear; 
For  all,  I'm  certain,  went  through  that  Sesina. 

MAX.  (wko  through  the  whole  of  the  foregoing  scene 
has  been  in  a  violent  and  visible  struggle  of  feelings, 
at  length  starts  as  one  resolved). 

I  will  pKOcure  me  light  a  shorter  way. 

Farewell. 

OCTAVIO. 

WTiere  now  ? — Remain  here. 

MAX. 

To  the  Duke. 

OCTAVIO  (alarmed). 
What 

MAX.  (returning). 
If  thou  hast  believed  that  I  shall  act 

A  part  in  this  thy  play 

Thou  hast  miscalculated  on  me  grievously. 

My  way  must  be  straight  on.    True  with  the  tongue. 

False  with  the  heart — I  may  not,  can  not  be  : 

Nor  can  I  suffer  that  a  man  should  trust  me — 

As  his  friend  trust  me — and  then  lull  my  conscience 

With  such  low  pleas  as  these  : — "  I  ask'd  him  not — 

He  did  it  all  at  his  own  hazard — and 

My  mouth  has  never  lied  to  him." — No,  no! 

What  a  friend  takes  me  for,  that  I  must  be. 

— I'll  to  the  Duke  ;  ere  yet  this  day  is  ended. 

Will  I  demand  of  him  that  he  do  save 

His  good  name  from  the  world,  and  with  one  stride 

Break  through  and  rend  this  fine-spun  web  of  yours. 

He  can,  he  will ! — /  still  am  his  believer. 

Yet  I  '11  not  pledge  myself,  but  that  those  letters 

May  furnish  you,  perchance,  with  proofs  against  him. 

How  far  may  not  this  Tertsky  have  proceeded — 

WTiat  may  not  he  himself  too  have  permitted 

Himself  to  do,  to  snare  the  enemy, 

The  laws  of  war  excusing  ?  Nothing,  save 

His  own  mouth,  shall  convict  him — nothing  less! 

And  face  to  face  \\\\\  I  go  question  him. 

OCTAVIO. 

Thou  wilt  ? 

MAX. 

I  will,  as  sure  as  this  heart  beats 

OCTAVIO. 

have,  indeed,  miscalculated  on  thee. 
I  calculated  on  a  prudent  son. 
Who  would  have  blest  the  hand  beneficent 
That  pluck'd  him  back  from  the  abyss — andlo! 
A  fa-scinated  being  I  discover, 
W^hom  his  two  eyes  befool,  whom  passion  wilders. 
Whom  not  the  broadest  light  of  noon  can  heal. 
Go,  question  him  I — Be  mad  enough,  I  pray  thee. 
The  purpose  of  thy  father,  of  thy  Emperor, 
Go,  give  it  up  free  hooiv  : — Force  me,  drive  me 
To  an  open  breach  l)efore  the  time.     And  now, 
Now  that  a  miracle  of  heaven  had  guarded 
My  secret  purpose  even  to  this  hour, 
And  laid  to  sleep  Su.spicion's  piercing  eyes, 
I>et  me  have  lived  to  .see  that  mine  own  son, 
P 


With  frantic  enterprise,  annihilates 
My  toilsome  labors  and  state-policy. 

MAX. 

Ay — this  state-policy  !  O  how  I  curse  it ! 

You  will,  some  time,  witii  your  state-policy 

Compel  him  to  the  measure :  it  may  happen, 

Because  you  are  determined  tliat  he  is  guilty, 

Guilty  ye '11  make  him.     All  retreat  cut  off. 

You  close  up  every  outlet,  hem  him  in 

Narrower  and  narrower,  till  at  length  ye  force  hiin 

Yes,  ye, — ye  force  him,  in  his  desperation, 

To  set  fire  to  his  prison.     FatJier  !  father  ! 

That  never  can  end  well — it  can  not — will  not! 

And  let  it  be  decided  as  it  may, 

I  see  with  bcxling  iieart  the  near  approach 

Of  an  ill-starr'd,  unblest  catastrophe. 

For  this  great  Monarch-spirit,  if  he  fall. 

Will  drag  a  world  into  the  ruin  with  him. 

And  as  a  ship  (that  midway  on  the  ocean 

Takes  fire)  at  once,  and  with  a  thunder-burst 

Explodes,  and  with  itself  shoots  out  its  crew 

In  smoke  and  ruin  betwixt  sea  and  heaven ; 

So  will  he,  falling,  draw  down  in  his  fall 

All  us,  who  're  fix'd  and  mortised  to  his  fortune. 

Deem  of  it  what  thou  wilt ;  but  pardon  me. 

That  I  must  bear  me  on  in  my  own  way. 

All  must  remain  pure  betwixt  him  and  me ; 

And,  ere  the  day-light  dawns,  it  must  be  known 

Which  I  must  lose — my  father,  or  my  friend. 

[During  his  exit  the  curtain  drops. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 

Scene,  a  Room  fitted  up  for  astrological  labors,  and 
provided  with  celestial  Charts,  with  Globes,  Tele- 
scopes, Quadrants,  and  other  mathematical  Instru- 
ments.— Seven  Colossal  Figures,  representing  ilie 
Planets,  each  with  a  transparent  Star  of  a  different 
Color  on  its  head,  stand  in  a  semicircle  in  the  Back- 
ground, so  that  Mars  and  Saturn  are  nearest  tJie 
Kye. — The  Remainder  of  the  Scene,  and  its  Dispo- 
sition, is  given  in  the  Fourth  Scene  of  the  Second 
Act. — There  must  be  a  Curtain  over  the  Figures, 
which  may  be  dropped,  and  conceal  them  on  occasicms. 

\In  the  Fifth  Scene  of  this  Act  it  must  be  dropped ;  but 
in  the  Seventh  Scene,  it  7nust  be  again  drawn  up 
wholly  or  in  part.] 

Wal.le.\stein  at  a  black  Table,  on  which  a  Speculum 
Astrologicum  is  described  with  Chalk.  Seni  is  taking 
Observations  through  a  Wiyidow. 

wallenstein. 
All  well — and  now  let  it  be  ended,  Seni. — Come, 
The  dawn  commences,  and  Mars  rules  the  hour. 
We  must  give  o'er  the  operation.     Come, 
We  know  enough. 

SENI. 

Your  Highness  must  permit  me 
Just  to  contemplate  Venus.     She's  now  rising: 
Like  as  a  sun,  so  shines  she  in  the  east. 

wallenstein. 

She  is  at  present  in  her  perigee. 

And  shoots  down  now  her  strongest  influences. 

[Contemplating  the  figure  on  the  table. 
163 


154 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Auspicious  aspect !  fateful  in  conjunction, 
At  length  the  mighty  three  corradiate  ; 
And  the  two  stars  of  blessing,  Jupiter 
And  Venus,  take  between  thern  the  malignant 
Slyly-malicious  Mars,  and  thus  compel 
Into  my  service  that  old  mischief-founder : 
For  long  he  view'd  me  hostilely,  and  ever 
With  beam  oblique,  or  perpendicular, 
Now  in  the  Quartile,  now  in  the  Secundan, 
Shot  his  red  lightnings  at  my  stars,  disturbing 
Their  blessed  influences  and  sweet  aspects. 
IVow  they  have  conquer'd  the  old  enemy. 
And  bring  him  in  the  heavens  a  prisoner  to  me. 

SENI  {who  has  come  down  from  the  window). 
And  in  a  corner  house,  your  Highness — think  of  that! 
That  makes  each  influence  of  double  strength. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  sun  and  moon,  too,  in  the  Sextile  aspect, 
The  soft  light  with  the  vehement — so  I  love  it. 
Sol  is  the  heart,  Luna  the  head  of  heaven. 
Bold  be  the  plan,  fiery  the  execution. 

SENI. 

And  both  the  mighty  Lumina  by  no 
Maleficus  affronted.  Lo !  Saturnus, 
Innocuous,  powerless,  in  cadente  Domo. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  empire  of  Saturnus  is  gone  by ; 

Lord  of  the  secret  birth  of  things  is  he ; 

Within  the  lap  of  earth,  and  in  the  depths 

Of  the  imagination  dominates  ; 

And  his  are  all  things  that  eschew  the  light. 

The  time  is  o'er  of  brooding  and  contrivance, 

For  Jupiter,  the  lustrous,  lordeth  now, 

And  the  dark  work,  complete  of  preparation, 

He  draws  by  force  into  the  realm  of  light. 

Now  must  we  hasten  on  to  action,  ere 

The  scheme,  and  most  auspicious  posture 

Parts  o'er  my  head,  and  takes  once  more  its  flight  ; 

For  the  heavens  journey  still,  and  sojourn  not. 

[There  are  knocks  at  the  door. 
There 's  some  one  knocking  there.     See  who  it  is. 

TERTSKY  (from  without). 
Open,  and  let  me  in. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ay — 'tis  Tertsky. 
What  is  there  of  such  urgence  ?  We  are  busy. 

TERTSKY  {from  without). 
Lay  all  aside  at  present,  I  entreat  you. 
It  suffers  no  delaying. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Open,  Seni ! 
[While  Seni  opens  the  door  for  Tertsky,  Wallen- 
STEIN  draws  the  curtain  over  the  figures. 

TERTSKY  {e7iters). 
Hast  thou  already  heard  it  ?  He  is  taken. 
■  Galas  has  given  him  up  to  the  Emperor. 

[Seni  draws  off  the  black  table,  and  exit. 


SCENE  n. 

WALLENSTEIN,    CoUNT  TeRTSKY. 

WALLENSTEIN  {lo  TeRTSKY). 

•  Who  has  been  taken  ? — Who  is  given  up  ? 

TERTSKY. 

The  man  who  knows  our  secrets,  who  knows  every 


Negotiation  with  the  Swede  and  Saxon, 

Through  whose  hands  all  and  everything  has  pass'd— 

WALLENSTEIN  {drawing  back). 
Nay,  not  Sesina  ? — Say,  No !  I  entreat  thee. 

TERTSKY. 

All  on  his  road  for  Regensburg  to  the  Swede 
He  was  plunged  down  upon  by  Galas'  agent. 
Who  had  been  long  in  ambush  lurking  for  him. 
There  must  have  been  found  on  him  my  whole  packet 
To  Thur,  to  Kinsky,  to  Oxenstiem,  to  Amheim  : 
All  this  is  in  their  hands  ;  they  have  now  an  insight 
Into  tlie  whole — our  measures,  and  our  motives. 


SCENE  III. 
To  them  enters  Illo. 


iLLO  (to  Tertsky). 
Has  he  heard  it  ? 

TERTSKY. 

He  has  heard  it. 

ILLO  {to  WALLENSTEIN). 

Thinkest  thou  still 
To  make  thy  peace  with  the  Emperor,  to  regain 
His  confidence  ? — E'en  were  it  now  thy  wish 
To  abandon  all  thy  plans,  yet  still  they  know 
What  thou  hast  wish'd;  then  forwards  thou  must 

press ; 
Retreat  is  now  no  longer  in  thy  power. 

TERTSKY. 

They  have  documents  against  us,  and  in  hands, 
Which  show  beyond  all  power  of  contradiction — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Of  my  handwriting — no  iota.     Thee 
I  punish  for  thy  lies. 

ILLO. 

And  thou  belie  vest. 
That  what  this  man,  that  what  thy  sister's  husband 
Did  in  thy  name,  will  not  stand  on  thy  reck'ning  ? 
His  word  must  pass  for  thy  word  with  the  Swede, 
And  not  with  those  that  hate  thee  at  Vienna. 

TERTSKY. 

In  writing  thou  gavest  nothing — But  bethink  thee. 
How  far  thou  ventured 'st  by  word  of  mouth 
With  this  Sesina  !  And  will  he  be  silent  ? 
If  he  can  save  himself  by  yielding  up 
Thy  secret  purposes,  will  he  retain  them  ? 

ILLO. 

Thyself  dost  not  conceive  it  possible ; 
And  since  they  now  have  evidence  authentic 
How  far  thou  hast  already  gone,  speak ! — tell  us, 
What  art  thou  waiting  for  ?  thou  canst  no  longer 
Keep  thy  command ;  and  beyond  hope  of  rescue 
Thou  'rt  lost,  if  thou  resign'st  it. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In  the  army 
Lies  my  security.     The  army  will  not 
Abandon  me.     Whatever  they  may  know, 
The  power  is  mine,  and  they  must  gulp  it  down — 
And  substitute  I  caution  for  my  fealty, 
They  must  be  satisfied,  at  least  appear  so. 

ILLO. 

The  army,  Duke,  is  thine  now — for  this  moment — 
Tis  thine :  but  think  with  terror  on  the  slow, 
The  quiet  power  of  time.     From  open  violence 
The  attachment  of  thy  soldiery  secures  thee 
To-day — to-morrow ;  but  grant's!  thou  them  a  respite 

164 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


155 


I'nheard,  unseen,  they  '11  undermine  that  love 
On  wliich  thou  now  dost  feel  so  firm  a  footing 
With  wily  ilieft  will  draw  away  from  thee 
One  after  the  other 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'Tis  a  cursed  accident! 

ILLO. 

Oh  !  I  will  call  it  a  most  blessed  one, 
If  it  work  on  thee  as  it  ought  to  do. 
Hurry  thee  on  to  action — to  decision — 
The  Swedish  General 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He 's  arrived  I  Know'st  thou 
What  his  commission  is 

ILLO. 

To  thee  alone 
Will  he  intrust  the  purpose  of  his  coming. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

A  cursed,  cursed  accident !  Yes,  yes, 
Sesina  knows  too  much,  and  won't  be  silent. 

TERTSKY. 

He's  a  Bohemian  fugitive  and  rebel. 

His  neck  is  forfeit.    Can  he  save  himself 

At  thy  cost,  think  you  he  will  scruple  it  ? 

And  if  they  put  him  to  the  torture,  will  he. 

Will  he,  that  dastardling,  have  strength  enough 

WALLENSTEIN  {lost  ill  thought). 

Their  confidence  is  lost — irreparably  ! 
And  I  may  act  what  way  I  will,  I  shall 
Be  and  remain  for  ever  in  their  thought 
A  traitor  to  my  country.    How  sincerely 
Soever  I  return  back  to  my  duty, 
It  will  no  longer  help  me 

ILLO. 

Ruin  thee. 
That  it  will  do !  Not  thy  fidelity, 
Thy  weakness  will  be  deem'd  the  sole  occasion — 

WALLENSTEIN  {pacing  up  and  down  in  extreme 
agitation). 
Wfiat !  I  must  realize  it  now  in  earnest. 
Because  I  toy'd  too  freely  with  the  thought  ? 
Accursed  he  who  dallies  with  a  devil! 
And  must  I — I  must  realize  it  now — 
Kow,  while  I  have  the  power,  it  must  take  place ! 

ILLO. 

Now — now — ere  they  can  ward  and  parry  it ! 

WALLENSTEIN  (looking  at  the  paper  of  signatures). 
I  have  the  General's  word — a  written  promise  ! 
Max.  Piccolomini  stands  not  here — how 's  that  ? 


TERTSKV 

It  was he  fancied 

ILLO. 

Mere  self-willedness. 
There  needed  no  such  thing  'twixt  him  and  you. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He  is  quite  right— there  needeth  no  such  thing. 
The  regiments,  loo,  deny  to  march  for  Flanders- 
Have  sent  me  in  a  paper  of  remonstrance, 
And  openly  resist  the  Imperial  orders. 
The  first  step  to  revolt 's  already  taken. 

ILLO. 

Beheve  me,  thou  wilt  find  it  far  more  easy 
To  lead  them  over  to  ihe  enemy 
Thaii  to  the  Spaniard. 


WALLENSTEIN. 

I  will  hear,  however, 
What  the  Swede  has  to  say  to  me. 

ILLO  {eagerly  to  Tertskv). 

Go,  call  him ! 
He  stands  without  the  door  in  waiting. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Stay! 
Stay  yet  a  little.    It  hath  taken  me 
All  by  surprise, — it  came  too  quick  upon  me ; 
'Tis  wholly  novel,  that  an  accident, 
With  its  dark  lordship,  and  blind  agency. 
Should  force  me  on  with  it. 


And  after  weigh  it. 


ILLO. 

First  hear  him  only, 
[Exeunt  Tertsky  and  Illo 


SCENE  IV. 


WALLENSTEIN  (m  soUloquy) 
Is  it  possible  ? 
Is 't  so  ?  I  can  no  longer  what  I  vjouM  ? 
No  longer  draw  back  at  my  liking  ?  I 
Must  do  the  deed,  because  I  thought  of  it, 
And  fed  this  heart  here  with  a  dream  ?  Because 
I  did  not  scowl  temptation  from  my  presence, 
Dallied  with  thoughts  of  possible  fulfilment. 
Commenced  no  movement,  left  all  time  uncertain, 
And  only  kept  the  road,  the  access  open  ? 
By  the  great  God  of  ?Ieaven  !  It  was  not 
My  serious  meaning,  it  was  ne'er  resolve. 
I  but  amused  myself  with  thinking  of  it. 
The  free-will  tempted  me,  the  power  to  do 
Or  not  to  do  it. — Was  it  criminal 
To  make  the  fancy  minister  to  hope, 
To  fill  the  air  with  pretty  toys  of  air, 
And  clutch  fantastic  sceptres  moving  t'ward  me  ! 
Was  not  the  world  kept  free  ?  Beheld  I  not 
The  road  of  duty  close  beside  me — but 
One  Little  step,  and  once  more  I  was-  in  it ! 
Where  am  I  ?  Whither  have  I  been  transported  ? 
No  road,  no  track  behind  me,  but  a  wall, 
Impenetrable,  insurmountable. 
Rises  obedient  to  the  spells  I  mutter'd 
And  meant  not — my  own  doings  tower  behind  me. 

[Pauses  and  remains  in  deep  thought 
A  punishable  man  I  seem;  the  guilt, 
Try  what  I  will,  I  cannot  roll  off  from  me  ; 
The  equivocal  demeanor  of  my  life 
Bears  witness  on  my  prosecutor's  party. 
And  even  my  purest  acts  from  purest  motives 
Suspicion  poisons  with  malicious  gloss. 
Were  I  that  thing  for  which  I  pass,  that  traitor, 
A  goodly  outside  I  had  sure  reserved, 
Had  drawn  the  coverings  thick  and  double  round  me 
Been  calm  and  chary  of  my  utterance  ; 
But  being  conscious  of  the  innocence 
Of  my  intent,  my  uncorrupted  will, 
I  gave  way  to  my  humors,  to  my  passion  : 
Bold  were  my  words,  because  my  deeds  were  not. 
Now  every  planless  measure,  chance  event, 
The  threat  of  rage,  the  vaunt  of  joy  and  triumph. 
And  all  the  May-games  of  a  heart  o'erflowing. 
Will  they  connect,  and  weave  them  all  together 
Into  one  web  of  treason ;  all  will  be  plan. 
My  eye  ne'er  absent  from  the  far-oflT  mark, 
22  165 


156 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Step  tracing  step,  each  step  a  politic  progress  ; 
And  out  of  all  they  '11  fabricate  a  charge 
So  specious,  that  I  must  rayself  stand  dumb. 
I  am  caught  in  my  own  net,  and  only  force, 
Naught  but  a  sudden  rent  can  liberate  me. 

[Pauses  again. 
How  else !  since  that  the  heart's  unbiass'd  instinct 
Impell'd  me  to  the  daring  deed,  which  now 
Necessity,  self-preservation,  orders. 
Stern  is  tlie  On-look  of  Necessity, 
Not  without  shudder  may  a  human  hand 
Grasp  the  mysteriou"  urn  of  destiny. 
My  deed  was  mine,  remaining  in  my  bosom : 
Once  sufTer'd  to  escape  from  its  safe  corner 
Within  the  heart,  its  nursery  and  birth-place, 
Sent  forth  into  the  Foreign,  it  belongs 
For  ever  to  those  sly  malicious  powers 
Whom  never  art  of  man  conciliated. 

[Paces  in  agitation  throiight?ie  chamber, then  pauses 

and,  after   the  pause,  breaks  out  again  into 

audible  soliloquy. 
What  is  thy  enterprise  ?  thy  aim  ?  thy  object  ? 
Hast  honestly  confess'd  it  to  thyself? 
Power  seated  on  a  quiet  throne  thou'dst  shake, 
Power  on  an  ancient  consecrated  throne. 
Strong  in  possession,  founded  in  old  custom  ; 
Power  by  a  thousand  tough  and  stringy  roots 
Fix'd  to  the  people's  pious  nursery-faith. 
This,  this  will  be  no  strife  of  strength  with  strength. 
That  fear'd  I  not.    I  brave  each  combatant, 
Whom  I  can  look  on,  fixing  eye  to  eye, 
Who,  full  himself  of  courage,  kindles  courage 
In  me  too.    'Tis  a  Ibe  invisible. 
The  which  I  fear — a  fearful  enemy, 
Which  in  the  human  heart  opposes  me, 
By  its  coward  fear  alone  made  fearful  to  me. 
Not  that,  which  full  of  life,  instinct  with  power, 
Makes  known  its  present  being ;  that  is  not 
The  true,  the  perilously  formidable. 
O  no !  it  is  the  common,  the  quite  common, 
The  thing  of  an  eternal  yesterday, 
What  ever  was,  and  evermore  returns, 
Sterling  to-morrow,  for  to-day  't  was  sterling ! 
For  of  the  wholly  common  is  man  made, 
And  custom  is  his  nurse !  Woe  then  to  them, 
Who  lay  irreverent  hands  upon  his  old 
House  furniture,  the  dear  inheritance 
From  his  forefathers  !  For  time  consecrates  ; 
And  what  is  gray  with  age  becomes  religion. 
Be  in  possession,  and  thou  hast  the  right. 
And  sacred  will  the  many  guard  it  for  thee ! 

[  To  the  Page,  who  here  enters. 
The  Swedish  officer  ? — Well,  let  him  enter. 

[TAePAGE  exit,  Wallenstein^^bs  his  eye  in  deep 
thought  on  the  door. 
Yet  is  it  pure — as  yet !  the  crime  has  come 
Not  o'er  this  threshold  yet — so  slender  is 
The  boundary  that  divideth  life's  two  paths. 


SCENE  V. 

Wallenstein  and  Wrangel. 

WALLENSTEiN  (flfler  having  fixed  a  searching  look  on 

him). 
four  name  is  Wrangrl  ? 


wrangel. 

Gustave  Wrangel,  General 
Of  the  Sudermanian  Blues. 

wallenstein. 

It  was  a  Wrangel 
Who  injured  me  materially  at  Stralsund, 
And  by  his  brave  resistance  was  the  cause 
Of  the  opposition  which  that  sea-port  made. 

WRANGEL. 

It  was  the  doing  of  the  element 
With  which  you  fought,  my  Lord !  and  not  my  merit 
The  Baltic  Neptune  did  assert  his  freedom : 
The  sea  and  land,  it  seem'd,  were  not  to  serve 
One  and  the  same. 

WALLENSTEIN  {makes  the  motion  for  him  to  take  a  seat, 

and  seats  himself). 

And  where  are  your  credentials  ? 
Come  you  provided  with  full  powers.  Sir  General  ? 

WRANGEL. 

There  are  so  many  scruples  yet  to  solve 

WALLENSTEIN  [having  read  the  credentials). 
An  able  letter  I — Ay — he  is  a  prudent 
Intelligent  master,  whom  you  serve.  Sir  General ! 
The  Chancellor  writes  me,  that  he  but  fulfils 
His  late  departed  Sovereign's  own  idea 
In  helping  me  to  the  Bohemian  crown. 

WRANGEL. 

He  says  the  truth.    Our  great  King,  now  in  heaven 

Did  ever  deem  most  highly  of  your  Grace's 

Pre-eminent  sense  and  military  genius  ; 

And  always  the  commanding  Intellect, 

He  said,  should  have  command,  and  be  the  King. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes,  he  might  say  it  safely. — General  Wrangel, 

[Taking  his  hand  affectionately 
Come,  fair  and  open. — Trust  me,  I  was  always 
A  Swede  at  heart.    Ey !  that  did  you  experience 
Both  in  Silesia  and  at  Nuremburg ; 
I  had  you  often  in  my  power,  and  let  you 
Always  slip  out  by  some  back-door  or  other. 
'Tis  this  for  which  the  Court  can  ne'er  forgive  me. 
Which  drives  me  to  this  present  step :  and  since 
Our  interests  so  run  in  one  direction, 
E'en  let  us  have  a  thorough  confidence 
Each  in  the  other. 

WRANGEL. 

Confidence  will  come 
Has  each  but  only  first  security. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  Chancellor  still,  I  see,  does  not  quite  trust  me; 
And,  I  confess — the  game  does  not  Ue  whoUy 
To  my  advantage — Without  doubt  he  thinks. 
If  I  can  play  false  with  the  Emperor, 
Who  is  my  Sov'reign,  I  can  do  the  like 
With  the  enemy,  and  that  the  one  too  were 
Sooner  to  be  forgiven  me  than  the  other. 
Is  not  this  your  opinion  too.  Sir  General  ? 

WRANGEL. 

I  have  here  an  office  merely,  no  opinion. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  Emperor  hath  urged  me  to  the  uttermost 
I  can  no  longer  honorably  serve  him. 
For  my  security,  in  self-defence, 
I  take  this  hard  step,  which  my  conscience  blarae?. 
166 


THE  PICCOLOMINL 


157 


WRAN'GEL. 

That  I  believe.     So  far  would  no  one  go 
WTio  was  not  forced  to  it.                      [After  a  pause. 
WTiat  may  have  impell'd 
Your  pnncely  Highness  in  this  wise  to  act 
Toward  your  Sovereign  Lord  and  Emperor, 
Beseems  not  us  to  expound  or  criticise. 
The  Swede  is  fighting  for  his  good  old  cause, 
With  his  good  sword  and  conscience.    This  concur- 
rence. 
This  opportunity,  is  in  our  favor, 
And  all  advantages  in  war  are  lawful. 
We  take  what  offers  without  questioning ; 
And  if  all  have  its  due  and  just  proportions 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Of  what  then  are  ye  doubting  ?   Of  my  will  ? 

Or  of  my  power  ?  I  pledged  me  to  the  Chancellor, 

Would  he  trust  me  with  sixteen  thousand  men, 

That  I  would  instantly  go  over  to  them 

With  eighteen  thousand  of  the  Emperor's  troops. 

AVRANGEL. 

Your  Grace  is  known  to  be  a  mighty  war-chief. 
To  be  a  second  Attila  and  Pyrrhus. 
'Tis  talk'd  of  still  with  fresh  astonishment. 
How  some  years  past,  beyond  all  human  faith. 
You  call'd  an  army  forth,  like  a  creation : 
But  yet 

WALLENSTEIN. 

But  yet  ? 

WRANGEL. 

But  still  the  Chancellor  thinks. 
It  might  yet  be  an  easier  thing  from  nothing 
To  call  forth  sixty  thousand  men  of  battle. 
Than  to  persuade  one  sixtieth  part  of  them — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  now  ?    Out  with  it,  friend  ? 

WRANGEL. 

To  break  their  oaths 

WALLENSTEIN 

And  he  thinks  so  ? — He  judges  like  a  Swede, 
And  like  a  Protestant.     You  Lutherans 
Fight  for  your  Bible.    You  are  interested 
About  the  cause  ;  and  with  your  hearls  you  follow 
Your  banners. — Aiuong  you,  whoe'er  deserts 
To  the  enemy,  hath  broken  covenant 
With  two  Lords  at  one  time. — We  've  no  such  fan- 
cies. 

WRANGEL. 

Great  God  in  Heaven  !  Have  then  the  people  here 
No  house  and  home,  no  fire-side,  no  altar  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  will  explain  that  to  you,  how  it  stands : — 
The  Austrian  has  a  country,  ay,  and  loves  it, 
And  has  good  cause  to  love  it — but  this  army. 
That  calls  itself  the  Imperial,  this  that  houses 
Here  in  Bohemia,  this  has  none — no  country  ; 
This  is  an  outcast  of  all  foreign  lands, 
Unclaim'd  by  town  or  tribe,  to  whom  belongs 
Nothing,  except  the  universal  sun. 

WRANGEL. 

But  then  the  Nobles  and  the  Officers  ? 
Such  a  desertion,  such  a  felony, 
It  is  without  example,  my  Lord  Duke, 
In  the  world's  history. 

WALLENSTEI.N. 

They  are  all  mine — 
Mine  imconditionally — mine  on  all  tenns. 
P2 


Not  me,  your  own  eyes  you  must  trust. 

[He  gives  him  the  paper  containing  the  written 
oath.  WRANGf.l,  reads  it  IhrougJi,  and,  having 
read  it,  lays  it  on  the  table,  remaining  silent. 
So  then? 
Now  comprehend  you  ? 

WRANGEL. 

Comprehend  who  can ! 
My  Lord  Duke  ;  I  will  let  the  mask  drop — yes ! 
I  've  full  powers  for  a  final  settlement 
The  Rhinegrave  stands  but  four  days'  march  from 

here 
With  fifteen  thousand  men,  and  only  vi'aits 
For  orders  to  proceed  and  join  your  army 
Those  orders  /  give  out,  immediately 
We're  compromised. 

WALLENSTEIN 

What  asks  the  Chancellor? 
WRANGEL  {considerately\. 
Twelve  regiments,  every  man  a  Swede — my  head 
The  warranty — and  all  might  prove  at  last 

Only  false  play 

WALLENSTEIN  {Starting). 

Sir  Swede  I 

WRANGEL  {calmly  proceeding). 

Am  therefore  forced 
T'  insist  thereon,  that  he  do  formally. 
Irrevocably  break  with  the  Emperor, 
Else  not  a  Swede  is  trusted  to  Duke  Friedland. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Corae,  brief,  and  open !  What  is  the  demand  ? 

WRANGEL. 

That  he  tbrthwith  disarm  the  Spanish  regiments 
Attach'd  to  the  Emperor,  that  he  seize  Prague, 
And  to  the  Swedes  give  up  that  city,  with 
The  strong  pass  Egra. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Tliat  is  much  indeed  ! 

Prague!  —  Egra's    granted  —  But — but    Prague! — 

'T  won't  do. 
I  give  you  every  security 

Which  you  may  ask  of  me  in  common  reason — 
But  Prague — Bohemia — these.  Sir  General, 
I  can  myself  protect. 

WRANGEL. 

We  doubt  it  not. 
But  'tis  not  the  protection  that  is  now 
Our  sole  concern.    We  want  security. 
That  we  shall  not  expend  our  men  and  money 
All  to  no  purpose. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'Tis  but  reasonable. 

WRANGEL. 

And  till  we  are  indemnified,  so  long 
Stays  Prague  in  pledge. 

WALLENSTEIN 

Then  trust  you  us  so  little  ? 
WRANGEL  {rising). 
The  Swede,  if  he  would  treat  well  with  the  German, 
Must  keep  a  sharp  look-out.    We  have  been  call'd 
Over  the  Baltic,  we  have  saved  the  empire 
From  ruin — with  our  best  blood  have  we  seal'd 
The  liberty  of  faith,  and  gospel  truth. 
But  now  already  is  the  benefaction 

No  longer  felt,  the  load  alone  is  felt, 

Ye  look  askance  with  evil  eye  upon  us, 
As  foreigners,  intruders  in  the  empire, 
167 


158 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  would  fain  send  us,  with  some  paltry  sum 
Of  money,  home  again  to  our  old  forests. 
No,  no !  my  Lord  Duke !  no  I — it  never  was 
For  Judas'  pay,  for  chinking  gold  and  silver. 
That  we  did  leave  our  King  by  the  Great  Stone* 
No,  not  for  gold  and  silver  have  tiiere  bled 
So  many  of  our  Swedish  Nobles — neither 
Will  we,  with  empty  laurels  for  our  payment, 
Hoist  sail  for  our  own  country.    C'Uizeus 
Will  we  remain  upon  the  soil,  the  which 
Our  Monarch  conquer'd  for  himself,  and  died. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Help  to  keep  down  the  common  enemy. 
And  the  fair  border-land  must  needs  be  yours. 

WRANGEL. 

But  when  the  common  enemy  lies  vanquish'd, 

Who  knits  together  our  new  friendship  then  ? 

We  know,  Duke  Friedland.  though  perhaps  the  Swede 

Ought  not  t  have  known  it,  that  you  carry  on 

Secret  negotiations  with  the  Saxons. 

Who  is  our  warranty,  that  we  are  not 

The  sacrifices  in  those  articles 

Which  'tis  thought  needful  to  conceal  from  us? 

WALLENSTEIN  {rises). 
Think  you  of  something  better,  Gustave  Wrangel ! 
Of  Prague  no  more. 

WRANGEL. 

Here  my  commission  ends. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Surrender  up  to  you  my  capital ! 

Far  liever  would  I  face  about,  and  step 

Back  to  my  Emperor. 

WRANGEL. 

If  time  yet  permits 

WALLENSTEIN. 

That  lies  with  me,  even  nov^',  at  any  hour. 

WRANGEL. 

Some  days  ago,  perhaps.    To-day,  no  longer ; 
No  longer  since  Sesina's  been  a  prisoner. 

[WALLENSTEIN  IS  siruck,  and  silenced. 
My  Lord  Duke,  hear  me — We  believe  that  you 
At  present  do  mean  honorably  by  us. 
Since  yesterday  we're  sure  of  that — and  now 
This  paper  warrants  for  the  troops,  there 's  nothing 
Stands  in  the  way  of  our  full  confidence. 
Prague  shall  not  part  us.    Hear !    The  Chancellor 
Contents  himself  with  Albstadt ;  to  your  Grace 
He  gives  up  Ratschin  and  the  narrow  side. 
But  Egra  above  all  must  open  to  us, 
Ere  we  can  think  of  any  junction. 


WALLENSTEIN. 

Ye  press  me  hard.    A  measure,  such  as  tliis, 
Ought  to  be  Oiougld  of 

WRANGEL. 

Ay !  but  think  of  this  too, 
That  sudden  action  only  can  procure  it 
Success — think  first  of  this,  your  Highness. 

{Exit  Wrangei 


WALLENSTEIN. 


You, 


You  therefore  must  I  trust,  and  you  not  me  ? 
I  will  consider  of  your  proposition. 

WRANGEL. 

I  must  entreat,  that  your  consideration 
Occupy  not  too  long  a  time.    Already 
Has  this  negotiation,  my  Lord  Duke ! 
Crept  on  into  the  second  year.    If  nothing 
Is  settled  this  time,  will  the  Chancellor 
Consider  it  as  broken  off  for  ever. 


SCENE  VI. 
WALLENSTEIN,  Tertsky,  and  Illo  (re-enter). 

ILLO. 

Is't  all  right? 

tertsky. 
Are  you  compromised  ? 

ILLO. 

This  Swede 
Went  smiling  from  you.    Yes !  you  're  compromised 

WALLENSTEIN. 

As  yet  is  nothing  settled  :  and  (well  weigh'd) 
I  feel  myself  inclined  to  leave  it  so. 

TERTSKY. 

How  ?  What  was  that  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Come  on  me  what  may  come 
The  doing  evil  to  avoid  an  evil 
Can  not  be  good ! 

TERTSKY. 

Nay,  but  bethink  you,  Duke. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

To  live  upon  the  mercy  of  these  Swedes ! 

Of  these  proud-hearted  Swedes  I — I  could  not  bear  it 

ILLO. 

Goest  thou  as  fugitive,  as  mendicant  ? 

Bringest  thou  not  more  to  them  than  thou  receivest 


SCENE  VII. 


*  A  great  stone  near  Lutzen,  since  called  the  Swede's  Stone, 
the  body  of  their  great  king  having  been  found  at  the  foot  of  it, 
aAer  the  battle  in  which  he  lust  his  life. 


To  these  enter  the  Countess  Tertsky. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Who  sent  for  you  ?   There  is  no  business  here 
For  women. 

COUNTESS. 

I  am  come  to  bid  you  joy. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Use  thy  authority,  Tertsky ;  bid  her  go. 

COUNTESS. 

Come  I  perhaps  too  early  ?  I  hope  not. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Set  not  this  tongue  upon  me,  I  entreat  you  : 
You  know  it  is  the  weapon  that  destroys  me. 
I  am  routed,  if  a  woman  but  attack  me : 
I  cannot  traffic  in  the  trade  of  words 
With  that  unreasoning  sex. 

COUNTESS. 

I  had  already 
Given  the  Bohemians  a  king. 

WALLENSTEIN  (sarcastically). 

They  have  one, 
In  consequence,  no  doubt. 

COUNTESS  (to  the  others). 

Ha !  what  new  scruple  ? 

TERTSKY. 

The  Duke  will  not. 

168 


THE  PICOOLOMINI. 


159 


COUNTESS. 

He  will  not  what  he  must ! 

ILLO. 

rt  lies  with  you  now.  Try.  For  I  am  silenced, 
When  folks  begin  to  talk  to  me  of  conscience, 
And  of  fidelity. 

COUNTESS. 

How  ?  then,  when  all 
Lay  in  the  far-off  distance,  when  the  road 
Stretcli'd  out  before  thine  eyes  interminably, 
Then  hadst  thou  courage  and  resolve ;  and  now, 
Now  that  the  dream  is  being  realized, 
The  purpose  ripe,  the  issue  ascertain'd. 
Dost  thou  begin  to  play  the  dastard  now  ? 
Plann'd  merely,  'tis  a  common  felony; 
Accomplish'd,  an  immortal  undertaking  : 
And  with  success  comes  pardon  hand  in  hand  ; 
For  all  event  is  God's  arbitrement. 

SERVANT  (enters). 
The  Colonel  Piccolomini. 

COUNTESS  (hastily). 

— Must  wait. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  cannot  see  him  now.    Another  time. 

SERVANT. 

But  for  two  minutes  he  entreats  an  audience : 
Of  the  most  urgent  nature  is  his  business. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Who  knows  what  he  may  bring  us !  I  will  hear  him. 

COUNTESS  (laughs). 
Urgent  for  hnn,  no  doubt ;  out  thou  mayest  wait. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  is  it  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Thou  shall  be  inform'd  hereafter. 
First  let  the  Swede  and  thee  be  compromised. 

[Exit  Servant. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

II  there  were  yet  a  choice !  if  yet  some  milder 
Way  of  escape  were  possible — I  still 

Will  choose  it,  and  avoid  the  last  extreme. 

COUNTESS. 

Desirest  thou  nothing  further  ?  Such  a  way 

Ijes  still  before  thee.    Send  this  Wrangel  off 

Forget  thou  thy  old  hopes,  cast  far  away 

All  thy  past  life  ;  determine  to  commence 

A  new  one.    Virtue  hath  her  heroes  too. 

As  well  as  Fame  and  Fortune. — To  Vienna — 

Hence — to  the  Emperor — kneel  before  the  throne  ; 

Take  a  full  Coffer  with  thee — say  aloud. 

Thou  didst  but  wish  to  prove  thy  fealty; 

Thy  whole  intention  but  to  dupe  the  Swede. 

ILLO. 

For  that  too  't  is  too  late.    They  know  too  much : 
He  would  but  bear  his  own  head  to  the  block. 

COUNTESS. 

I  fear  not  that.    They  have  not  evidence 

To  attaint  him  legally,  and  they  avoid 

The  avowal  of  an  arbitrary  power. 

They  '11  let  the  Duke  resign  without  disturbance. 

I  see  how  all  will  end.    The  King  of  Hungary 

Makes  his  appearance,  and  'twill  of  itself 

Be  understood,  that  then  the  Duke  retires. 

There  will  not  want  a  formal  declaration : 

The  young  king  will  administer  the  oath 

To  the  whole  army ;  and  so  all  returns 


To  the  old  position.    On  some  morrow  morning 

The  Duke  departs ;  and  now  't  is  stir  and  bustle 

Within  his  castles.    He  will  hunt,  and  build , 

Superintend  his  horses'  pedigrees. 

Creates  himself  a  court,  gives  golden  keys, 

And  introduceth  strictest  ceremony 

In  fine  proportions,  and  nice  etiquette  ; 

Keeps  open  table  with  high  cheer ;  in  brief, 

Commenceth  mighty  King — in  miniature. 

And  while  he  prudently  demeans  himself. 

And  gives  himself  no  actual  importance. 

He  will  be  let  appear  whate'er  he  likes : 

And  who  dares  doubt,  that  Friedland  will  appear 

A  mighty  Prince  to  his  last  dying  hour  ? 

Well  now,  what  then  ?  Duke  Friedland  is  as  others, 

A  fire-new  Noble,  whom  the  war  hath  raised 

To  price  and  currency,  a  Jonah's  gourd. 

An  over-night  creation  of  court-favor, 

Which  with  an  undistinguishable  ease 

Makes  Baron  or  makes  Prince. 

WALLENSTEIN  (in  extreme  agitation). 

Take  her  away. 
Let  in  the  young  Count  Piccolomini. 

COUNTESS. 

Art  thou  in  earnest  ?  I  entreat  thee !  Canst  thou 
Consent  to  bear  thyself  to  thy  own  grave 
So  ignoininiously  to  be  dried  up  ? 
Thy  life,  that  arrogated  such  a  height. 
To  end  in  such  a  nothing  I  To  be  nothing, 
WTien  one  was  ahvays  nothing,  is  an  evU 
That  asks  no  stretch  of  patience,  a  light  evil ; 
But  to  become  a  nothing,  having  been 

WALLENSTEIN  (starts  Up  in  violent  agitatim). 
Show  me  a  way  out  of  this  stifling  crowd. 
Ye  Powers  of  Aidance !  Show  me  such  a  way 
As  /  am  capable  of  going. — I 
Am  no  tongue-hero,  no  fine  virtue-prattler; 
I  cannot  warm  by  thinking ;  cannot  say 
To  the  good  luck  that  turns  her  back  upon  me. 
Magnanimously  :  "  Go ;  I  need  thee  not." 
Cease  I  to  work,  I  am  annihilated. 
Dangers  nor  sacrifices  will  I  shun, 
If  so  I  may  avoid  the  last  extreme ; 
But  ere  I  sink  down  into  nothingness. 
Leave  off  so  little,  who  began  so  great. 
Ere  that  the  world  confuses  me  with  those 
Poor  wretches,  whom  a  day  creates  and  crumbles, 
This  age  and  after  ages*  speak  my  name 
With  hate  and  dread  ;  and  Friedland  be  redemption 
For  each  accursed  deed ! 

COUNTESS. 

What  is  there  here,  then. 
So  against  nature  ?  Help  me  to  perceive  it ! 
O  let  not  Superstition's  nightly  goblins 
Subdue  thy  clear  bright  spirit!  Art  thou  bid 
To  murder  ? — with  abhorr'd  accursed  poniard. 
To  violate  the  breasts  that  nourish'd  thee  ? 
That  were  against  our  nature,  that  might  aptly 
Make  thy  flesh  shudder,  and  thy  whole  heart  sicken.'f 


*  Could  I  have  hazarded  such  a  Germanism,  as  the  use  of 
the  word  after-world,  for  posterity,  -•"  Es  spreche  Welt  und 
J^Tacliioelt  meinen  Namen" — might  have  been  rendered  with 
more  literal  fidelity : — Let  world  and  after-world  speak  out  my 
name,  etc. 

T  I  have  not  ventured  to  aflfront  the  fastidious  delicacy  of  our 
age  with  the  literal  translation  of  this  line, 

werth 
Die  Eingeweide  schaudernd  aufzuregcn. 
169 


160 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yet  not  a  few,  and  for  a  meaner  object, 
Vave  ventured  even  this,  ay,  and  perform'd  it. 
What  is  there  in  thy  case  so  black  and  monstrous  ? 
Thou  art  accused  of  treason — whether  with 
Or  without  justice  is  not  now  the  question — 
Thou  art  lost  if  thou  dost  not  avail  thee  quickly 
Of  the  power  which  thou  possessest-^Friedland  I  Diike ! 
Tell  me,  where  lives  that  thing  so  meek  and  tame. 
That  doth  not  all  his  living  faculties 
Put  forth  in  preservation  of  his  life ! 
What  deed  so  daring,  which  necessity 
And  desperation  will  not  sanctify  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Once  was  this  Ferdinand  so  gracious  to  me  : 

He  loved  me ;  he  esteem'd  me ;  I  was  placed 

The  nearest  to  his  heart.     Full  many  a  time 

We,  like  familiar  friends,  both  at  one  table, 

Have  banqueted  together.    He  and  I — 

And  the  young  kings  themselves  held  me  the  basin 

Wherewith  to  wash  me — and  is't  come  to  this? 

COUNTESS. 

So  faithfully  preservest  thou  each  small  favor. 

And  hast  no  memory  for  contumelies  ? 

Must  I  remind  thee,  how  at  Regensburg 

This  man  repaid  thy  faithful  services  ? 

All  ranks  and  all  conditions  in  the  empire 

Thou   hadst  wrong'd,   to   make   him  great, — hadst 

loaded  on  thee. 
On  thee,  the  hate,  the  curse  of  the  whole  world. 
No  friend  existed  for  thee  in  all  Germany, 
And  why  I  because  thou  hadst  existed  only 
For  the  Emperor.    To  the  Emperor  alone 
Clung  Friedland  in  that  storm  which  gather'd  roimd 

him 
At  Regensburg  in  the  Diet — and  he  dropp'd  thee  ! 
He  let  thee  fall !  He  let  thee  fall  a  \-ictim 
To  the  Bavarian,  to  that  insolent ! 
Deposed,  stript  bare  of  all  thy  dignity 
And  power,  amid  the  taunting  of  thy  foes, 
Thou  wert  let  drop  into  obscurity. — 
Say  not,  the  restoration  of  thy  honor 
Has  made  atonement  for  that  first  injustice. 
No  honest  good-will  was  it  that  replaced  thee  ; 
The  law  of  hard  necessity  replaced  thee. 
Which  they  had  fain  opposed,  but  that  they  could  not. 

WAI.LENSTEIN. 

Not  to  their  good  wishes,  that  is  certain. 
Nor  yet  to  his  affection,  I  'in  indebted 
For  this  high  olTice ;  and  if  I  abuse  it, 
T  shall  therein  abuse  no  confidence. 

COUNTESS. 

Affection  !  confidence ! — They  needed  thee. 

Necessity,  impetuous  remonstrant ! 

Who  not  with  empty  names,  or  shows  of  proxy. 

Is  served,  who'll  have  the  thing  and  not  the  symbol, 

Ever  seeks  out  the  greatest  and  the  best, 

And  at  the  rudder  places  Mm,  e'en  though 

She  had  been  forced  to  take  him  from  the  rabble — 

She,  this  Necessity,  it  was  that  placed  thee 

In  this  high  office ;  it  was  slie  that  gave  thee 

Thy  letters-patent  of  inauguration. 

For,  to  the  uttermost  moment  that  they  can. 

This  race  still  help  themselves  at  cheapest  rate 

With  slavish  souls,  with  puppets !  At  the  approach 

Of  extreme  peril,  when  a  hollow  image 

Is  foxmd  a  hollow  image  and  no  more, 

Then  falls  the  power  into  the  mighty  hands 


Of  Nature,  of  the  spirit  giant-bom. 
Who  listens  only  to  himself,  knows  nothiiig 
Of  stipulations,  duties,  reverences. 
And,  like  the  emancipated  force  of  fire, 
Unmaster'd  scorches,  ere  it  reaches  them, 
Their  fine-spun  webs,  their  artificial  policy. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'T  is  true !  they  saw  me  always  as  I  am — 
Always !  I  did  not  cheat  them  in  the  bargain. 
I  never  held  it  worth  my  pains  to  hide 
The  bold  all-grasping  habit  of  my  soul. 


Nay  rather — thou  hast  ever  showTi  thyself 

A  formidable  man,  without  restraint ; 

Hast  exercised  the  full  prerogatives 

Of  thy  impetuous  nature,  which  had  been 

Once  granted  to  thee.    Therefore,  Duke,  not  thou, 

Who  hast  still  remain'd  consistent  with  thyself. 

But  they  are  in  the  wrong,  who  fearing  thee. 

Intrusted  such  a  power  in  hands  they  fear'd. 

For,  by  the  laws  of  Spirit,  in  the  right 

Is  every  individual  character 

That  acts  in  strict  consistence  with  itself. 

Self-contradiction  is  the  only  wrong. 

Wert  thou  another  being,  then,  when  thou 

Eight  years  ago  pursuedst  thy  march  with  fire 

And  sword,  and  desolation,  through  the  Circles 

Of  Germany,  the  universal  scourge, 

Didst  mock  all  ordinances  of  the  empire, 

Tlie  fearful  rights  of  strength  alone  exertedst, 

Trampledst  to  earth  each  rank,  each  magistracy. 

All  to  extend  thy  Sultan's  domination  ? 

Then  was  the  time  to  break  thee  in,  to  curb 

Thy  haughty  will,  to  teach  thee  ordinance. 

But  no,  the  Emperor  felt  no  touch  of  conscience 

What  served  him  pleased  him,  and  without  a  murmui 

He  stamp'd  his  broad  seal  on  these  lawless  deeds. 

What  at  that  time  was  right,  because  thou  didst  it 

For  him,  to-day  is  all  at  once  become 

Opprobrious,  foul,  because  it  is  directed 

Against  him. — O  most  flimsy  superstition  ! 

WALLENSTEIN  (rising). 
I  never  saw  it  in  this  light  before. 
'Tis  even  so.    The  Emperor  perpetrated 
Deeds  through  my  arm,  deeds  most  unorderly. 
And  even  this  prince's  mantle,  wMch  I  wear, 
I  owe  to  what  were  services  to  him, 
But  most  high  misdemeanors  'gainst  the  empire. 

COUNTESS. 

Then  betwixt  thee  and  him  (confess  it,  Friedland  .*)  " 
The  point  can  be  no  more  of  right  and  duty. 
Only  of  power  and  the  opportunity. 
That  opportunity,  lo  I  it  comes  j'ondcr 
Approaching  with  swift  steeds ;  then  witli  a  swing 
Throw  thyself  up  uito  the  chariot-seat. 
Seize  with  firm  hand  the  reius,  ere  thy  opponent 
Anticipate  thee,  and  himself  make  conquest 
Of  the  now  empty  seat.    The  moment  comes  ; 
It  is  already  here,  when  thou  must  write 
The  absolute  total  of  thy  life's  vast  sum. 
The  constellations  stand  victorious  o'er  thee. 
The  planets  shoot  good  fortune  in  fair  junctions, 
And  tell  thee,  "  Now 's  the  time  !"  The  starry  course? 
Hast  thou  thy  life-long  measured  to  no  purpose  ? 
The  quadrant  and  the  circle,  were  they  playthings' 
[Pointing  to  the  different  ohjects  in  the  room. 
170 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


161 


The  zodiacs,  the  rolling  orbs  of  heaven, 

Ilast  pictured  on  these  walls,  and  all  around  thee 

In  dumb,  foreboding  symbols  hast  thou  placed 

These  seven  presiding  Lords  of  Destiny — 

For  toys  ?  Is  all  tliis  preparation  nothing  ? 

Is  there  no  marrow  in  this  hollow  art, 

That  even  to  thyself  it  dolh  avail 

Nothing,  and  has  no  influence  over  thee 

In  the  great  moment  of  decision  ? 

WALLENSTKIN  (during  this  last  speech  vxiTks  up  and 
down  with  inward  struggles,  hiboring  wiOi  passion  ; 
slops  sudderdy,  stands  still,  then  interrvpting  the 
Countess). 

Send  VVrangel  to  me — I  will  instantly 

Dispatch  three  couriers 

ILLO  (hurrying  out). 

God  in  heaven  be  praised  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  is  his  evil  genius  and  mine. 

Our  evil  genius .'  It  chastises  him 

Through  me,  the  instrument  of  his  ambition  ; 

And  I  expect  no  less,  than  that  Revenge 

E'en  now  is  whetting  for  my  breast  the  poniard. 

Who  sows  the  serpent's  teeth,  let  him  not  hope 

To  reap  a  joyous  harvest.    Every  crime 

Has,  in  the  moment  of  its  perpetration, 

lis  own  avenging  angel — dark  misgiving, 

An  ominous  sinking  at  the  inmost  heart. 

He  can  no  longer  trust  me — Then  no  longer 

Can  I  retreat — so  come  that  which  must  come. — 

Still  Destiny  preserves  its  due  relations  : 

The  heart  within  us  is  its  absolute 

Vicegerent. 

[To  Tertskv. 
Go,  conduct  you  Gustave  Wrangel 
To  my  state-cabinet. — Myself  will  speak  to 
The  couriers. — And  dispatch  immediately 
A  servant  for  Octavio  Piccolomini. 

[Tb  the  Cou.NTESs,  who  cannot  conceal  her  triumph. 
No  exultation  !  woman,  triumph  not ! 
For  jealous  are  the  Powere  of  Destiny. 
Joy  premature,  and  shouts  ere  victory, 
Encroach  upon  their  rights  and  privileges. 
We  sow  the  seed,  and  they  the  growth  determine. 
[While  he  is  making  his  exit,  the  curtain  drops. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 
Scene,  as  in  llie  preceding  Act. 
Wallensteix,  Octavio  Piccolomim. 
WALLENSTEi.N  (coming  forward  in  conversation). 
He  sends  me  word  from  Linz,  that  he  lies  sick  ; 
But  I  have  sure  intelligence,  that  he 
Secretes  himself  at  Frauenbcrg  with  Galas. 
Secure  them  both,  and  send  them  to  me  hither. 
Remember,  thou  takcst  on  thee  the  command 
Of  those  same  Spani.sh  regimenLs, — constantly 
Make  preparation,  and  he  never  ready  ; 
And  if  they  urge  thee  to  draw  out  against  me, 
Still  answer  ve.';,  and  stand  as  thou  wert  fetter'd. 
1  know,  that  it  is  doing  thee  a  service 
To  keep  thee  out  of  action  in  this  business. 
Thou  lovest  to  linger  on  in  fair  appearances : 
12 


Steps  of  extremity  are  not  thy  province, 
Therefore  have  I  sought  out  this  part  for  thee. 
Thou  wilt  this  time  be  of  most  service  to  me 
By  thy  inertness.    The  mean  time,  if  fortune 
Declare  itself  on  my  side,  thou  wilt  know 
What  is  to  do. 

Elder  Max.  Piccolomini. 
Now  go,  Octavio. 
This  night  must  thou  be  off":  take  my  own  horses . 
Him  here  I  keep  with  me — make  short  farewell- 
Trust  me,  I  think  we  all  shall  meet  again 
In  joy  asid  thriving  fortunes. 

OCTAVIO  (to  his  son). 

I  shall  see  you 
Yet  ere  I  go. 


SCENE  II. 


Wallenstein,  Max.  Piccolomi.m. 

MA.x.  (advances  to  him). 
My  General ! 

wallenstein. 
That  am  I  no  longer,  if 
Thou  stylest  thyself  the  Emperor's  officer 

MAX. 

Then  thou  wilt  leave  the  army,  General  ? 

wallenstein. 
I  have  renounced  the  service  pf  the  Emperor. 

MAX. 

And  thou  wilt  leave  the  army  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Rather  hope  I 
To  bind  it  nearer  still  and  faster  to  me. 

[He  seats  himself 
Yes,  Max.,  I  have  delay 'd  to  open  it  to  thee, 
Even  till  the  hour  of  acting  'gins  to  strike. 
Youth's  fortunate  feeling  doth  seize  easily 
The  absolute  right,  yea,  .ind  a  joy  it  is 
To  exercise  the  single  apprehension 
Where  the  sums  square  in  proof; 
But  where  it  happens,  that  of  two  sure  evils 
One  must  be  taken,  where  the  heart  not  wholly 
Brings  itself  back  from  out  the  strife  of  duties, 
There  't  is  a  blessing  to  have  no  election, 
And  blank  necessity  is  grace  and  favor. 
— This  is  now  present :  do  not  look  behind  thee, — 
It  can  no  more  avail  thee.    Look  thou  forwards ! 
Think  not !  judge  not !  prepare  thyself  to  act ' 
The  Court — it  hath  determined  on  my  ruin, 
Therefore  I  will  to  be  beforehand  with  them. 
We'll  join  the  Swedes — right  gallant  fellows  are 

they. 
And  our  good  friends. 

[He  stops  himself,  expecting  Piccolomini's  ansnxt. 
I  have  ta'en  thee  by  surprise     Answer  me  not 
I  grant  thee  time  to  recollect  tnyself 

[lie  rises,  and  retires  to  the  back  of  the  stage 
Max.  remains  for  <»  long  time  motionless, 
in  a  trance  of  excessive  anguish.  At  his 
first  motion  Wallenstein  returns  and 
places  himself  before  him. 

MAX. 

My  General,  this  day  thou  makesl  me 
Of  age  to  speak  in  my  own  right  and  person, 
For  till  this  day  I  have  been  spared  the  trouble 
To  find  out  my  own  road.    Thee  have  I  Ibllow'd 
171 


162 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


With  most  implicit  unconditional  faith, 
Sure  of  the  right  path  if  I  foUow'd  thee. 
To-day,  for  the  first  time,  dost  thou  refer 
Me  to  myself,  and  forcest  me  to  make 
Election  between  thee  and  my  own  heart. 

WALLENSTEIN, 

Soft  cradled  thee  thy  Fortune  till  to-day  ; 
Thy  duties  thou  couldst  exercise  in  sport, 
Indulge  all  lovely  instincts,  act  for  ever 
With  undivided  heart    It  can  remain 
No  longer  thus.    Like  enemies,  the  roads 
Start  from  each  other.    Duties  strive  with  duties. 
Thou  must  needs  choose  thy  party  in  the  war 
Which  is  now  kindling  'twixt  thy  friend  and  him 
Who  is  thy  Emperor. 

MAX. 

War !  is  that  the  name  ? 
War  is  as  frightful  as  heaven's  pestilence. 
Yet  it  is  good,  is  it  heaven's  will  as  that  is. 
Is  that  a  good  war,  which  against  the  Emperor 
Thou  wagest  with  the  Emperor's  own  army  ? 
O  God  of  heaven  !  what  a  change  is  this  ! 
Beseems  it  me  to  offer  such  persuasion 
To  thee,  who  like  the  fix'd  star  of  the  pole 
Wert  all  1  gazed  at  on  life's  trackless  ocean  ? 
O !  what  a  rent  tJiou  makest  in  my  heart! 
The  Lngrain'd  instinct  of  old  reverence, 
The  holy  habit  of  obediency. 
Must  I  pluck  live  asunder  from  thy  name  ? 
Nay,  do  not  turn  thy  countenance  upon  me — 
It  always  was  as  a  god  looking  at  me  ! 
Duke  Wallenstein,  its  power  is  not  departed : 
The  senses  still  are  in  thy  bonds,  although, 
Bleeding,  the  soul  hath  freed  itself 


WALLENSTEIN. 


Max.,  hear  me. 


O !  do  it  not,  I  pray  thee,  do  it  not ! 
There  is  a  pure  and  noble  soul  within  thee. 
Knows  not  of  this  unblest,  unlucky  doing. 
Thy  will  is  chaste,  it  is  thy  fancy  only 
Which  hath  polluted  thee — and  innocence, 
It  will  not  let  itself  be  driven  away 
From  that  world-awing  aspect.    Thou  wilt  not, 
Thou  canst  not,  end  in  this.    It  would  reduce 
All  human  creatures  to  disloyalty 
Against  the  nobleness  of  their  own  nature. 
'T  will  justify  the  vulgar  misbelief. 
Which  holdeth  nothing  noble  in  free-will, 
And  trusts  itself  to  impotence  alone, 
Made  powerful  only  in  an  unknown  power. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  world  will  judge  me  sternly,  I  expect  it. 
Already  have  I  said  to  my  own  self 
All  thou  canst  say  to  me.    Who  but  avoids 
The  extreme,  can  he  by  going  round  avoid  it  ? 
But  here  there  is  no  choice.    Yes — I  must  use 
Or  suffer  violence — so  stands  the  case. 
There  remains  nothing  possible  but  that 

MAX. 

O  that  is  never  possible  for  thee ! 

'T  is  the  last  desperate  resource  of  those 

Cheap  souls,  to  whom  their  honor,  their  good  name 

Is  their  poor  saving,  their  last  worthless  keep. 

Which  having  staked  and  lost,  they  stake  themselves 

Tn  the  mad  rage  of  gaming.    Thou  art  rich. 


And  glorious  ;  with  an  unpolluted  heart 

Thou   canst   make    conquest  of   whate'er  seems 

highest ! 
But  he,  who  once  hath  acted  infamy. 
Does  nothing  more  in  this  world. 

WALLENSTEIN  (grasps  Ms  hand). 

Calmly,  Max. ! 
Much  that  is  great  and  excellent  will  we 
Perform  together  yet.    And  if  we  only 
Stand  on  the  height  with  dignity,  't  is  soon 
Forgotten,  Max.,  by  what  road  we  ascended. 
Believe  me,  many  a  crown  shines  spotless  now, 
That  yet  was  deeply  sulMed  in  the  winning. 
To  the  evil  spirit  doth  the  earth  belong. 
Not  to  the  good.    All,  that  the  powers  divine 
Send  from  above,  are  universal  blessings : 
Their  light  rejoices  us,  their  air  refreshes, 
But  never  yet  was  man  enrich'd  by  them  : 
In  their  eternal  realm  no  properly 
Is  to  be  struggled  for — all  there  is  general. 
The  jewel,  the  all-valued  gold  we  win 
From  the  deceiving  Powers,  depraved  in  nature 
That  dwell  beneath  the  day  and  blessed  sun-light 
Not  without  sacrifices  are  they  render'd 
Propitious,  and  there  lives  no  soul  on  earth 
That  e'er  retired  unsullied  from  their  service. 

MAX. 

Whate'er  is  human,  to  the  human  being 

Do  I  allow — and  to  the  vehement 

And  striving  spirit  readily  I  pardon 

The  excess  of  action ;  but  to  thee,  my  General ! 

Above  all  others  make  I  large  concession. 

For  thou  must  move  a  world,  and  be  the  master — 

He  kills  thee,  who  condemns  thee  to  inaction 

So  be  it  then !  maintain  thee  in  thy  post 

By  violence.    Resist  the  Emperor, 

And  if  it  must  be,  force  with  force  repel . 

I  will  not  praise  it,  yet  I  can  forgive  it 

But  not — not  to  the  traitor — yes ! — the  word 

Is  spoken  out 

Not  to  the  traitor  can  I  yield  a  pardon. 
That  is  no  mere  excess !  that  is  no  error 
Of  human  nature — that  is  wholly  different, 
O  that  is  black,  black  as  the  pit  of  hell ! 

[WALLENSTEIN  bctrays  a  sudden  agitation 
Thou  canst  not  hear  it  named,  and  wilt  thou  do  it  ? 

0  turn  back  to  thy  duty.    That  thou  canst, 

1  hold  it  certain.     Send  me  to  Vienna  : 

I'll  make  thy  peace  for  thee  with  the  Emperor. 
He  knows  thee  not    But  I  do  Imow  thee.   He 
Shall  see  thee,  Duke  !  with  my  unclouded  eye. 
And  I  bring  back  his  confidence  to  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  is  too  late.   Thou  knowest  not  what  has  happen'd 

MAX. 

Were  it  too  late,  and  were  things  gone  so  far, 

That  a  crime  only  could  prevent  thy  fall, 

Then — fall !  fall  honorably,  even  as  thou  stood'st 

Lose  the  command.    Go  from  the  stage  of  war. 

Thou  canst  with  splendor  do  it — do  it  too 

With  innocence.    Thou  hast  lived  much  for  others. 

At  length  live  thou  for  thy  own  self    I  follow  thee 

My  destiny  I  never  part  from  thine. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  is  too  late  !  Even  now,  while  thou  art  losing 
Thy  words,  one  after  the  other  are  the  mile-stones 
Left  fast  behind  by  my  post  couriers, 

172 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


163 


Who  bear  the  order  on  to  Prague  and  Egra. 

[Max.  stands  as  convulsed,  with  a  gesture  and 
countenance  expressing  the  most  intense  an- 
guish. 
Yield  thyself  to  it.    We  act  as  we  are  forced. 
I  cannot  give  assent  to  my  own  shame 
And  ruin,    lliou — no — thou  canst  not  forsake  me ! 
So  let  us  do,  what  must  be  done,  with  dignity, 
With  a  firm  step.    What  am  I  doing  worse 
Than  did  famed  Ccesar  at  the  Rubicon, 
When  he  the  legions  led  against  his  country. 
The  which  his  country  had  deliver'd  to  him  ? 
Had  he  thrown  down  the  sword,  he  had  been  lost. 
As  I  were,  if  I  but  disarm'd  myself 
I  trace  out  something  in  me  of  his  spirit ; 
Give  me  his  luck,  that  other  thing  I  '11  bear. 

[Max.  quitshim  abruptly.  WALLENSTEiN,stortZe<Z 
and  overpowered,  continues  looking  after  him, 
and  is  still  in  this  posture  when  Tertsky 
enters. 


SCENE  III. 
Wallenstein,  Tertsky. 


TERTSKY. 

Max.  Piccolomini  just  left  you  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Where  is  Wrangel  ? 

TERTSKY. 

He  is  already  gone. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In  such  a  hurry  ? 

TERTSKY. 

It  is  as  if  the  earth  had  swallow'd  him. 

He  had  scarce  left  thee,  when  I  went  to  seek  him. 

I  wish'd  some  words  with  liim — but  he  was  gone. 

How,  when,  and  where,  could  no  one  tell  me.   Nay, 

I  half  believe  it  was  the  devil  himself; 

A  human  cioaiure  could  not  so  at  once 

Have  vanish 'd 

ILLO  (enters). 
Is  it  true  that  thou  wilt  send 
Octavio  ? 

TERTSKY. 

How,  Octavio !  Whither  send  him  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He  goes  to  Frauenberg,  and  will  lead  hither 
The  Spanish  and  Italian  regiments. 

ILLO. 

No! 
Nay,  Heaven  forbid  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  why  should  Heaven  forbid  ? 

ILLO. 

Him! — that  deceiver!  Wouldst  thou  trust  to  him 
The  soldiery  ?  Him  wilt  thou  let  slip  from  thee. 
Now,  in  the  very  instant  that  decides  us 

TERTSKY. 

Thou  wilt  not  do  this ! — No !  I  pray  thee,  no ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ye  are  whimsical. 

ILLO. 

O  but  for  this  time,  Duke, 
Yield  to  our  warning !  Let  him  not  depart 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  why  should  I  not  trust  him  only  this  time, 


Who   have   always   trusted  him?    What,  then,  haj 

happen'd, 
That  I  should  lose  my  good  opinion  of  him  ? 
In  complaisance  to  your  whims,  not  my  own. 
I  must,  forsooth,  give  up  a  rooted  judgment. 
Think  not  I  am  a  woman.    Having  trusted  him 
E'en  till  to-day,  to-day  too  will  I  trust  him. 

TERTSKY. 

Must  it  be  he — he  only  ?  Send  another. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  must  be  he,  whom  I  myself  have  chosen ; 
He  is  well  fitted  for  the  business.  Therefore 
I  gave  it  him. 

ILLO. 

Because  he 's  an  Italian — 
Therefore  is  he  well  fitted  for  the  business ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  know  you  love  them  not — nor  sire  nor  son — 

Because  that  I  esteem  them,  love  them — visibly 

Esteem  them,  love  them  more  than  you  and  others. 

E'en  as  they  merit.    Therefore  are  they  eye-blights 

Thorns  in  your  foot-path.    But  your  jealousies, 

In  what  affect  they  me  or  my  concerns  ? 

Are  they  the  worse  to  me  because  you  hate  them? 

Love  or  hate  one  another  as  you  will, 

I  leave  to  each  man  his  own  moods  and  likings ; 

Yet  know  the  worth  of  each  of  you  to  me. 

ILLO. 

Von  Questenberg,  while  he  was  here,  was  always 
Lurking  about  with  this  Octavio. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  happen'd  with  my  knowledge  and  permission. 

ILLO. 

I  know  that  secret  messengers  came  to  him 
From  Galas 

WALLENSTEIN. 

That's  not  true. 

ILLO. 

O  thou  art  blind; 
With  thy  deep-seeing  eyes ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou  wilt  not  shake 
My  faith  for  me — my  faith,  which  founds  itself 
On  the  profoundest  science.    If  'tis  false. 
Then  the  whole  science  of  the  stars  is  false ; 
For  know,  I  have  a  pledge  from  Fate  itself, 
That  he  is  the  most  faithful  of  my  friends. 

ILLO. 

Hast  thou  a  pledge,  that  this  pledge  is  not  felse  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

There  exist  moments  in  the  life  of  man, 
When  he  is  nearer  the  great  Soul  of  the  world 
Than  is  man's  custom,  and  possesses  freely 
The  power  of  questioning  his  destiny : 
And  such  a  moment  'twas,  when  in  the  night 
Before  the  action  in  the  plains  of  Liitzen, 
Leaning  against  a  tree,  thoughts  crowding  thoughts 
I  look'd  out  far  upon  the  ominous  plain. 
My  whole  life,  past  and  future,  in  this  moment 
Before  my  mind's  eye  glided  in  procession. 
And  to  the  destiny  of  the  next  morning 
The  spirit,  fill'd  with  anxious  presentiment. 
Did  knit  the  most  removed  futurity. 
Then  said  I  also  to  myself,  "  So  many 
Dost  thou  command.    They  follow  all  thy  stars 
And  as  on  some  great  number  set  their  All 
Upon  thy  single  head,  and  only  man 
23  n3 


164 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  vessel  of  thy  fortune.    Yet  a  day 

Will  come,  when  Destiny  shall  once  more  scatter 

All  these  in  many  a  several  direction : 

Few  be  they  who  will  stand  out  faithful  to  thee." 

I  yearn'd  to  know  which  one  was  faithfullest 

Of  all,  this  camp  included.    Great  Destiny, 

Give  me  a  sign !    And  he  shall  be  the  man, 

Who,  on  the  approaching  morning,  comes  the  first 

To  meet  me  with  a  token  of  his  love  : 

And  thinking  this,  I  fell  into  a  slumber. 

Then  midmost  in  the  battle  was  I  led 

In  spirit.    Great  the  pressure  and  the  tumult ! 

Then  was  my  horse  kill'd  under  me :  I  sank ; 

And  over  me  away  all  unconcernedly. 

Drove  horse  and  rider — and  thus  trod  to  pieces 

I  lay,  and  panted  like  a  dying  man ; 

Then  seized  me  suddenly  a  savior  arm  : 

It  was  Octavio's — I  awoke  at  once, 

'T  was  broad  day,  and  Octavio  stood  before  me. 

"  My  brother,"  said  he,  "  do  not  ride  to-day 

The  dapple,  as  you  're  wont ;  but  mount  the  horse 

Which  1  have  chosen  for  thee.    Do  it,  brother ! 

In  love  to  me.    A  strong  dream  warn'd  me  so." 

It  was  the  swiftness  of  this  horse  that  snatch'd  me 

From  the  hot  pursuit  of  Bannier's  dragoons. 

JMy  cousin  rode  the  dapple  on  tliat  day, 

And  never  more  saw  I  or  horse  or  rider. 

ILLO. 

'That  was  a  chance. 

WALLENSTEIN  {Significantly). 

There 's  no  such  thing  as  chance. 
7n  brief,  'tis  sign'd  and  seal'd  that  this  Octavio 
Is  my  good  angel — and  now  no  word  more. 

[He  is  retiring. 

TERTSKY. 

'This  is  my  comfort — Max.  remains  our  hostage. 

ILLO. 

And  he  shall  never  stir  from  here  alive. 

WALLENSTEIN  {slops  and  tums  Idmself  round). 
Are  ye  not  like  the  women,  who  for  ever 
Only  recur  to  their  first  word,  although 
One  had  been  talking  reason  by  the  hour ! 
Know,  that  the  human  being's  thoughts  and  deeds 
Are  not,  like  ocean  billows,  bUndly  moved. 
The  inner  world,  his  microcosmus,  is 
The  deep  shaft,  out  of  which  they  spring  eternally. 
They  grow  by  certain  laws,  like  the  tree's  fruit — 
No  juggling  chance  can  metamorphose  them. 
Have  I  the  human  kernel  first  examined  ? 
Then  I  know,  too,  the  future  will  and  action. 


SCENE  IV. 


Scene — Achamberin  Piccolomini's  DweUing-House. 

OoTAVio  Piccolomini,  Isolani,  entering. 
isolani. 
Here  am  I — Well !  who  comes  yet  of  the  others  ? 

octavio  {with  an  air  of  mystery). 
But,  first  a  word  wdth  you.  Count  Isolani. 

ISOLANI  {assuming  the  same  air  of  mystery). 
Will  it  explode,  ha  ? — Is  the  Duke  about 
'  To  make  the  attempt  ?  In  me,  friend,  you  may  place 
iFull  confidence. — Nay,  put  me  to  the  proof. 

OCTAVIO. 

That  may  happen. 


ISOLANL 

Noble  brother,  I  am 
Not  one  of  those  men  who  in  words  are  valiant^ 
And  when  it  comes  to  action  skulk  away. 
The  Duke  has  acted  towards  me  as  a  friend. 

God  knows  it  is  so;  and  I  owe  him  all 

He  may  rely  on  my  fidehty. 

OCTAVIO. 

That  will  be  seen  hereafter. 

ISOLANI. 

Be  on  your  guard. 
All  think  not  as  I  think ;  and  there  are  many 
Who  still  hold  with  the  Court — yes,  and  they  say 
That  those  stolen  signatures  bind  them  to  nothing 

OCTAVIO. 

I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it. 

ISOLANL 

You  rejoice ! 

OCTAVIO. 

That  the  Emperor  has  yet  such  gallant  servants. 
And  loving  friends. 

ISOLANI. 

Nay,  jeer  not,  I  entreat  you. 
They  ire  no  such  worthless  fellows,  I  assure  you. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  am  assured  already.    God  forbid 

That  I  should  jest ! — In  very  serious  earnest, 

I  am  rejoiced  to  see  an  honest  cause 

So  strong. 

ISOLANL 

The  Devil ! — what ! — why,  what  means  this 
Are  you  not,  then For  what,  then,  am  I  here 

OCTAVIO. 

That  you  may  make  full  declaration,  whether 
You  will  be  call'd  the  friend  or  enemy 
Of  the  Emperor. 

ISOLANI  {with  an  air  of  defiance). 
That  declaration,  friend, 
I  '11  make  to  him  in  whom  a  right  is  placed 
To  put  that  question  to  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

Whether,  Count, 
That  right  is  mine,  this  paper  may  instruct  you. 

ISOLANI  {stammering). 
Why — why — what !  this  is  the  Emperor's  hand  and 

seal !  ~ 

"  Whereas,  the  officers  collectively 
Throughout  our  army  will  obey  the  orders 
Of  the  Lieutenant-general  Piccolomini. 
As  from  ourselves" Hem! — Yes!   so 

yes! — 
I — I  give  you  joy.  Lieutenant-general ! 

OCTAVIO. 

And  you  submit  you  to  the  order  ? 

ISOLANL 

I- 

But  you  have  taken  me  so  by  surprise — 
Time  for  reflection  one  must  have 

OCTAVIO. 

Two  minutes 

ISOLANI. 

My  God  !   But  then  the  case  is 

OCTAVIO. 

Plain  and  simple 
You  must  declare  you,  whether  you  determine 
To  act  a  treason  'gainst  your  Lord  and  Sovereign, 
Or  whether  you  will  serve  him  faithfully- 
174 


-Yes! 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


165 


ISOLANI. 

Treason  ! — My  God  I — But  who  talks  then  of  treason? 

OCTAVIO. 

That  is  the  case.    The  Prince-duke  is  a  traitor — 

Means  to  lead  over  to  the  enemy 

The  Emperor's   army.  —  Now,   Count!— brief  and 

full- 
Say,  will  you  break  your  oath  to  the  Emperor  ? 
Sell  yourself  to  the  enemy  ? — Say,  will  you  ? 

ISOLANI. 

\Vhat  mean  you  ?  I — I  break  my  oath,  d'  ye  say. 

To  his  Imperial  Majesty  ? 

Did  I  say  so  ? — When,  when  have  I  said  that  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

You  have  not  said  it  yet — not  yet.    Tliis  instant 
I  wait  to  hear,  Count,  whether  you  will  say  it 

ISOLANI. 

Ay !  that  delights  me  now,  that  you  yourself 
Bear  witness  for  me  that  I  never  said  so. 

OCTAVIO. 

And  you  renounce  the  Duke,  then  ? 

ISOLANI. 

If  he 's  planning 
Treason — why,  treason  breaks  all  bonds  asunder. 

OCTAVIO. 

And  are  determined,  too,  to  fight  against  him  ? 

ISOLANI. 

He  has  done  me  service — but  if  he 's  a  villain. 
Perdition  seize  him! — All  scores  are  rubb'd  off 

OOTAVIO. 

I  am  rejoiced  that  you're  so  well-disposed. 
This  night  break  off  in  the  utmost  secrecy 
With  all  the  light-arm'd  troops — it  must  appear 
As  came  the  order  from  the  Duke  himself. 
At  Frauenberg's  the  place  of  rendezvous ; 
There  will  Count  Galas  give  you  farther  orders. 

ISOLANI. 

It  shall  be  done.   But  you  '11  remember  me 

With  the  Emperor — how  well-disposed  you  found  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

1  will  not  fail  to  mention  it  honorably. 

[Exit  IsoLANi.    A  Servant  enters. 
What,  Colonel  Butler ! — Show  him  up. 

ISOLANI  {returning). 
Forgive  me  too  my  bearish  ways,  old  father ! 
Lord  God  I  how  should  I  know,  then,  what  a  great 
Person  I  had  before  me  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

No  excuses ! 

ISOLAxM. 

I  am  a  merry  lad,  and  if  at  time 

A  rash  word  might  escape  me  'gainst  the  court 

Amidst  my  wine — you  know  no  harm  was  meant 

[Exit. 

OCTAVIO. 

You  need  not  be  uneasy  on  that  score. 
That  has  succeeded.  Fortune  favor  us 
With  all  the  others  only  but  as  much ! 


SCENE  V. 

OcTAVlO,  PiCCOLOMIXI,  BuTLER. 
BUTLER. 

At  your  command,  Lieiitenant-General. 

OCTAVIO. 

Welcome,  as  honor 'd  friend  and  visitor. 

a 


BUTLER. 

You  do  me  too  much  honor. 

OCTAVIO  {after  both  have  seated  themselves). 
You  have  not 
Retum'd  the  advances  which  I  made  you  yesterday- 
Misunderstood  them,  OS  mere  empty  forms. 
That  wish  proceeded  from  my  heart — I  was 
In  earnest  with  you — for  'tis  now  a  time 
In  which  the  honest  should  unite  most  closely. 

BUTLER. 

'Tis  only  the  like-minded  can  unite. 

OCTAVIO, 

True !  and  I  name  all  honest  men  Lke-minded. 

I  never  charge  a  man  but  with  those  acts 

To  which  his  character  dehberately 

Impels  him  ;  for  alas !  the  violence 

Of  blind  misunderstandings  often  thrusts 

The  very  best  of  us  from  the  right  track. 

You  came  through  Frauenberg.  Did  the  Count  Galas 

Say  nothing  to  you  ?   Tell  me.    He 's  my  friend. 

BUTLER. 

His  words  were  lost  on  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

It  grieves  me  sorely, 
To  hear  it :  for  his  counsel  was  most  wise. 
I  had  myself  the  like  to  offer. 

BUTLER. 

Spare 
Yourself  the  trouble — me  th'  embarrassment. 
To  have  deserved  so  ill  your  good  opinion. 

OCTAVIO. 

The  time  is  precious — let  us  talk  openly. 
You  know  how  matters  stand  here.    Wallensteia 
Meditates  treason — I  can  tell  you  further^ 
He  has  committed  treason ;  but  few  hours 
Have  past,  since  he  a  covenant  concluded 
With  the  enemy.    The  messengers  are  now 
Full  on  their  way  to  Egra  and  to  Prague. 
To-morrow  he  intends  to  lead  us  over 
To  the  enemy.    But  he  deceives  himself; 
For  Prudence  wakes — the  Emperor  has  still 
Many  and  faithful  friends  here,  and  they  stand 
In  closest  union,  mighty  though  unseen. 
This  manifesto  sentences  the  Duke — 
Recalls  the  obedience  of  the  army  from  him. 
And  summons  all  the  loyal,  all  the  honest. 
To  join  and  recognize  in  me  their  leader. 
Choose — will  you  share  with  us  an  honest  cause  ? 
Or  with  the  evil  share  an  evil  lot. 


His  lot  is  mine. 


It  is. 


BUTLER  {rises). 

OCTAVIO. 

Is  that  your  last  resolve  ? 

BUTLER. 


OCTAVIO. 

Nay,  but  bethink  you,  Colonel  Butler ! 
As  yet  you  have  time.    Within  my  faithful  breast 
That  rashly-utter'd  word  remains  interr'd. 
Recall  it,  Butler!  choose  a  better  party: 
You  have  not  chosen  the  right  one. 
BUTLER  (going). 

Any  other 
Commands  for  me,  Lieutenant-General  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

See  your  white  hairs !    Recall  that  word ! 
175 


ICO 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


BUTLER. 

Farewell ! 

OCTAVIO. 

What  ?  Would  you  draw  this  good  and  gallant  sword 
In  such  a  cause  ?  Into  a  curse  would  you 
Transform  the  gratitude  which  you  have  eam'd 
By  forty  years'  fidelity  from  Austria  ? 

BUTLER  {laughing  with  bitterness). 
Gratitude  from  the  House  of  Austria !   [He  is  going. 
OCTAVIO  {permits  him  to  go  as  far  as  the  door,  then 

calls  after  him). 
Butler. 

BUTLER. 

What  wish  you  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

How  was't  with  the  Count? 

BUTLER. 

Count?  what? 

OCTAVIO  (coldly). 
The  title  that  you  wish'd,  I  mean. 
BUTLER  {starts  in  sudden  passion). 
Hell  and  damnation ! 

OCTAVIO  {coldly). 

You  petition'd  for  it — 
And  your  petition  was  repell'd — Was  it  so  ? 

BUTLER. 

Your  insolent  scoff  shall  not  go  by  unpunish'd. 
Draw! 

OCTAVIO. 

Nay!  your  sword  to 'ts  sheath!  and  tell  me  calmly, 
How  all  that  happen'd.    I  will  not  refuse  you 
Your  satisfaction  afterwards. — Calmly,  Butler ! 

BUTLER. 

Be  the  whole  world  acquainted  with  the  weakness 

For  which  I  never  can  forgive  myself 

Lieutenant-General !    Yes — I  have  ambition. 

Ne'er  was  I  able  to  endure  contempt. 

It  stung  me  to  the  quick,  that  birth  and  title 

Should  have  more  weighl  than  merit  has  in  the  army. 

I  would  fain  not  be  meaner  tlian  my  equal. 

So  in  an  evil  hour  I  let  myself 

Be  tempted  to  that  measure — It  was  folly ! 

But  yet  so  hard  a  penance  it  deserved  not. 

it  might  have  been  refused  ;  but  wherefore  barb 

And  venom  the  refusal  with  contempt  ? 

Why  dash  to  earth  and  crush  with  heaviest  scorn 

The  gray-hair'd  man,  the  faithful  veteran  ? 

Why  to  the  baseness  of  his  parentage 

Refer  him  with  such  cruel  roughness,  only 

Because  he  had  a  weak  hour  and  forgot  himself? 

But  Nature  gives  a  sting  o'en  to  the  worm 

Which  wanton  Power  treads  on  in  sport  and  insult. 

OCTAVIO. 

You  must  have  been  calumniated.    Guess  you 
The  enemy,  who  did  you  this  ill  service  ? 

BUTLER. 

Be't  who  it  will — a  most  low-hearted  scoundrel. 
Some  vile  court-minion  must  it  be,  some  Spaniard, 
Some  young  squire  of  some  ancient  family. 
In  whose  light  I  may  stand,  some  envious  knave, 
Stung  to  the  soul  by  my  fair  self-earn'd  honors ! 

OCTAVIO. 

But  tell  me !    Did  the  D'ike  approve  that  measure? 

BUTLER. 

Himself  impell'd  me  to  it,  used  his  interest 

In  my  behalf  with  all  the  warmth  of  friendship, 


OCTAVIO. 

Ay  ?  are  you  sure  of  that  ? 

BUTLER. 

I  read  the  letter 

OCTAVIO. 

And  so  did  I — but  the  contents  were  different. 

[Butler  is  suddenly  struck 
By  chance  I  'm  in  possession  of  that  letter — 
Can  leave  it  to  your  own  eyes  to  convince  you. 

[He  gives  him  the  letter 
butler. 
Ha !  what  is  this  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

I  fear  me,  Colonel  Butler, 
An  infamous  game  have  they  been  playing  with  you 
The  Duke,  you  say,  impell'd  you  to  this  measure  ? 
Now,  in  this  letter  talks  he  in  contempt 
Concerning  you,  counsels  the  minister 
To  give  sound  chastisement  to  your  conceit. 
For  so  he  calls  it. 

[Butler  reads  through  the  letter,  his  knees  tremble 
he  seizes  a  chair,  and  sinks  down  in  it. 
You  have  no  enemy,  no  persecutor ; 
There  's  no  one  wishes  ill  to  you.     Ascribe 
The  insult  you  received  to  the  Duke  only. 
His  aim  is  clear  and  palpable.    He  wish'd 
To  tear  you  from  your  Emperor — he  hoped 
To  gain  from  your  revenge  what  he  well  knew 
(What  your  long-tried  fidelity  convinced  him) 
He  ne'er  could  dare  expect  from  your  calm  reason 
A  blind  tool  would  he  make  you,  in  contempt 
Use  you,  as  means  of  most  abandon'd  ends. 
He  has  gain'd  his  point.    Too  well  has  he  succeeded 
In  luring  you  away  from  that  good  path 
On  which  you  had  been  journeying  forty  years ! 

BUTLER  {his  voice  trembling). 
Can  e'er  the  Emperor's  Majesty  forgive  me  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

More  than  forgive  you.    He  would  fain  compiensate 
For  that  affront,  and  most  unmerited  grievance 
Sustain'd  by  a  deserving,  gallant  veteran. 
From  his  free  impulse  he  confirms  the  present. 
Which  the  Duke  made  you  for  a  wicked  purpose. 
The  regiment,  which  you  now  command,  is  your's. 
[Butler  attempts  to  rise,  sinks  down  again.    He 
labors  inwardly  with  violent  emotions  ;  tries 
to  speak,  and  cannot.    At  length  he  takes  his 
sword  from  the  belt,  and  offers  it  to  Picco- 

LOMINL 

OCTAVIO. 

What  wish  you  ?   Recollect  yourself,  friend. 

BUTLER. 

Take  it 

OCTAVIO. 

But  to  what  purpose  ?   Calm  yourse'£ 

BUTLER. 

I  am  no  longer  worthy  of  this  sword. 

OCTAVIO. 

Receive  it  then  anew  from  my  hands — and 
Wear  it  with  honor  for  the  right  cause  ever 

BUTLER. 

Perjure  myself  to  such  a  gracious  Sovereign  I 

OCTAVIO. 

You '11  make  amends.  Quick!  break  ofTfrom  the  Duke 
176 


O  take  it ! 


THE  PICCOLOMINI. 


167 


BUTLER. 

Break  off  from  him  ! 

OCTAVIO. 

What  now  ?  Bethink  thyself. 
BUTLER  (no  longer  governing  his  emotion). 
Only  break  off  from  him  ?  He  dies  !  he  dies ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Come  after  me  to  Frauenberg,  where  now 
All  who  are  loyal,  are  assembling  under 
Comits  Ahringer  and  Galas.     Many  others 
I've  brought  to  a  remembrance  of  their  duty. 
This  night  be  sure  that  you  escape  from  Pilsen. 

BUTLER  {strides  up  and  down  in  excessive  agitation, 
then  steps  up  to  Octavio  with  resolved  countenance). 
Count  Piccoloniini !  Dare  that  man  speak 
Of  honor  to  you,  who  once  broke  his  troth  ? 

OCTAVIO. 

He,  who  repents  so  deeply  of  it,  dares. 

BUTLER. 

Then  leave  me  here,  upon  my  word  of  honor ! 

OCTAVIO. 

What 's  your  design  ? 

BUTLER. 

Leave  me  and  my  regiment. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  have  full  confidence  in  you.    But  tell  me 
What  are  you  brooding  ? 

BUTLER. 

That  the  deed  will  tell  you. 
Ask  me  no  more  at  present.    Trust  to  me. 
Ye  may  trust  safely.    By  the  living  God 
Ye  give  him  over,  not  to  his  good  angel ! 
Farewell.  [Exit  Butler. 

SERVANT  {enters  with  a  billet). 
A  stranger  left  it,  and  is  gone. 
The  Prince-duke's  horses  wait  for  you  below. 

[Exit  Servant. 
OCTAVIO   (reads). 
"  Be  sure  make  haste  !  Your  faiihful  Isolan." 
— O  that  I  had  but  left  this  town  behind  me, 
To  spUt  u\>on  a  rock  so  near  the  haven  ! — 
Away !  This  is  no  longer  a  safe  place  for  me ! 
Where  can  my  son  be  tarrying  ? 


SCENE  VI. 


Octavio  and  Max.  Piccolomini. 

Max.  enfers  almost  in  a  slate  of  derangement  from 
extreme  agitation,  his  eyes  roll  wildly,  his  tvalk  is 
unsteady,  and  he  appears  not  to  observe  his  father, 
who  slaiuls  at  a  distance,  and  gazes  at  him  with  a 
countenance  expressive  of  comjxission.  He  paces 
V)ilh  long  strides  through  the  chamber,  then  stands 
still  again,  and  at  last  throws  himself  into  a  chair, 
staring  vacantly  at  the  object  directly  before  him. 

octavio  (advances  to  him). 
I  am  going  off  my  son. 

[Receiving  no  answer,  he  takes  his  hand. 
My  son,  farewell. 


Farewell. 


OCTAVIO. 

Thou  wilt  soon  follow  me  ? 


I  follow  thee  i 
Thy  way  is  crooked — it  is  not  my  way. 

[Octavio  drops  his  hand,  and  stavts  back. 
O,  hadst  thou  been  but  simple  and  sincere, 
Ne'er  had  it  come  to  this — all  had  stood  otherwise. 
He  had  not  done  that  foul  and  horrible  deed  : 
The  virtuous  had  retain'd  their  influence  o'er  him : 
He  had  not  fallen  into  the  snares  of  villains. 
Wherefore  so  like  a  thief,  and  thief's  accomplice, 
Didst  creep  behind  him — lurking  for  thy  prey  ? 
O,  unblest  falsehood  !   Mother  of  all  evil ! 
Thou  misery-making  demon,  it  is  thou 
That  sink'st  us  in  perdition.    Simple  truth, 
Sustainer  of  the  world,  had  saved  us  all ! 
Father,  I  will  not,  I  can  not  excuse  Ihee ! 
Wallenstein  has  deceived  me — O,  most  foully ! 
But  thou  hast  acted  not  much  better. 
octavio. 

Son! 
My  son,  ah !  I  forgive  tliy  agony  ! 

MAX.  (rises,  and  contemplates  his  father  with  looks  of 

suspicion). 
Was 't  possible  ?  hadst  thou  the  heart,  my  father, 
Hadst  thou  the  heart  to  drive  it  to  such  lengths, 
With  cold  premeditated  purpose  ?  Thou — 
Hadst  thou  the  heart,  to  wish  to  see  him  guilty. 
Rather  than  saved  ?  Thou  risest  by  his  fall. 
Octavio,  't  will  not  please  me. 

octavio. 

God  in  Heaven ! 

MAX. 

O,  woe  is  me !  sure  I  have  changed  my  nature. 
How  comes  suspicion  here — in  the  free  soul  ? 
Hope,  confidence,  belief,  are  gone  ;  for  all 
Lied  to  me,  all  that  I  e'er  loved  or  honor'd. 
No !  no  !  not  all !  She — she  yet  lives  for  me, 
And  she  is  true,  and  open  as  the  heavens ! 
Deceit  is  everywhere,  hypocrisy, 
Murder,  and  poisoning,  treason,  perjury: 
The  single  holy  spot  is  our  love, 
The  only  unprofaned  in  human  nature. 

octavio. 
Max. ! — we  wHl  go  together.    'T  will  be  better. 

MAX. 

What  ?  ere  I  've  taken  a  last  parting  leave. 
The  very  last — no,  never ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Spare  thyself 
The  pang  of  necessary  separation. 
Come  with  me  !  Come,  my  son ! 

[Attempts  to  take  him  with  him. 

MAX. 

No !  as  sure  as  God  lives,  no ! 

OCTAVIO  (more  urgently). 
Come  with  me,  I  command  thee  !  I,  thy  father. 

MAX. 

Command  me  what  is  human.    I  stay  here. 

OCTAVIO. 

Max.!  in  the  Emperor's  name  I  bid  thee  come. 

MAX. 

No  Emperor  has  power  to  prescribe 

Laws  to  ihe  heart ;  and  wouldst  thou  wish  to  rob  me 

Of  the  sole  blessing  which  my  fate  has  left  me, 

Her  sympathy  ?  Must  then  a  cruel  deed 

Be  done  with  cruelty  ?  The  unalterable 

177 


168 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Shall  I  perform  ignobly— steal  away, 
With  stealthy  coward  flight  forsake  her?  No  ! 
She  shall  behold  my  suffering,  my  sore  anguish, 
Hear  the  complaints  of  the  disparted  soul, 
And  weep  tears  o'er  me.    Oh  !  the  human  race 
Have  steely  souls — but  she  is  as  an  angel. 
From  the  black  deadly  madness  of  despair 
Will  she  redeem  my  soul,  and  in  soft  words 
Of  comfort,  plaining,  loose  this  pang  of  death ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Thou  wilt  not  tear  thyself  away ;  thou  canst  not. 
O,  come,  my  son  !  I  bid  thee  save  thy  virtue. 

MAX. 

Squander  not  thou  thy  words  in  vain. 
The  heart  I  follow,  for  I  dare  trust  to  it. 

OCTAVIO  (trembling,  and  losing  all  self-command). 
Max. !  Max. !  if  that  most  damned  thing  could  be. 
If  thou — my  son — my  own  blood — (dare  I  think  it?) 
Do  sell  thyself  to  him,  the  infamous. 
Do  stamp  this  brand  upon  our  noble  house. 
Then  shall  the  world  behold  the  horrible  deed. 
And  in  unnatural  combat  shall  the  steel 
Of  the  son  trickle  with  the  father's  blood. 

MAX. 

O  hadst  thou  always  better  thought  of  men. 
Thou  hadst  then  acted  better.    Curst  suspicion ! 
Unholy,  miserable  doubt !  To  him 
Kothing  on  earth  remains  unvvrench'd  and  firm, 
Who  has  no  faith. 

OCTAVIO. 

And  if  I  trust  thy  heart. 
Will  it  be  always  in  thy  power  to  follow  it  ? 


The  heart's  voice  thou  hast  not  o'erpower'd — as  liUi 
Will  Wallenstein  be  able  to  o'erpower  it. 

OCTAVIO. 

O,  Max. !  I  see  thee  never  more  again ! 

MAX. 

Unworthy  of  thee  wilt  thou  never  see  me. 

OCTAVIO. 

I  go  to  Frauenberg — the  Pappenheimers 

I  leave  thee  here,  the  Lothrings  too  ;  Toskana 

And  Tiefenbach  remain  here  to  protect  thee. 

They  love  thee,  and  are  faithful  to  their  oath. 

And  will  far  rather  fall  in  gallant  contest 

Than  leave  their  rightful  leader,  and  their  honor. 

MAX. 

Rely  on  this,  I  either  leave  my  life 

In  the  struggle,  or  conduct  them  out  of  Pilsen. 

OCTAVIO. 

Farewell,  my  son ! 

MAX. 

Farewell ! 

OCTAVIO. 

How !  not  one  look 
Of  filial  love  ?  No  grasp  of  the  hand  at  parting  ? 
It  is  a  bloody  war  to  which  we  are  going. 
And  the  event  uncertain  and  in  darkness. 
So  used  we  not  to  part — it  was  not  so ! 
Is  it  then  true  ?  I  have  a  son  no  longer  ? 

[Max.  falls  into  his  arms,  they  hold  each  other 
for  a  long  time    in  a  speechless    embrace 
then  go  away  at  different  sides. 
(The  Curtain  drops). 


A  TRAGEDY,  IN  FIVE  ACTS. 


PREFACE. 


The  two  Dramas,  Piccolomini,  or  the  first  part  of 
Wallenstein,  and  Wallenstein,  are  introduced  in 
the  original  manuscript  by  a  Prelude  in  one  Act,  en- 
titled Wallenstein's  Camp.  This  is  written  in 
rhyme,  and  in  nine-syllable  verse,  in  the  same  lilting 
metre  (if  that  expression  may  be  permitted)  with  the 
second  Eclogue  of  Spencer's  Shepherd's  Calendar. 

This  Prelude  possesses  a  sort  of  broad  humor,  and 
is  not  deficient  in  character  ;  but  to  have  translated 
it  into  prose,  or  into  any  other  metre  than  that  of  the 
original,  would  have  given  a  false  idea  both  of  its 
style  and  purport ;  to  have  translated  it  into  the  same 
metre  would  been  incompatible  with  a  faithful  ad- 
herence to  the  sense  of  the  German,  from  the  com- 
parative poverty  of  our  language  in  rhymes  ;  and  it 
would  have  been  unadvisable,  from  the  incongruity 
of  those  lax  verses  with  the  present  taste  of  the 
English  Public.  Schiller's  intention  seems  to  have 
been  merely  to  have  prepared  his  reader  for  the 
Tragedies  by  a  lively  picture  of  the  laxity  of  dis- 
cipline, and  the  mutinous  dispositions  of  Wallen- 
stein's soldiery.    It  is  not  necessary  as  a  preliminary 


explanation.    For  these  reasons  it  has  been  thought 
expedient  not  to  translate  it. 

The  admirers  of  Schiller,  who  have  abstracted 
their  idea  of  that  author  from  the  Robbers,  and  the 
Cabal  and  Love,  plays  Ln  which  the  main  interest  is 
produced  by  the  excitement  of  curiosity,  and  in 
which  the  curiosity  is  excited  by  terrible  and  extra- 
ordinary incident,  will  not  have  perused  without 
some  portion  of  disappointment  the  Dramas,  which 
it  has  been  my  employment  to  translate.  They 
should,  however,  reflect  that  these  are  Historical 
Dramas,  taken  from  a  popular  German  History ;  that 
we  must  therefore  judge  of  them  in  some  measure 
with  the  feelings  of  Gei-mans  ;  or  by  analogy,  with 
the  interest  excited  in  us  by  similar  Dramas  in  our 
own  language.  Few,  I  trust,  would  be  rash  or  ignorant 
enough  to  compare  Schiller  with  Shakspeare ;  yet, 
merely  as  illustration,  I  would  say  that  we  should 
proceed  to  the  perusal  of  Wallenstein,  not  from  Lear 
or  Olhello,  but  from  Richard  the  Second,  or  the  three 
parts  of  Henry  the  Sixth.  We  scarcely  expect  rapid- 
ity in  an  Historical  Drama ;  and  many  prolix  speeches 
are  pardoned  from  characters,  whose  names  and  ac- 
tions have  formed  the  most  amusing  tales  of  our  early 
life.    On  the  other  hand,  there  exist  in  these  plays 

178 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


1G9 


more  individvia.  beauties,  more  passages  whose  ex- 
cellence will  bear  reflection,  than  in  the  former  pro- 
ductions of  Schiller.  The  description  of  the  Astro- 
logical Tower,  and  the  reflections  of  the  Young 
Lover,  which  follow  it,  form  in  the  original  a  fine 
poem ;  and  my  translation  must  have  been  wretched 
indeed,  if  it  can  have  wholly  overclouded  the  beauties 
of  the  Scene  in  the  first  Act  of  the  first  Play  between 
Questenberg,  Max.,  and  Oclavio  Piccolomini.  If  we 
except  the  Scene  of  the  setting  sun  in  the  Robbers, 
1  know  of  no  part  in  Schiller's  Plays  which  equals 
the  whole  of  the  first  Scene  of  the  fifth  Act  of  the 
concluding  Play.  It  would  be  unbecoming  in  me  to 
be  more  diffuse  on  this  subject.  A  translator  stands 
connected  with  the  original  Author  by  a  certain  law 
of  subordination,  which  makes  it  more  decorous  to 
point  out  excellencies  than  defects :  indeed  he  is  not 
likely  to  be  a  fair  judge  of  either.  The  pleasure  or 
disgust  from  his  own  labor  will  mingle  with  the 
feelings  that  arise  from  an  after-view  of  the  original. 
Even  in  the  first  perusal  of  a  work  in  any  foreign 
language  which  we  understand,  we  are  apt  to  at- 
tribute to  it  more  excellence  than  it  really  possesses, 
from  our  own  pleasurable  sense  of  difficulty  over- 
come without  effort.  Translation  of  poetry  into  poetry 
is  difficult,  because  the  translator  must  give  a  bril- 
liancy to  his  language  without  that  warmth  of  original 
conception,  from  which  such  brilliancy  would  follow 
of  its  own  accord.  But  the  Translator  of  a  living 
Author  is  encumbered  with  additional  inconveni- 
ences. If  he  render  his  original  faithfully,  as  to  the 
sense  of  each  passage,  he  must  necessarily  destroy  a 
considerable  portion  of  the  spirit ;  if  he  endeavor  to 
give  a  work  executed  according  to  laws  of  compensa- 
tion, he  subjects  himself  to  imputations  of  vanity,  or 
misrepresentation.  I  have  thought  it  my  duty  to  re- 
main bound  by  the  sense  of  my  original,  with  as  few 
exceptions  as  the  nature  of  the  languages  rendered 
possible. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


Wallenstkix,  DuTte  of  Friedland,  Generalissimo  of 
the  Imperial  forces  in  the  Thirty-years'  War. 

Duchess  of  Friedla.vd,  Wife  of  Wallenstein. 

TllEKLA,  her  Daughter,  Princess  of  Friedland. 

Tlie  Countess  Tertsky,  Sister  of  the  Duchess. 

Lady  Neubru.n.n. 

OcTAVio  Piccolomini,  Lieutenanl-General. 

Ma.x.  Piccolomivi,  his  Son.  Colonel  of  a  Regiment 
of  Cuirassiers. 

Coui,T  Tertsky,  the  Commander  of  several  Regi- 
ments, and  Brother-in-law  of  Wallenstein. 

Illo,  Field  Mar!<hal,  Wallenstein' s  Confidant. 

Butler,  an  Irishman,  Commander  of  a  Regiment  of 
Dragoons. 

Gordo.n,  Governor  of  Egra. 

Major  Geraldin. 

Captain  Devereux. 

Macdonald. 

Neumann,  Captain  of  Cavalry,  Aid-de-camp  to  Tertsky. 

Swedish  Captain. 

Seni. 

Burgomaster  of  Egra. 

Anspessade  of  the  Cuirassiers. 

Groom  of  the  Chamber,    }  „  ,       .      ,     ,     r>  , 
^  p^gj.  >  Belonging  to  the  Duke. 

Cuir.assiers,  Dragoons,  Servants. 
Q2 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


ACT  L 

SCENE  I. 

Scene — A  Chamber  in  the  House  of  the  Duchess  of 

Friedland. 

Countess  Tertsky,  Theki>a,  Lady  Neudrun.v  {tlie 
two  latter  sit  at  the  same  table  at  work). 

countess  [xi-atching  them  from  the  opposite  side). 
So  you  have  nothing  to  ask  me — nothing  ? 
I  have  been  waiting  for  a  word  from  you. 
And  could  you  then  endure  in  all  this  time 
Not  once  to  speak  his  name  ? 

[Thekla  remaining  silent,  the  Countess  rises 
and  advances  to  her. 

Why,  how  comes  this  ? 
Perhaps  I  am  already  grown  superfluous. 
And  other  ways  exist,  besides  through  me  ? 
Confess  it  to  me,  Thekla ;  have  you  seen  liim  ? 

thekla. 
To-day  and  yesterday  I  have  not  seen  him. 

countess. 
And  not  heard  from  him,  either?  Come,  be  open. 

THEKLA. 

No  syllable. 

countess. 
And  still  you  are  so  calm  ? 

THEKLA. 

I  am. 

COUNTESS. 

May't  please  you,  leave  us.  Lady  Neubrann. 
[£xi<  Lady  Neubrunm 


SCENE  11. 

The  Countess,  Thekla. 

COUNTESS. 

It  does  not  please  me,  Princess,  that  he  holds 
Himself  so  slill,  exactly  at  this  time. 

THEKLA. 

Exactly  at  this  time  ? 

COUNTESS. 

He  now  knows  all : 
'Twere  now  the  moment  to  declare  himself. 

THEKLA. 

If  I  'm  to  understand  you,  speak  less  darkly. 

COUNTESS. 

'T  was  for  that  purpose  that  I  bade  her  leave  us. 

Thelka,  you  are  no  more  a  child.    Your  heart 

Is  now  no  more  in  nonage :  for  you  love. 

And  boldness  dwells  with  love — that  you  have  proved 

Your  nature  moulds  itself  upon  your  father's 

More  than  your  mother's  spirit.    Therefore  may  j'oti 

Hear,  what  were  too  much  for  her  fortitude. 

THEKLA. 

Enough :  no  further  preface,  I  entreat  you 
At  once,  out  with  it !  Be  it  what  it  may, 
It  is  not  possible  that  it  should  torture  me 
More  thaa  this  introduction.    What  have  you 
To  say  to  me  ?  Tell  me  the  whole,  and  briefly 

COUNTESS. 

You'll  not  be  frighten'd 


170 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THEKLA. 

Name  it,  I  entreat  you. 

COUNTESS. 

It  lies  within  your  power  to  do  your  father 
A  weighty  service 

THEKLA. 

Lies  within  my  power  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Max.  Piccolomini  loves  you.    You  can  link  him 
Indissolubly  to  your  father. 

THEKLA. 

I? 

VVhat  need  of  me  for  that  ?    And  is  he  not 
Already  link'd  to  him  ? 

COUNTESS 

He  was. 

THEKLA. 

And  wherefore 
Should  he  not  be  so  now — not  be  so  always  ? 

COUNTESS. 

He  cleaves  to  the  Emperor  too. 

THEKLA. 

Not  more  than  duty 
And  honor  may  demand  of  him. 

COUNTESS. 

We  ask 
Proofs  of  his  love,  and  not  proofs  of  his  honor. 
Duty  and  honor ! 

Those  are  ambiguous  words  with  many  meanings. 
You  should  interpret  them  for  him  :  his  love 
iShould  be  the  sole  definer  of  his  honor. 

THEKLA. 

How  ? 

COUNTESS. 

The  Emperor  or  you  must  he  renounce. 

THEKLA. 

He  will  accompany  my  father  gladly 

In  his  retirement.    From  himself  you  heard, 

How  much  he  vrish'd  to  lay  aside  the  sword. 

COUNTESS. 

He  must  not  lay  the  sword  aside,  we  mean  ; 
He  must  unsheathe  it  in  your  father's  cause. 

THEKLA. 

He'll  spend  with  gladness  and  alacrity 

His  life,  his  heart's-blood  in  my  father's  cause, 

If  shame  or  injury  be  intended  him. 

COUNTESS. 

You  will  not  understand  me     Well,  hear  then : — 
Your  father  has  fallen  off  from  the  Emperor, 
And  is  about  to  join  the  enemy 
With  the  whole  soldiery 

THEKLA. 

Alas,  my  mother ! 

COUNTESS. 

There  needs  a  great  example  to  draw  on 
'  The  army  after  him.    The  Piccolomini 
'.Possess  the  love  and  reverence  of  the  troops  ; 
'  They  govern  all  opinions,  and  wherever 

They  lead  the  way,  none  hesitate  to  follow. 

The  son  secures  the  father  to  our  interests — 

You  've  much  in  your  hands  at  this  moment. 


COUNTESS. 

She  will  accommodate  her  soul  to  that 

Which  is  and  must  be.    I  do  laiow  your  mother 

The  far-off  future  weighs  upon  her  heart 

With  torture  of  anxiety ;  but  is  it 

Unalterably,  actually  present, 

She  soon  resigns  herself,  and  bears  it  calmly. 

THEKLA. 

0  my  foreboding  bosom !  Even  now. 

E'en  now  'tis  here,  that  icy  hand  of  horror! 
And  my  young  hope  lies  shuddering  in  its  grasp ; 

1  knew  it  well — no  sooner  had  I  enter'd, 
A  heavy  ominous  presentiment 

Reveal'd  to  me,  that  spirits  of  death  were  hovering 
Over  my  happy  fortune.    But  why  think  I 
First  oi'  myself?  My  mother!  O  my  mother! 

COUNTESS. 

Calm  yourself!  Break  not  out  in  vain  lamenting! 
Preserve  you  for  your  father  the  firm  friend, 
And  for  yourself  the  lover,  all  will  yet 
Prove  good  and  fortunate. 

THEKLA. 

Prove  good !  What  good 
Must  we  not  part  ? — part  ne'er  to  meet  again  ? 

COUNTESS. 

He  parts  not  from  you !  He  can  not  part  from  you 

THEKLA. 

Alas  for  his  sore  anguish !  It  will  rend 
His  heart  asunder. 

COUNTESS. 

If  indeed  he  loves  you 
His  resolution  v^ill  be  speedily  taken. 

THEKLA. 

His  resolution  will  be  speedily  taken — 
O  do  not  doubt  of  that !  A  resolution ! 
Does  there  remain  one  to  be  taken  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Hush! 
Collect  yourself!  I  hear  your  mother  coming. 

THEKLA. 

How  shall  I  bear  to  see  her  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Collect  yourself 


My  miserable  mother!  what  a  death-stroke 
.Awaits  thee! — No!  she  never  will  survive  it. 


Ah, 


SCENE  UI. 

To  them  enter  the  Duchess. 

DUCHESS  {to  the  Countess). 
Who  was  here,  sister  ?  I  heard  some  one  talking, 
And  passionately  too. 

COUNTESS. 

Nay !  There  was  no  one. 

DUCHESS. 

I  am  grown  so  timorous,  every  trifling  noise 
Scatters  my  spirits,  and  announces  to  me 
The  footstep  of  some  messenger  of  evil. 
And  you  can  tell  me,  sister,  what  the  event  is  ? 
Will  he  agree  to  do  the  Emperor's  pleasure. 
And  send  the  horse-regiments  to  the  Cardinal  ? 
Tell  me,  has  he  dismiss'd  Von  Questenberg 
With  a  favorable  answer  ? 

COUNTESS. 

No,  he  has  not. 

DUCHESS. 

.\las !  then  all  is  lost !  I  see  it  coming. 
The  worst  that  can  come !  Yes,  they  will  depose  him . 
180 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


171 


Thfi  accursed  business  of  the  Regensburg  diet 
Will  all  be  acted  o'er  again  ! 

COUNTESS. 

No !  never ! 
Wake  your  heart  easy,  sister,  as  to  that. 

[TuEKLA,  in  exireme  agitation,  throws  herself  upon 
her  mother  and  enfolds  her  in  her  arms,  weeping. 

DUCHESS. 

Yes,  my  poor  child ! 

rhou  too  hast  lost  a  most  affectionate  godmother 

In  the  Empress.    O  that  stem  unbending  man ! 

In  this  unhappy  marriage  what  have  I 

Not  sufler'd,  not  endured  ?  For  even  as  if 

I  had  been  link'd  on  to  some  wheel  of  fire 

That  restless,  ceaseless,  whirls  impetuous  onward, 

I  have  pass'd  a  life  of  frights  and  horrors  with  him, 

And  ever  to  the  brink  of  some  abyss 

With  dizzy  headlong  violence  he  whirls  me. 

Nay,  do  not  weep,  my  child  !  Let  not  my  sufferings 

Presignify  unhappiness  to  thee, 

Nor  blacken  with  their  shade  the  fate  that  waits  thee. 

There  lives  no  second  Friedland :  thou,  my  child, 

Hast  not  to  fear  thy  mother's  destiny. 

THEKLA. 

0  let  us  supplicate  him,  dearest  mother ! 
Quick  I  quick  I  here 's  no  abiding-place  for  us. 
Here  every  coming  hour  broods  into  life 
Some  new  aflrightful  monster. 

DUCHESS. 

Thou  wilt  share 
An  easier,  calmer  lot,  my  child  !  We  too, 

1  and  thy  father,  wilness'd  happy  days. 

Still  think  1  with  delight  of  those  first  years. 

When  he  was  making  progress  with  glad  effort, 

When  his  ambition  was  a  genial  fire. 

Not  that  consuming  flame  which  now  it  is. 

The  Emperor  loved  him,  trusted  him :  and  all 

He  undertook  could  not  but  be  successful. 

But  since  that  ill-starr'd  day  at  Regensburg, 

Which  plunged  him  headlong  from  his  dignity, 

A  gloomy  uncompanionable  spirit, 

ITnsteady  and  suspicious,  has  possess'd  him. 

His  quiet  mind  forsook  him,  and  no  longer 

Did  he  yield  up  himself  in  joy  and  faith 

To  his  old  luck,  and  individual  power ; 

But  thenceforth  tum'd  his  heart  and  best  afl^ections 

All  to  those  cloudy  sciences,  which  never 

Have  yet  made  happy  him  who  foUow'd  them. 

COUNTESS. 

You  see  it,  sister !  as  your  eyes  permit  you. 

But  surely  this  is  not  the  conversation 

To  pass  the  time  in  which  we  are  waiting  for  him. 

You  know  he  will  be  soon  here.    Would  you  have 

him 
Find  her  in  this  condition  ? 

DUCHESS. 

Come,  my  child .' 
Come  wipe  away  thy  tears,  and  show  thy  father 
A  cheerful  countenance.    See,  the  tie-knot  here 
Js  off^this  hair  must  not  hang  so  dishevell'd. 
l^ome,  dearest!  dry  thy  tears  up.    They  deform 
Thy  gentle  eye.— Well  now— what  was  I  saying  ? 
Yes,  in  good  truth,  this  Piccolomini 
Is  a  most  noble  and  deserving  gentleman. 

COUNTESS, 

That  Ls  he,  sister ! 


THEKLA  {to  the  CouNTFSS,  with  marks  of  great  oppres- 
sion of  spirits). 
Aimt,  you  will  excuse  me  ?  (Is  going). 

COUNTESS. 

But  whither  ?  See,  your  father  comes. 

THEKLA. 

I  cannot  see  him  now. 

COUNTESS. 

Nay,  but  bethink  you. 

THEKLA. 

Believe  me,  I  cannot  sustain  his  presence. 

COUNTESS. 

But  he  will  miss  you,  will  ask  after  you. 

DUCHESS. 

What  now  ?  Why  is  she  going  ? 

COUNTESS. 

She's  not  well. 
DUCHESS  {anxiously). 
Wliat  ails  then  my  beloved  child  ? 

[Both  follow  the  Princess,  and  endeavor  to  detain 
her.  During  this  Wallenstein  appears,  engaged 
in  conversation  with  Illo. 


SCENE  IV. 


Wallenstein,  Illo,  Countess,  Duchess,  Thekla. 

wallenstein. 
All  quiet  in  the  camp  ? 

ILLO. 

It  is  all  quiet. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In  a  few  hours  may  couriers  come  from  Prague 

With  tidings,  that  this  capital  is  ours. 

Then  we  may  drop  tlie  mask,  and  to  the  troops 

Assembled  in  this  town  make  known  the  measure 

And  its  result  together.    In  such  cases 

Example  does  the  whole.    Whoever  is  foremost 

Still  leads  the  herd.    An  imitative  creature 

Is  man.    The  troops  at  Prague  conceive  no  other. 

Than  that  the  Pilsen  army  has  gone  through 

The  forms  of  homage  to  us ;  and  in  Pilsen 

They  shall  swear  fealty  to  us,  because 

The  example  has  been  given  them  by  Prague. 

Butler,  you  tell  me,  has  declared  himself? 

ILLO 

At  his  owTi  bidding,  unsolicited. 

He  came  to  offer  you  himself  and  regiment 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  find  we  must  not  give  implicit  credence 

To  every  warning  voice  that  makes  itself 

Be  lislen'd  to  in  the  heart.     To  hold  us  back, 

Off  does  the  lying  Spirit  counterfeit 

The  voice  of  Truth  and  inward  Revelation, 

Scattering  false  oracles.    And  thus  have  I 

To  entreat  forgiveness,  for  that  secretly 

I  've  wrong'd  this  honorable  gallant  man, 

This  Butler :  for  a  feeling,  of  the  which 

I  am  not  master  {fear  I  would  not  call  it). 

Creeps  o'er  me  instanlly,  with  sense  of  shuddering. 

At  his  approach,  and  slo|«  love's  joyotis  motion. 

And  this  same  man,  agaiast  whom  I  am  wam'd. 

This  honest  man  is  he,  who  reaches  to  me 

The  first  pledge  of  my  fortune. 

ILLO. 

And  doubt  not 
24  181 


172 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


That  his  example  will  win  over  to  you 
The  best  men  in  the  army. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Go  and  send 
Isolani  hither.    Send  him  immediately. 
He  is  under  recent  obligations  to  me : 
With  him  will  I  commence  the  trial.    Go. 

[Exit  Illo. 

WALLENSTEIN  {tums  Mmself  round  to  the  females). 
Lo,  there  the  mother  with  the  darling  daughter : 
For  once  we  '11  have  an  interval  of  rest — 
Come !  my  heart  yearns  to  live  a  cloudless  hour 
In  the  beloved  circle  of  my  family. 

COUNTESS. 

'Tis  long  since  we've  been  thus  together,  brother. 

WALLENSTEIN  {to  the  CouNTESS  aside). 
Can  she  sustain  the  news  ?  Is  she  prepared  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Not  yet 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Come  here,  my  sweet  girl!  Seat  thee  by  me, 
For  there  is  a  good  spirit  on  thy  lips. 
Thy  mother  praised  to  me  thy  ready  skill : 
She  says  a  voice  of  melody  dwells  in  thee, 
Which  doth  enchant  the  soul.  Now  such  a  voice 
Will  drive  away  from  me  the  evil  demon 
That  beats  his  black  wings  close  above  my  head. 

DUCHESS. 

Where  is  thy  lute,  my  daughter  ?  Let  thy  father 
Hear  some  small  trial  of  thy  skill. 

THEKLA. 

My  mother ! 
I— 

DUCHESS. 

Trembling  ?  come,  collect  thyself.    Go,  cheer 
Thy  father. 

THEKLA. 

O  my  mother !  I — I  cannot. 

COUNTESS. 

How,  what  is  that,  niece  ? 

THEKLA  {to  the  CoUNTESS). 

O  spare  me — sing — now — in  this  sore  anxiety 
Of  the  o'erburthen'd  soul — to  sing  to  him. 
Who  is  thrusting,  even  now,  my  mother  headlong 
Into  her  grave. 

DUCHESS. 

How,  Thekla !  Humorsome  ? 
What!  shall  thy  father  have  express 'd  a  wish 
In  vain  ? 

COUNTFSS. 

Here  is  the  lute. 

THEIi.LA. 

My  God  !  how  can  I — 
[The  orchestra  plays.  DuringtheritorjielloTHEKLA 
expresses  in  her  gestures  and  countenance  the 
struggle  of  her  feelings :  and  at  the  moment 
that  she  shoidd  begin  to  sing,  contracts  her- 
self together,  as  one  shuddering,  throws  tJie 
instrument  down,  and  retires  abruptly. 

DUCHESS. 

My  child !  O  she  is  ill — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  ails  the  maiden  ? 
Say,  is  she  often  so  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Since  then  herself 


Has  now  betray'd  it,  I  too  must  no  longer 
Conceal  it. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What? 

COUNTESS. 

She  loves  him! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Loves  him !  Whom; 

COUNTESS. 

Max.  does  she  love  !  Max.  Piccolomini. 

Hast  thou  ne'er  noticed  it  ?  Nor  yet  my  sister  ? 

DUCHESS. 

Was  it  this  that  lay  so  heavy  on  her  heart? 

God's  blessing  on  thee,  my  sweet  child  thou  need'st 

Never  take  shame  upon  thee  for  thy  choice. 

COUNTESS. 

This  journey,  if  'twere  not  thy  aim,  ascribe  it 

To  thine  own  self    Thou  shouldst  have  chosen  an 

other 
To  have  attended  her. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  does  he  know  it  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Yes,  and  he  hopes  to  win  her. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Hopes  to  win  her ! 
Is  the  boy  mad  ? 

COUNTESS. 

Well,  hear  it  from  themselves. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He  thinks  to  carry  off  Duke  Friedland's  daughter! 

Ay  ?  the  thought  pleases  me. 

The  young  man  has  no  grovelling  spirit 

COUNTESS 

Since 
Such  and  such  constant  favor  you  have  shown  him. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He  chooses  finally  to  be  my  heir. 

And  true  it  is,  I  love  the  youth ;  yea,  honor  him. 

But  must  he  therefore  be  my  daughter's  husband  ? 

Is  it  daughters  only  ?  Is  it  only  children 

That  we  must  show  our  favor  by  ? 

DUCHESS. 

His  noble  disposition  and  his  manners — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Win  him  my  heart,  but  not  my  daughter. 

DUCHESS. 

Then 
His  rank,  his  ancestors — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ancestors !  What  ? 
He  is  a  subject,  and  my  son-in-law 
I  will  seek  out  upon  the  thrones  of  Europe. 

DUCHESS. 

O  dearest  Albrecht !  Climb  we  not  too  high, 
Lest  we  should  fall  too  low. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  ?  have  I  paid 
A  price  so  heavy  to  ascend  this  eminence. 
And  jut  out  high  above  the  common  herd, 
Only  to  close  the  mighty  part  I  play 
In  Life's  great  drama,  with  a  common  kinsman  ? 
Have  I  for  this — 

[Slops  suddenly,  repressing  himself 
She  is  the  only  thing 
That  will  remain  behind  of  me  on  earth  ; 
And  I  will  see  a  crovm  around  her  head, 

182 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


173 


Or  die  in  the  attempt  to  place  it  there. 
I  hazard  all — all  I  and  for  this  alone, 
To  lift  her  into  greatness — 
Yea,  in  this  moment,  in  the  which  we  are  speaking — 
[He  recollects  himself. 
And  I  must  now,  like  a  soft-hearted  lather, 
Couple  together  in  good  peasant-fashion 
The  pair,  that  chance  to  suit  each  other's  liking — 
And  I  must  do  it  now,  even  now,  when  I 
Am  stretching  out  the  wreath  tliat  is  to  twine 
My  full  accomplish'd  work — no !  she  is  the  jewel, 
Wliich  I  have  treasured  long,  my  last,  ray  noblest, 
And  'tis  my  purpose  not  to  let  her  from  me 
For  less  than  a  king's  sceptre. 

DUCHESS. 

O  my  husband ! 
You  're  ever  building,  building  to  the  clouds, 
Still  building  higher,  and  still  higher  building, 
And  ne'er  reflect,  that  the  poor  narrow  basis 
Cannot  sustain  the  giddy  tottering  column. 

WALLENSTEIN  (<0  (he  CouNTESS.) 

Have  you  announced  the  place  of  residence 
Which  I  have  destined  for  her  ? 

COUNTESS. 

No !  not  yet. 
T  were  better  you  yourself  disclosed  it  to  her, 

DUCHESS. 

How  ?    Do  we  not  return  to  Karn  then  ? 


No. 


WALLENSTEIN. 
DUCHESS. 

And  to  no  other  of  your  lands  or  seats  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

You  would  not  be  secure  there. 

DUCHESS. 

Not  secure 
In  the  Emperor's  realms,  beneath  the  Emperor's 
Protection  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Friedland's  wife  may  be  permitted 
No  longer  to  hope  that. 

DUCHESS. 

O  God  in  Heaven ! 
And  have  you  brought  it  even  to  tiiis ! 

WALLENSTEIN 

In  Holland 
You'll  fmd  protection. 

DUCHESS. 

In  a  Lutheran  country  ? 
What  ?   And  you  send  us  into  Lutheran  countries  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Duke  Franz  of  Lauenburg  conducts  you  thither. 

DUCHESS. 

Duke  Franz  of  Lauenburg  ? 

The  ally  of  Sweden,  the  Emperor's  enemy. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  Emperor's  enemies  are  mine  no  longer. 
DUCHESS  (casting  a  look  of  terror  on  the  Duke  and  the 

Countess.) 
Is  it  then  true  ?   It  is.    You  are  degraded  ? 
Deposed  from  the  command  ?   O  God  in  Heaven ! 

COUNTESS  (aside  to  the  DuKE). 
Leave  her  in  this  belief    Thou  seest  she  can  not 
Support  the  real  truth. 


SCENE  V. 
To  them,  enter  Count  Tertsky. 

COUNTESS. 

—Tertsky! 
What  ails  him  ?    What  an  image  of  aflright ! 
He  looks  as  he  had  seen  a  ghost. 

TERTSKY  (leading  Wallenstein  asidd . 
Is  it  thy  command  that  all  the  Croats — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Mine: 

TERTSKY. 

We  are  betray'd. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What? 

TERTSKY. 

They  are  off!  This  night 
The  Jiigers  hkewise — all  the  villages 
In  the  whole  round  are  empty. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Isolani  ? 

TERTSKY. 

Him  thou  hast  sent  away.    Yes,  surely. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I? 
TERTSKY. 

No  !  Hast  thou  not  sent  him  off?   Nor  Deodate? 
They  are  vanish 'd  both  of  them. 


SCENE  VI. 
To  them  enter  Illo. 

ILLO. 

Has  Tertsky  told  thee  ? 

TERTSKY. 

He  luiows  all. 

ILLO. 

And  likewise 
That  Esterhatzy,  Goetz,  Maradas,  Kaunitz, 
Kolatto,  Palfi,  have  forsaken  thee. 

TERTSKY. 

Damnation  ! 

WALLENSTEIN  (winks  at  them). 
Hush! 
COUNTESS  (who  lias  been  watching  them  anxiously  from 

the  distance,  and  now  advances  to  them). 
Tertsky  !  Heaven !  What  is  it  ?  What  has  happen'd  ? 

WALLENSTEIN  (scarcely  suppressing  his  emotion). 
Nothing!  let  us  be  gone! 

TERTSKY  (following  him). 

Theresa,  it  is  nothing. 
COUNTESS  (holding  him  back). 
Nothing  ?    Do  I  not  see,  that   all  the  life-blood 
Has  left  your  cheeks— look  you  not  like  a  ghost  ? 
That  even  my  brother  but  affects  a  calmness  ? 

PACE  (enters). 
An  Aid-de-Camp  inquires  for  the  Count  Tertsky. 
[Tehtskv  follows  the  Page. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Go,  hear  his  business. 

(To  Illo). 
This  could  not  have  happen'd 
So  unsuspected  without  mutiny. 
Who  was  on  guard  at  the  gates  ? 

ILLO. 

'T  was  Tiefenbach. 
183 


174 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


WALLENSTEIN. 

Let  Tiefenbach  leave  guard  without  delay, 
And  Tertsky's  grenadiers  relieve  him. 
(Illo  is  going). 

Stop! 
Hast  thou  heard  aught  of  Butler  ? 

ILLO. 

Him  I  met : 
He  will  be  here  himself  immediately. 
Butler  remains  unshaken. 

[Illo  exit.    Wallenstein  is  following  him. 

COUNTESS. 

Let  him  not  leave  thee,  sister !  go,  detain  him ! 
There 's  some  misfortune. 

DUCHESS  {clinging  to  him). 

Gracious  Heaven !  what  is  it  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Be  tranquil '  leave  me,  sister !  dearest  wife ! 
We  are  in  camp,  and  this  is  naught  unusual  ; 
Here  storm  and  sunshine  follow  one  another 
With  rapid  interchanges.    These  fierce  spirits 
Champ  the  curb  angrily,  and  never  yet 
Did  quiet  bless  the  temples  of  the  leader. 
If  I  am  to  stay,  go  you.    The  plaints  of  women 
111  suit  the  scenes  where  men  must  act. 

[He  is  going  :  Tertskv  returns. 

TERTSKY. 

Remain  here.    From  this  window  must  we  see  it. 

WALLENSTEIN  {tO  the  CoUNTESS). 

Sister,  retire ! 

COUNTESS. 

No — never. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'Tis  my  will. 
TERTSKY  (leads  the  Countess  aside,  and  drawing  her 

attention  to  the  Duchess). 
Theresa ! 

duchess. 
Sister,  come !  since  he  commands  it. 


SCENE  VII. 


Wallenstein,  Tertsky. 

WALLENSTEIN  {stepping  to  the  window). 
What  now,  then? 

TERTSKY. 

There  are  strange  movements  among  all  the  troops, 

And  no  one  knows  the  cause.    Mysteriously, 

With  gloomy  silence,  the  several  corps 

Marshal  themselves,  each  under  its  own  banners. 

Tiefenbach's  corps  make  threat'ning  movements ;  only 

The  Pappenheimers  still  remain  aloof 

In  their  own  quarters,  and  let  no  one  enter. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Does  Piccolomini  appear  among  them  ? 

TERTSKY. 

We  are  seeking  him  :  he  is  nowhere  to  be  met  with. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  did  the  Aid-de-Camp  deliver  to  you? 

TERTSKY. 

My  regiments  had  dispatch'd  him ;  yet  once  more 

They  swear  fidelity  to  thee,  and  wait 

The  shout  for  onset,  all  prepared,  and  eager. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

But  whence  arose  this  larum  in  the  camp  ? 


It  should  have  been  kept  secret  from  the  array, 
Till  fortune  had  decided  for  us  at  Prague. 

TERTSKY. 

0  that  thou  hadst  believed  me !   Yester-evening 
Did  we  conjure  thee  not  to  let  that  skulker. 
That  fox,  Octavio,  pass  the  gates  of  Pilsen. 

Thou  gavest  him  thy  own  horses  to  flee  from  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  old  tune  still !    Now,  once  for  all,  no  more 
Of  this  suspicion — it  is  doting  folly. 

TERTSKY. 

Tliou  didst  confide  in  Isolani  too ; 

And  lo !  he  was  the  first  that  did  desert  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  was  but  yesterday  I  rescued  him 

From  abject  wretchedness.    Let  that  go  by ; 

1  never  reckon'd  yet  on  gratitude. 

And  wherein  doth  he  wrong  in  going  from  me  ? 
He  follows  still  the  god  whom  all  his  life 
He  has  worshipp'd  at  the  gaming-table.    With 
My  fortune,  and  my  seeming  destiny, 
He  made  the  bond,  and  broke  it  not  with  me. 
I  am  but  the  ship  in  which  his  hopes  were  stow'd. 
And  with  the  which  well-pleased  and  confident 
He  traversed  the  open  sea ;  now  he  beholds  it 
In  eminent  jeopardy  among  the  coast-rocks. 
And  hurries  to  preserve  his  wares.    As  light 
As  the  free  bird  from  the  hospitable  twig 
Where  it  had  nested,  he  flies  off  from  me : 
No  human  tie  is  snapp'd  betwixt  us  two. 
Yea,  he  deserves  to  find  himself  deceived 
Who  seeks  a  heart  in  the  unthinking  man. 
Like  shadows  on  a  stream,  the  forms  of  life 
Impress  their  characters  on  the  smooth  forehead. 
Naught  sinks  into  the  bosom's  silent  depth : 
Quick  sensibility  of  pain  and  pleasure 
Moves  the  light  fluids  lightly ;  but  no  soul 
Warmeth  the  inner  frame. 

TERTSKY. 

Yet,  would  I  rather 
Trust  the  smooth  brow  than  that  deep-furrow'd  one. 


SCENE  vin. 

WALLENSTEIN,  TeRTSKY,  IllO. 

ILLO  {who  enters  agitated  with  rage). 
Treason  and  mutmy ! 

TERTSKY. 

And  what  further  now  ? 

ILLO. 

Tiefenbach's  soldiers,  when  I  gave  the  orders 
To  go  off  guard — Mutinous  villains ! 

TERTSKY. 

Well! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  followed  ? 

ILLO. 

They  refused  obedience  to  them. 

TERTSKY. 

Fire  on  them  instantly !  Give  out  the  order. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Gently !  what  cause  did  they  assign  ? 

ILLO. 

No  other, 
They  said,  had  right  to  issue  orders  but 
Lieutenant-General  Piccolomini. 

]84 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


175 


WALLENSTEIN  (in  a  convulsion  of  agony). 
What?  How  is  that? 

ILLO. 

He  takes  that  office  on  him  by  commission, 
Under  sign-manual  of  tlie  Emperor. 

TERTSKY. 

From  the  Emperor — hear'st  thou,  Duke  ? 

ILLO. 

At  his  incitement 
The  Generals  made  that  stealthy  flight — 

TERTSKY. 

Duke !  hear'st  thou  ? 

ILLO. 

Caraffa  too,  and  Montecuculi, 

Are  missing,  with  six  other  Generals, 

All  whom  he  had  induced  to  follow  him. 

Tliis  plot  he  has  long  had  in  writing  by  him 

From  the  Emperor  ;  but  'twas  finally  concluded 

With  all  the  detail  of  the  operation 

Some  days  ago  with  the  Envoy  Questenberg. 

[WALLENSTEIN  si/iks  dowti  into  a  chair,  and  covers 
his  face. 

TERTSKY. 

O  hadst  thou  but  believed  me  ! 


SCENE  IX. 
To  them  enter  the  Countess. 

COUNTESS. 

This  suspense, 
This  horrid  fear — I  can  no  longer  bear  it. 
For  heaven's  sake,  tell  me,  what  has  taken  place  ? 

ILLO. 

The  regiments  are  all  falling  off  from  us. 

TERTSKY. 

Octavio  Piccolomini  is  a  traitor. 

COUNTESS. 

O  my  foreboding  !  [Rushes  out  of  the  room. 

TERTSKY. 

Hadst  thou  but  believed  me ! 
Now  seest  thou  how  the  stars  have  lied  to  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  stars  lie  not;  but  we  have  here  a  work 

Wrought  counter  to  the  stars  and  destiny. 

The  science  is  still  honest :  this  false  heart 

Forces  a  lie  on  the  truth-telling  heaven. 

On  a  divine  law  divination  rests  ; 

Where  Nature  deviates  from  that  law,  and  stumbles 

Out  of  her  limits,  there  all  science  errs. 

True,  I  did  not  suspect !  Were  it  superstition 

Never  by  such  suspicion  t'  have  affronted 

The  human  form,  O  may  that  time  ne'er  come 

In  which  I  shame  me  of  the  infirmity. 

The  wildest  savage  drinlis  not  with  the  victim, 

Into  whose  breast  he  means  to  plunge  the  sword. 

This,  this,  Octavio,  was  no  hero's  deed  : 

'T  was  not  thy  prudence  that  did  conquer  mine ; 

A  bad  heart  triumph'd  o'er  an  honest  one. 

No  shield  received  the  assassin  stroke ;  thou  plunges! 

Thy  weapon  on  an  unprotected  breast — 

Against  such  weapons  I  am  but  a  child. 


SCENE  X. 

To  these  enter  Butler. 

TERTSKY  (  meeting  him). 


0  look  there !  Butler  I  Here  we  've  still  a  £i-iend ' 


WALLENSTEIN  {meets  him  with  outspread  arms,  and 

embraces  him  with  warmth). 
Come  to  my  heart,  old  comrade !  Not  the  sun 
Looks  out  upon  us  more  revivingly 
In  the  earliest  month  of  spring. 
Than  a  friend's  countenance  in  such  an  hour. 

BUTLER. 

My  General :  I  come — 

WALLENSTEIN  {leaning  on  Butler's  shoulders). 
Know'st  thou  already  ? 
That  old  man  has  betray'd  me  to  the  Emperor. 
What  say'st  thou  ?  Thirty  years  have  we  together 
Lived  out,  and  held  out,  sharing  joy  and  hardship. 
We  have  slept  in  one  camp-bed,  drunk  from  one  glass, 
One  morsel  shared !  I  lean'd  myself  on  him. 
As  now  I  lean  me  on  thy  faithful  shoulder. 
And  now  in  the  very  moment,  when,  all  love, 
All  confidence,  my  bosom  beat  to  his. 
He  sees  and  takes  the  advantage,  stabs  the  knife 
Slowly  into  my  heart. 

[He  hides  his  face  on  Butler's  breast 

butler. 

Forget  the  false  one. 
What  is  your  present  purpose  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Well  remember'd ! 
Courage,  my  soul !  I  am  still  rich  in  friends, 
Still  loved  by  Destiny ;  for  in  the  moment. 
That  it  unmasks  the  plotting  hypocrite. 
It  sends  and  proves  to  me  one  faithful  heart. 
Of  the  hypocrite  no  more !  Think  not,  his  loss 
Was  that  which  struck  the  pang :  O  no !  his  treason 
Is  that  which  strikes  this  pang !  No  more  of  him ! 
Dear  to  my  heart,  and  honor'd  were  they  both, 
And  the  young  man — yes — he  did  truly  love  me, 
He — he — has  not  deceived  me.    But  enough. 
Enough  of  this — Swift  counsel  now  beseems  us. 
The  courier,  whom  Count  Kinsky  sent  from  Prague- 
I  expect  him  every  moment :  and  whatever 
He  may  bring  with  him,  we  must  take  good  care 
To  keep  it  from  the  mutineers.    Quick,  then ! 
Dispatch  some  messenger  you  can  rely  on 
To  meet  him,  and  conduct  him  to  me. 

[Illo  is  going. 

BUTLER  {detaining  him). 
My  General,  whom  expect  you  then  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  courier 
Who  brings  me  word  of  the  event  at  Prague. 

BUTLER  {hesilatingX 
Hem! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  what  now  ? 

BUTLER. 

You  do  not  know  it  ? 


WALLENSTEIN. 
BUTLER. 

From  what  that  larum  in  the  camp  arose  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

From  what  ? 

BUTLER. 

That  courier 

WALLENSTEIN  {with  eager  expectation). 


Well? 


Well' 


185 


176 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


BUTLER. 

Is  already  here. 
TERTSKY  and  ILLO  [at  the  same  time). 
Already  here  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

My  courier  ? 

BUTLER. 

For  some  hours. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  I  not  know  it  ? 

BUTLER 

The  sentinels  detain  him 
In  custody. 

iLLO  (stamping  with  his  foot). 
Damnation ! 

BUTLER. 

And  his  letter 
Was  broken  open,  and  is  circulated 
Through  the  whole  camp. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

You  know  what  it  contains  ? 


Question  me  not ! 

TERTSKY. 

lUo !  alas  for  us. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Hide  nothing  from  me — I  can  hear  the  worst. 
Prague  then  is  lost.    It  is.    Confess  it  freely. 

BUTLER. 

Yes !  Prague  is  lost.    And  all  the  several  regiments 

At  Budweiss,  Tabor,  Brannau,  Konigingratz, 

At  Brun  and  Znaym,  have  forsaken  you. 

And  ta'en  the  oaths  of  fealty  anew 

To  the  Emperor.    Yourself,  with  Kinsky,  Tertsky, 

\nd  Illo  have  been  sentenced. 

[Tertsky  and  Illo  express  alarm  and  fury. 
WALLENSTEIN  remains frm  and  collected. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

'T  is  decided ! 
'Tis  well!  I  have  received  a  sudden  cure 
From  all  the  pangs  of  doubt :  with  steady  stream 
Once  more  my  life-blood  flows !  My  soul 's  secure ! 
In  the  night  only  Fried  land's  stars  can  beam. 
Lingering  irresolute,  with  fitful  fears 
I  drew  the  sword — 'twas  with  an  inward  strife. 
While  yet  the  choice  was  mine.  The  murderous  knife 
Is  lifted  for  my  heart!  Doubt  disappears! 
I  fight  now  for  my  head  and  for  my  life. 

[Exit  WALLENSTEIN  ;  the  others  follow  him. 


SCENE  XI. 


COUNTESS  TERTSKY  {enters  from  a  side-room). 

I  can  endure  no  longer.  No  ! 

[LooJcs  around  her. 
Where  are  they  ? 
No  one  is  here.    They  leave  me  all  alone, 
Alone  in  this  sore  anguish  of  suspense. 
^Lnd  I  must  wear  the  outward  show  of  calmness 
Before  my  sister,  and  shut  in  within  me 
The  pangs  and  agonies  of  my  crowded  bosom. 
It  is  not  to  be  borne. — If  all  should  fail ; 
If— if  he  must  go  over  to  the  Swedes, 
An  empty-handed  fugitive,  and  not 
As  an  ally,  a  covenanted  equal, 


A  proud  commander  with  his  army  following ; 
If  we  must  wander  on  from  land  to  land. 
Like  the  Count  Palatine,  of  fallen  greatness 
An  ignominious  monument — But  no ! 
That  day  I  will  not  see !  And  could  himself 
Endure  to  sink  so  low,  I  would  not  bear 
To  see  him  so  low  sunken. 


SCENE  XII. 
Countess,  Duchess,  Tiiekla. 
THEKLA  (endeavoring  to  hold  back  the  DuCHESSi. 
Dear  mother,  do  stay  here ! 

duchess. 

No !  Here  is  yet 
Some  frightful  mystery  that  is  hidden  from  me. 
Why  does  my  sister  shun  me  ?  Don't  I  see  her 
Full  of  suspense  and  anguish  roam  about 
From  room  to  room? — Art  thou  not  full  of  terror? 
And  what  import  these  silent  nods  and  gestures 
Which  stealthwise  thou  exchangest  with  her  ? 

THEKLA. 

Nothing , 
Nothing,  dear  mother ! 

DUCHESS  (to  the  Countess). 

Sister,  I  w'ill  know. 

COUNTESS. 

What  boots  it  now  to  hide  it  from  her  ?  Sooner 

Or  later  she  must  learn  to  hear  and  bear  it. 

'Tis  not  the  time  now  to  indulge  infirmity  ,• 

Courage  beseems  us  now,  a  heart  collect, 

And  exercise  and  previous  discipline 

Of  fortitude.    One  word,  and  over  with  it ' 

Sister,  you  are  deluded.    You  believe. 

The  Duke  has  been  deposed — The  Duke  is  not 

Deposed — he  is 

THEKLA  (going  to  the  Countess) 

What  ?  do  you  wish  to  kill  her  ? 

countess. 

The  Duke  is 

THEKLA  (throwing  her  arms  around  her  mother). 

O  stand  firm !  stand  firm,  my  mother , 

COUNTESS. 

Revolted  is  the  Dulie ;  he  is  preparing 
To  join  the  enemy ;  the  army  leave  him, 
And  all  has  fail'd. 


ACT  11. 

SCENE  I. 

Scene — A  spacious  room  in  the  Duke  of  Friedla.nd's 
Palace. 

(WALLENSTEIN  in  armor). 
Thou  hast  gain'd  thy  point,  Octavio !  Once  more  am  I 
Almost  as  friendless  as  at  Regensburg. 
There  I  had  nothing  left  me,  but  myself— 
But  vihat  one  man  can  do, you  have  now  experience 
The  twigs  have  you  hew'd  ofl^  and  here  I  stand 
A  leafless  trunk.    But  in  the  sap  Within 
Lives  the  creating  power,  and  a  new  world 
May  sprout  forth  from  it.    Once  already  have  I 
Proved  myself  worth  an  army  to  you — I  alone ! 
Before  the  Swedish  strength  your  troops  had  melted , 
Beside  the  Lech  sunk  Tilly,  your  last  hope  : 

186 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTELV. 


177 


Into  Bavaria,  like  a  winter  torrent, 

Did  that  Gustavus  pour,  and  at  Vienna 

In  his  own  palace  did  the  Emperor  tremble. 

Soldiers  were  scarce,  for  still  the  multitude 

Follow  the  luck :  all  eyes  were  turn'd  on  me, 

Their  helper  in  distress :  the  Emperor's  pride 

Bow'd  itself  down  before  the  man  he  had  injured. 

'Twas  I  must  rise,  and  with  creative  word 

Assemble  forces  in  the  desolate  camps. 

1  did  it.    Like  a  god  of  war,  my  name 

Went  through  the  world.  The  drum  was  beat — and,  lo ! 

The  plow,  the  work-shop  is  forsaken,  all 

Swarm  to  the  old  familiar  long-loved  banners ; 

And  as  the  wood-choir  rich  in  melody 

Assemble  quick  around  the  bird  of  wonder, 

VVlien  first  his  throat  swells  with  his  magic  song, 

So  did  the  warlike  youth  of  Germany 

Crowd  in  around  the  image  of  my  eagle. 

I  feel  myself  the  bemg  that  I  was. 

It  is  the  soul  that  builds  itself  a  body, 

And  Friedland's  camp  will  not  remain  unfill'd. 

Lead  then  your  thousands  out  to  meet  me — true ! 

They  are  accustom'd  under  me  to  conquer. 

But  not  against  me.    If  the  head  and  limbs 

Separate  from  each  other,  'twill  be  soon 

Made  manifest,  in  which  the  soul  abode. 

(Illo  and  Tertskv  enter). 
Courage,  friends !  Courage  !  We  are  still  unvanquish'd  ; 
I  feel  my  footing  firm ;  five  regiments,  Tertsky, 
Are  still  our  own,  and  Butler's  gallant  troops ; 
And  a  host  of  sixteen  thousand  Swedes  to-morrow. 
,1  was  not  stronger,  when  nine  years  ago 
1  march'd  forth,  with  glad  heart  and  high  of  hope, 
To  conquer  Germany  for  the  Emperor. 


SCENE  II 

Wallexsteix,  Illo,  Tertskv.  {,To  them  enter  Neu- 
mann, who  leads  Tertsky  aside,  and  talks  with 
him). 

TERTSKY. 

What  do  they  want  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  now  ? 

TERTSKY. 

Ten  Cuirassiers 
From  Pappenheim  request  leave  to  address  you 
In  the  name  of  the  regiment. 

WALLENSTEIN  {hastily  to  Neumann). 
Let  them  enter. 

[Exit  Neumann. 
This 
May  end  in  something.    Mark  you.    They  are  still 
Doubtful,  and  may  be  won. 


SCENTS  III 

WALLENSTEIN,    TerTSKV,    IlLO,    TeN    CuIRASSIERS 

{led  by  an  Anspessade,*  murrh  up  and  arrange 
themselves,  after  the  word  of  command,  in  one 
front  before  the  Duke,  ami  make  their  obeisance. 
He  takes  his  hat  off,  and  immediately  covers  him- 
self again). 

anspessade. 
Halt!  Front!  Present! 


•  Anspessade,  in  German,  Gefreiler,  a  soKIior  inferior  to  a 
corporal,  but  above  the  sentinels.  The  German  name  implies 
that  he  is  exempt  from  mounting  guard. 

13  R 


WALLENSTEIN  {after  he  has  run  through  them  with  his 
eye,  to  the  Anspessade). 
I  know  thee  well.  Thou  art  out  of  Briiggin  in  Flan- 
ders :  thy  name  is  Mercy. 

anspessade. 

Henry  Mercy. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thou  wert  cut  oflT  on  the  march,  surrounded  by 
the  Hessians,  and  didst  fight  thy  way  with  a  hun- 
dred and  eighty  men  through  their  thousand. 

ANSPESSADE. 

'T  was  even  so,  General ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  reward  hadst  thou  for  this  gallant  exploit? 

ANSPESSADE. 

That  which  I  asked  for :  the  honor  to  serve  in  this 
corps. 

WALLENSTEIN  {turning  to  a  second). 

Thou  wert  among  the  volunteers  that  seized  and 
made  booty  of  the  Swedish  battery  at  Altenburg. 

SECOND  CUIRASSIER. 

Yes,  General ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  forget  no  one  with  whom  I  have  exchanged  words. 
{A  pause).    Who  sends  you  ? 

ANSPESSADE. 

Your  noble  regiment,  the  Cuirassiers  of  PiccolorainL 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Why  does  not  your  colonel  deliver  in  your  request, 
according  to  the  custom  of  service  ? 

ANSPESSADE. 

Because  we  would  first  know  whom  we  serve. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Begin  your  address. 

ANSPESSADE  {giving  the  word  of  command). 
Shoulder  your  arms ! 

WALLENSTEIN  {tumivg  to  o  third). 
Thy  name  is  Risbeck ;  Cologne  is  thy  birth-place. 

THIRD  CUIRASSIER. 

Risbeck  of  Cologne. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

It  was  thou  that  broughtest  in  the  Swedish  colonel 
Diebald,  prisoner,  in  the  camp  at  Niiremberg. 

THIRD  CUIRASSIER. 

It  was  not  I,  General ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Perfectly  right!  It  was  thy  elder  brother;  thou  hadst 
a  younger  brother  too :  where  did  he  stay  ? 

THIRD  CUIRASSIER. 

He  is  stationed  at  Olmiitz  with  the  Imperial  army. 

WALLENSTEIN  {tO  the  AnSPESSADE). 

Now  then — begin. 

ANSPESSADE. 

There  came  to  hand  a  letter  from  the  Emperor, 
Commanding  us 

WALLENSTEIN  {interrupting  him). 
Who  chose  you  ? 

ANSPESSADE. 

Every  company 
Drew  its  own  man  by  lot. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Now !  to  the  business. 

ANSPESSADE. 

Tliere  came  to  hand  a  letter  from  the  Emperor, 
Commanding  us  collectively,  from  thee 

187 


178 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


All  duties  of  obedience  to  withdraw, 
Because  thou  wert  an  enemy  and  traitor. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  what  did  you  determine  ? 

ANSPESSADE. 

All  our  comrades 
At  Braunnau,  Budweiss,  Prague  and  Olmiitz,  have 
Obey'd  already  ;  and  the  regiments  here, 
Tiefenbach  and  Toscano,  instantly 
Did  follow  their  example.    But — but  we 
Do  not  believe  that  thou  art  an  enemy 
And  traitor  to  thy  country,  hold  it  merely 
For  lie  and  trick,  and  a  trump'd-up  Spanish  story  ? 

[With  warmth. 
Thyself  shalt  tell  us  what  thy  purpose  is. 
For  we  have  found  thee  still  sincere  and  true : 
No  mouth  shall  interpose  itself  betwixt 
The  gallant  General  and  the  gallant  troops. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Therein  I  recognize  my  Pappenheimers. 

ANSPESSADE. 

And  this  proposal  makes  thy  regiment  to  thee  : 

Is  it  thy  purpose  merely  to  preserve 

In  thy  own  hands  this  military  sceptre. 

Which  so  becomes  thee,  which  the  Emperor 

Made  over  to  thee  by  a  covenant  ? 

Is  it  thy  purpose  merely  to  remain 

Supreme  commander  of  the  Austrian  armies  ? — 

We  will  stand  by  thee,  General !  and  guaranty 

Thy  honest  rights  against  all  opposition. 

And  should  it  chance,  that  all  the  other  regiments 

Tiun  from  thee,  by  ourselves  will  we  stand  forth 

Thy  faithful  soldiers,  and,  as  is  our  duty, 

Far  rather  let  ourselves  be  cut  to  pieces, 

Than  suffer  thee  to  fall.     But  if  it  be 

As  the  Emperor's  letter  says,  if  it  be  true. 

That  thou  in  traitorous  wise  will  lead  us  over 

To  the  enemy,  which  God  in  heaven  forbid  ! 

Then  we  too  will  forsake  thee,  and  obey 

That  letter 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Hear  me,  children ! 


ANSPESSADE. 


There  needs  no  other  answer. 


Yes,  or  no ! 


WALLENSTEIN. 

Yield  attention. 
You  're  men  of  sense,  examine  for  yourselves  ; 
Ye  think,  and  do  not  follow  with  the  herd : 
And  therefore  have  I  always  shown  you  honor 
Above  all  others,  suffer'd  you  to  reason ; 
Have  treated  you  as  free  men,  and  my  orders 
Were  but  the  echoes  of  your  prior  suffrage. — 

ANSPESSADE. 

Most  fair  and  noble  has  thy  conduct  been 

To  us,  my  General !  With  thy  confidence 

Thou  hast  honor'd  us,  and  shown  us  grace  and  favor 

Beyond  all  other  regiments ;  and  thou  see'st 

We  follow  not  the  common  herd.     We  will 

Stand  by  thee  faithfully.    Speak  but  one  word — 

Thy  word  shall  satisfy  us,  that  it  is  not 

A  treason  which  tliou  meditatest — that 

Thou  meanest  not  to  lead  the  army  over 

To  the  enemy ;  nor  e'er  betray  thy  country. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Me,  me  are  they  betraying.    The  Emperor 


Hath  sacrificed  me  to  my  enemies. 

And  I  must  fall,  unless  my  gallant  troops 

Will  rescue  me.    See  !  1  confide  in  you. 

And  be  your  hearts  my  strong-hold !    At  this  breast 

The  aim  is  taken,  at  this  hoary  head. 

This  is  your  Spanish  gratitude,  this  is  our 

Requital  for  that  murderous  fight  at  Lutzen ! 

For  this  we  threw  the  naked  breast  against 

The  halbert,  made  for  this  the  frozen  earth 

Our  bed,  and  the  hard  stone  our  pillow !  never  stream 

Too  rapid  for  us,  nor  wood  too  impervious  : 

With  cheerful  spirit  we  pursued  that  Mansfield 

Through  all  the  turns  and  windings  of  his  flight ; 

Yea,  our  whole  life  was  but  one  restless  march ; 

And  homeless  as  the  stirring  wind,  we  travell'd 

O'er  the  war-wasted  earth.  And  now,  even  now, 

That  we  have  well-nigh  finish'd  the  hard  toil. 

The  unthankful,  the  curse-laden  toil  of  weapons, 

With  faithful  indefatigable  arm 

Have  roll'd  the  heavy  war-load  up  the  hill. 

Behold  !  this  boy  of  the  Emperor's  bears  away 

The  honors  of  the  peace,  an  easy  prize ! 

He  '11  weave,  forsooth,  into  his  flaxen  locks 

The  olive-branch,  the  hard-eam'd  ornament 

Of  this  gray  head,  grown  gray  beneath  the  helmet 

ANSPESSADE. 

That  shall  he  not,  while  we  can  hinder  it ! 

No  one,  but  thou,  who  hast  conducted  it 

With  fame,  shall  end  this  war,  tliis  frightful  war. 

Thou  ledd'st  us  out  into  the  bloody  field 

Of  death  ;  thou  and  no  other  shall  conduct  us  home, 

Rejoicing  to  the  lovely  plains  of  peace — 

Shalt  share  with  us  the  fruits  of  the  long  toil — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  ?  Think  you  then  at  length  in  late  old  age 
To  enjoy  the  fruits  of  toil  ?  Believe  it  not. 
Never,  no  never,  will  you  see  the  end 
Of  the  contest !  you  and  me,  and  all  of  us, 
This  war  will  swallow  up !  War,  war,  not  peace, 
Is  Austria's  wish  ;  and  therefore,  because  I 
Endeavor'd  after  peace,  therefore  I  fall. 
For  what  cares  Austria,  how  long  the  war 
Wears  out  the  armies  and  lays  waste  the  world  ? 
She  will  but  wax  and  grow  amid  the  ruin. 
And  still  win  new  domains. 

[The  Cuirassiers  express  agitation  hy  their  gestures. 
Ye 're  moved — I  see 
A  noble  rage  flash  from  your  eyes,  ye  warriors ' 
Oh  that  my  spirit  might  possess  you  now 
Daring  as  once  it  led  you  to  the  battle ! 
Ye  would  stand  by  me  with  your  veteran  arms 
Protect  me  in  my  rights  ;  and  this  is  noble ! 
But  think  not  that  you  can  accomplish  it. 
Your  scanty  number  !  to  no  purpose  will  you 
Have  sacrificed  you  for  your  General. 

[Confidentially 
No !  let  us  tread  securely,  seek  for  friends ! 
The  Swedes  have  proffer'd  us  assistance,  let  us 
Wear  for  a  while  tlie  appearance  of  good-will, 
And  use  them  for  your  profit,  till  we  both 
Carry  the  fate  of  Europe  in  our  hands. 
And  from  our  camp  to  the  glad  jubilant  world 
Lead  Peace  forth  with  the  garland  on  her  head ! 

ANSPESSADE. 

'Tis  then  but  mere  appearances  which  thou 
Dost  put  on  wirh  the  Swede  ?    Thou  'It  not  betray 

]88 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


179 


The  Emperor  ?   Wilt  not  turn  us  into  Swedes  ? 
This  is  the  only  thing  which  we  desire 
To  learn  from  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  care  I  for  the  Swedes  ? 
1  hale  them  as  I  hate  the  pit  of  hell, 
And  under  Providence  I  trust  right  soon 
To  chase  them  to  their  homes  across  the  Baltic. 
My  cares  are  only  for  the  whole :  I  have 
A  heart — it  bleeds  within  me  for  the  miseries 
And  piteous  groaning  of  my  fellow  Germans. 
Ye  are  but  common  men,  but  yet  ye  think 
With  minds  not  common ;  ye  appear  to  me 
Worthy  before  all  others,  that  I  whisper  ye 
A  little  word  or  two  in  confidence ! 
See  now  !  already  for  full  fifteen  years 
The  war-torch  has  continued  burning,  yet 
No  rest,  no  pause  of  conflict.    Swede  and  German, 
Papist  and  Lutheran !  neitlier  will  give  way 
To  the  other,  every  hand's  against  the  other. 
Each  one  is  party,  and  no  one  a  judge. 
Where  shall  this  end  ?  Where 's  he  that  will  unravel 
This  tangle,  ever  tangling  more  and  more. 
It  must  be  cut  asunder. 
I  feel  that  I  am  the  man  of  destiny. 
And  trust,  with  your  assistance,  to  accomplish  it. 


SCENE  IV. 


To  these  enter  Butler. 
BUTLER  (passionately). 
General !  this  is  not  right ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  is  not  right  ? 

BUTLER. 

It  must  needs  injure  us  with  all  hdnest  men.* 

WALLENSTEIN. 

But  what  ? 

BUTLER. 

It  is  an  open  proclamation 
Of  insurrection. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Well,  well — but  what  is  it  ? 

BUTLER, 

Count  Tertsky's  regiments  tear  the  Imperial  Eagle 
From  off  the  banners,  and  instead  of  it, 
have  rear'd  aloft  thy  arms. 

ANSPESSADE  (abruptly  to  the  Cuirassiers). 

Right  about !  March  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Cursed  be  this  counsel,  and  accursed  who  gave  it! 

[To  the  Cuirassiers,  who  are  retiring 
Halt,  children,  halt !   There 's  some  mistake  in  this ; 
Hark ! — I  will  punish  it  severely.    Stop ! 
They  do  not  hear.  (To  Illo).  Go  after  them,  assure 

them. 
And  bring  them  back  to  me,  cost  what  it  may. 

[Illo  hurries  out. 
This  hurls  us  headlong.    Butler !    Butler ! 
You  are  my  evil  genius :  wherefore  must  you 
Announce  it  in  their  presence  ?  It  was  all 
In  a  fair  way.    They  were  half  won,  those  madmen 
With  their  improvident  over-readiness — 
A  cruel  game  is  Fortune  playing  wth  me. 
The  zeal  of  friends  it  is  that  razes  me, 
And  not  the  hate  of  enemies 


SCENE  V. 

To  these  enter  the  Duchess,  who  rushes  into  the  Cham- 
ber.   TiiEKLA  and  the  Countess  follow  her. 


DUCHESS. 

O  Albrecht ! 
What  hast  thou  done  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

And  now  comes  this  beside. 

COUNTESS. 

Forgive  me,  brother !    It  was  not  in  my  power. 
They  know  all. 

DUCHESS. 

What  hast  thou  done  ? 

COUNTESS  (to  TeRTSKV). 

Is  there  no  hope  ?  Is  all  lost  utterly  ? 

TERTSKY. 

All  lost.    No  hope.    Prague  in  the  Emperor's  hands. 
The  soldiery  have  ta'en  their  oaths  anew. 

COUNTESS. 

That  lurking  hypocrite,  OctaN-io ! 
Count  Max.  is  off  too  1 

TERTSKY. 

Where  can  he  be?   He's 
Gone  over  to  the  Emperor  with  his  father. 

[Thekla  rushes  out  into  the  arms  of  her  mother, 
hiding  her  face  in  her  bosom. 

DUCHESS  (infolding  her  in  her  arms). 
Unhappy  child !  and  more  unhappy  mother  ! 

WALLENSTEIN  (aside  to  Tertskv). 
Quick  !    Let  a  carriage  stand  in  readiness 
In  the  court  behind  the  palace.    Scherfenberg 
Be  their  attendant ;  he  is  faithful  to  us  ; 
To  Egra  he  '11  conduct  them,  and  we  follow. 

[To  Illo,  who  returns^ 
Thou  hast  not  brought  them  back  ? 

ILLO. 

Hear'st  thou  the  uproar  ? 
The  whole  corps  of  the  Pappenheimers  is 
Drawn  out :  the  younger  Piccolomini, 
Their  colonel,  they  require :  for  they  affirm, 
That  he  is  in  the  palace  here,  a  prisoner  ; 
And  if  thou  dost  not  iastantly  deliver  him, 
They  will  find  means  to  free  him  with  the  sword. 

[All  stand  amazedJ 

TERTSKY. 

What  shall  we  make  of  this  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Said  I  not  so  ? 

0  my  prophetic  heart !  he  is  still  here. 

Ho  has  not  betray'd  me — he  could  not  betray  me. 

1  never  doubted  of  it. 

COUNTESS. 

If  he  be 
Still  here,  then  all  goes  well ;  for  I  know  what 

[Embracing  Thekl^i 
Will  keep  him  here  for  ever. 

TERTSKY. 

It  can't  be. 
His  father  has  belray'd  us,  is  gone  over 
To  the  Emperor — the  son  could  not  have  ventured' 
To  stay  beliind. 

THEKLA  (her  eye  fixed  vn  the  door). 
There  he  is ! 
25  189 


160 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


SCENE  VI. 
To  these  enter  Max.  Piccolomini. 

MAX. 

Yes !  here  he  is !  I  can  endure  no  longer 
To  creep  on  tiptoe  round  this  house,  and  lurk 
In  ambush  for  a  favorable  moment : 
Tliis  loitering,  this  suspense  exceeds  my  powers. 

[AdvanciTig  to  Thekla,  who  has  thrown  herself 
into  her  mother's  arms. 
Turn  not  thine  eyes  away.    O  look  upon  me  ! 
Confess  it  freely  before  all.    Fear  no  one. 
Let  who  will  hear  that  we  both  love  each  other. 
Wherefore  continue  to  conceal  it  ?  Secrecy 
Is  for  the  happy — misery,  hopeless  misery, 
Needeth  no  evil !    Beneath  a  thousand  sims 
It  dares  act  openly. 

[He  observes  the  Countess  looking  on  Tiiekla 
with  expressions  of  triumph. 
No,  Lady !    No ! 
Expect  not,  hope  it  not.     I  am  not  come 
To  stay  :  to  bid  farewell,  farewell  for  ever. 
For  this  I  come  !  'Tis  over!  I  must  leave  thee  ! 
Thekla,  I  must — must  leave  thee !    Yet  thy  hatred 
Let  me  not  take  with  me.    I  pray  thee,  grant  me 
One  look  of  sympathy,  only  one  look. 
Say  that  thou  dost  not  hate  me.  Say  it  to  rue,  Thekla ! 

[Grasps  her  hand. 
■  O  God !  I  cannot  leave  this  spot — I  cannot ! 
Cannot  let  go  this  hand.    O  tell  me,  Thekla  ! 
That  thou  dost  suffer  with  me,  art  convinced 
That  I  can  not  act  otherwise. 

[Thekla,  avoiding  his  look,  points  with  her  hand 
to  her  father.  Max.  turns  rou7id  (o  the  Duke, 
whom  he  had  not  till  then  perceived. 
Thou  here  ?   It  was  not  thou,  whom  here  I  sought. 
I  trusted  never  more  to  have  beheld  thee. 
My  business  is  with  her  alone.    Here  will  I 
Receive  a  full  acquittal  from  this  heart — 
For  any  other  I  am  no  more  concern'd. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Think'st  thou,  that,  fool-like,  I  shall  let  thee  go. 
And  act  the  mock-magnanimous  with  thee  ? 
Thy  father  is  become  a  villain  to  me  ; 
I  hold  thee  for  his  son,  and  nothing  more  : 
Nor  to  no  purpose  shall  thou  have  been  given 
Into  my  power.    Think  not,  that  I  will  honor 
That  ancient  love,  which  so  remorselessly 
He  mangled.    They  are  now  past  bj',  those  hours 
Of  friendship  and  forgiveness.    Hate  and  vengeance 
Succeed — 't  is  now  their  turn — I  too  can  tlirow 
All  feelings  of  the  man  aside — can  prove 
Myself  as  much  a  monster  as  thy  father ! 

MAX.  {calmly). 

Thou  wilt  proceed  with  me,  as  thou  hast  power. 

Thou  know'st,  I  neither  brave  nor  fear  thy  rage. 

What  has  detain'd  me  here,  Uiat  too  thou  know'st. 

[Taking  Thekla  hy  the  hand. 
■  See,  Duke !  All — all  would  I  have  owed  to  thee. 

Would  have  received  from  thy  paternal  hand 
'  The  lot  of  blessed  spirits.     This  hast  thou 

Laid  waste  for  ever — that  concerns  not  thee. 

Indifferent  thou  tramplest  in  the  dust 

Their  happiness,  who  most  are  thine.    The  god 

Whom  thou  dost  serve,  is  no  benignant  deity. 


Like  as  the  blind  irreconcilable 

Fierce  element,  incapable  of  compact. 

Thy  heart's  wild  impulse  only  dost  thou  follow.* 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Tliou  art  describing  thy  own  father's  heart. 

The  adder !  O,  the  charms  of  hell  o'erpower'd  msi. 

He  dwelt  within  me,  to  my  inmost  soul 

Still  to  and  fro  he  pass'd,  suspected  never  I 

On  the  wide  ocean,  in  the  starry  heaven 

Did  mine  eyes  seek  the  enemy,  whom  I 

In  my  heart's  heart  had  folded !    Had  I  been 

To  Ferdinand  what  Octavio  was  to  me, 

War  had  I  ne'er  denounced  against  him.     No, 

I  never  could  have  done  it.    TThe  Emperor  was 

My  austere  master  only,  not  my  friend. 

There  was  already  war  'twixt  him  and  me 

When  he  deliver'd  the  Commander's  Staff 

Into  my  hands ;  for  there 's  a  natural 

Unceasing  war  'twixt  cunning  and  suspicion  ; 

Peace  exists  only  betwixt  confidence 

And  faith.     Who  poisons  confidence,  he  murders 

The  future  generations. 

MAX. 

I  will  not 

Defend  my  father.    Woe  is  me,  I  cannot ! 
Hard  deeds  and  luckless  have  ta'en  place ;  one  crime 
Drags  after  it  the  other  in  close  link. 


*  I  have  here  ventured  to  omit  a  considerable  number  of 
hnes.  I  fear  that  I  should  not  have  done  amiss,  had  I  taken 
this  liberty  more  frequently.  It  is,  however,  incumbent  on  me 
to  give  the  original  with  a  literal  translation. 

Weh  denen,  die  auf  Dich  vertraun,  an  Dich 
Die  sichre  HUtte  ihres  GlUckes  lehnen, 
Gelockt  von  Deiner  geistlichen  Gestalt, 
Schnell  unverhoftl,  bei  neechtlich  stdler  Weile 
Ga;hrts  in  dem  tiickschen  Feuerschlunde,  ladet 
Sfth  aus  mit  tobendcr  Gewalt,  und  weg 
Treibt  iiber  alle  Pflanzungen  der  Menschen 
Der  wilde  Strom  in  grausender  Zerstoerung. 

WALLENSTEIN. 
Du  schilderst  Deines  Vaters  Herz.    Wie  Du's 
Beschreibst,  so  ist's  in  seinem  Eingeweide, 
In  dieser  schwarzen  Heuchlers  Brust  gestaltet. 
O,  mich  hat  Ha?llenkunst  getsuscht  I    Mir  sandte 
Der  Abgrund  den  verfJecktesten  der  Geister, 
Den  Liigenkundigsten  herauf,  und  stelll'  ihn 
Als  Freund  an  meine  Seite.    Wer  vermag 
Der  Hoelle  Macht  zu  widerstehn  !    Ich  zog 
Den  Basilisken  auf  an  meinem  Busen, 
Mit  meinem  Herzblut  naehrt  ich  ihn,  er  sog 
Sich  so.hwelgend  voU  an  meioer  Liebe  Briisten, 
Ich  hatte  nimmer  Arges  gegen  ihn, 
Weit  oti'en  liess  ich  dcs  Gedankens  There, 
Und  warf  die  Schliissel  weiser  Vorsicht  weg. 
Am  Sternenhimmel,  etc. 

LITERAL  TRANSLATION. 
Alas !  for  those  who  place  their  confidence  on  thee,  againsi 
thee  lean  the  secure  hut  of  their  fortune,  allured  by  thy  hos- 
pitable form.  Suddenly,  unexpectedly,  in  a  moment  still  as 
night,  there  is  a  fermentation  in  the  treacherous  gulf  of  fire;  it 
discharges  itself  with  raging  force,  and  away  over  all  the  plan- 
tations of  men  drives  the  wild  stream  in  frightful  devastation. 
Wallcnstein.  Thou  art  portraying  thy  father's  heart;  as  thou 
describest,  even  so  is  it  shaped  in  his  entrails,  in  this  black  hypo- 
crite's breast.  O,  the  art  of  hell  has  deceived  me!  The  Abyss 
sent  up  to  me  the  most  spotted  of  the  spirits,  the  most  skilful  in 
lies,  and  placed  him  as  a  friend  by  my  side.  Who  may  with 
stand  the  power  of  hull  7  I  took  the  basilisk  to  my  bosom,  with 
my  heart's  blood  I  nourish'd  him  ;  he  sucked  himself  glutful  at 
the  breasts  of  my  love.  I  never  harbored  evil  towards  him  ; 
wide  open  did  I  leave  the  door  of  my  thoughts  ;  I  threw  away 
the  key  of  wise  foresight.  In  the  starry  heaven,  etc. — We  find 
a  difficulty  in  believing  this  to  have  been  written  by  Schiller. 
190 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


i8i 


But  we  are  innocent:  how  have  we  fallen 

Into  this  circle  of  mishap  and  guilt  ? 

To  whom  have  we  been  faithless  ?  Wherefore  must 

The  evil  deeds  and  guilt  reciprocal 

Of  our  two  fathers  twine  hke  serpents  round  us  ? 

Why  must  our  fathers' 
Unconquerable  hate  rend  us  asunder 
Who  love  each  other  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Max.,  remain  with  me. 
Go  you  not  from  me,  Max. !  Hark !  I  w  ill  tell  thee — 
How  when  at  Prague,  our  winter-quarters,  thou 
Wert  brought  into  my  tent  a  tender  boy, 
Not  yet  accustom'd  to  the  German  winters ; 
Thy  hand  was  frozen  to  the  heavy  colors ; 
Thou  wouldst  not  let  them  go. — 
At  that  time  did  I  take  thee  in  ray  arms, 
And  with  my  mantle  did  I  cover  thee ; 
I  was  thy  nurse,  no  woman  could  have  been 
A  kinder  to  thee ;  I  was  not  ashamed 
To  do  for  thee  all  little  offices, 
Hovi'ever  strange  to  me  ;  I  tended  thee 
Till  life  return'd ;  and  when  thine  eyes  first  open'd, 
1  had  thee  in  my  arms.    Since  then,  when  have  I 
Alter'd  my  feelings  towards  thee  ?  Many  thousands 
Have  I  made  rich,  presented  them  with  lands; 
Rewarded  them  with  dignities  and  honors  ; 
Thee  have  I  loved :  my  heart,  myself,  I  gave 
To  thee !  They  all  were  aliens :  thou  wert 
Our  child  and  inmate.*  Max. !  Thou  canst  not  leave 

me; 
It  can  not  be ;  I  may  not,  will  not  think 
That  Max.  can  leave  me. 

MAX. 

O  my  God ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  have 
Held  and  sustain'd  thee  from  thy  tottering  chUdhood. 
What  holy  bond  is  there  of  natural  love  ? 
AVliat  human  tie,  that  does  not  knit  thee  to  me  ? 
I  love  thee.  Max. !  What  did  thy  father  for  thee, 
Which  I  too  have  not  done,  to  the  height  of  duty  ? 
Go  hence,  forsake  me,  serve  thy  Emperor ; 
He  will  reward  thee  with  a  pretty  chain 
Of  gold ;  with  his  ram's  fleece  will  he  reward  thee ; 
For  that  the  friend,  the  father  of  thy  youth. 
For  that  the  holiest  feeling  of  humanity, 
Was  nothing  worth  to  thee. 

MAX. 

O  God  !  how  can  I 
Do  otherwise  ?  Am  I  not  forced  to  do  it. 
My  oath — my  duty — honor — 

WALLE.VSTEIN. 

How  ?  Thy  duty  ? 
Duty  to  whom  ?  Who  art  thou  ?  Max. !  bethink  thee 
What  duties  mayst  thou  have  ?  If  I  am  acting 
A  criminal  part  toward  the  Emperor, 
It  is  my  crime,  not  thine.    Dost  thou  belong 
To  thine  own  self?  Art  thou  thine  owti  commander? 
Stand'st  thou,  like  me,  a  freeman  in  the  world, 
Tha   in  thy  actions  thou  shouldst  plead  free  agency? 


*  >'  lis  is  a  poor  and  inadequate  translation  of  the  affectionate 
simo  .city  of  the  original — 

Sie  alle  waren  Fremdlingc,  Du  warst 
Das  Kind  des  Hauses. 
Indeed  the  whole  speech  is  in  the  best  style  of  Massinger.  O 
ei  Bic  omnia ! 


On  me  thou'rt  planted,  I  am  thy  Emperor; 

To  obey  me,  to  belong  to  uic,  this  is 

Thy  honor,  this  a  law  of  nature  to  thee  I 

And  if  the  planet,  on  tiie  which  thou  livest 

And  hast  thy  dwelling,  from  its  orbit  starts. 

It  is  not  in  thy  choice,  whether  or  no 

Thou 'It  follow  it,    Unfelt  it  whirls  thee  onward 

Together  with  his  ring  and  all  his  moons. 

With  little  guilt  stepp"st  thou  into  this  contest , 

Thee  will  the  world  not  censure,  it  will  praise  thee. 

For  that  thou  held'st  thy  friend  more  worth  to  thee 

Than  names  and  influences  more  removed. 

For  justice  is  the  virtue  of  the  ruler, 

Affection  and  fidelity  the  subject's. 

Not  every  one  doth  it  beseem  to  question 

The  far-off  high  Arcturus.  Most  securely 

Wilt  thou  pursue  the  nearest  duty — let 

The  pilot  fix  his  eye  upon  tlie  pole-star. 


SCENE  VII. 
To  these  enter  Newma.\n. 

WALLENSTEIN. 


What  now  ? 


NEWMANN. 

The  Pappenheimers  are  dismounted, 
And  are  advancing  now  on  foot,  determined 
With  sword  in  hand  to  storm  the  house,  and  free 
The  Count,  their  colonel. 

WALLENSTEIN  (to  TeRTSKY). 

Have  the  cannon  planted. 
I  will  receive  them  with  chain-shot. 

[Exit  Tertsky 
Prescribe  to  me  with  sword  in  hand !  Go,  Neumann ! 
'T  is  my  command  that  they  retreat  this  moment. 
And  in  their  ranks  in  silence  wait  my  pleasure. 

[Neumann  exit.   Illo  steps  to  the  window 
countess. 
Let  him  go,  I  entreat  thee,  let  him  go. 

iLLo  {fit  the  window). 
Hell  and  perdition! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  is  it? 

ILLO. 

They  scale  the  council-house,  the  roof's  uncover'd : 
They  level  at  this  house  the  carmon 

MAX. 

Madmen 

ILLO. 

They  are  making  preparations  now  to  fire  on  us. 

DUCHESS  AND  COUNTESS. 

Merciful  Heaven ! 

MAX  {to  WaLLENSTEIX). 

Let  me  go  to  them  I 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Not  a  step! 
MAX.  {pointing  to  Thekla  and  the  Duchess). 
But  their  life  !  Thine ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  tidings  bring'st  thou,  Tertsky ' 


SCENE  VIII. 
To  Viese  Tertsky  (returning). 

TERTSKY. 

Message  and  greeting  from  our  faithful  regiments 
Their  ardor  may  no  longer  be  curb'd  in. 

191 


183 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


They  entreat  pennission  to  commence  the  attack, 
And  if  thou  wouldst  but  give  the  word  of  onset, 
They  could  now  charge  the  enemy  in  rear. 
Into  the  city  wedge  them,  and  with  ease 
O'erpower  them  in  the  narrow  streets. 

ILLO. 

O  come ! 
Let  not  their  ardor  cool.    The  soldiery 
Of  Butler's  corps  stand  by  us  faithfully ; 
We  are  the  greater  number.    Let  us  charge  them, 
And  finish  here  in  Pilsen  the  revolt. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  ?  shall  this  town  become  a  field  of  slaughter, 

And  brother-killing  Discord,  fire-eyed, 

Be  let  loose  through  its  streets  to  roam  and  rage  ? 

Shall  the  decision  be  deliver'd  over 

To  deaf  remorseless  Rage,  that  hears  no  leader  ? 

Here  is  not  room  for  battle,  only  for  butchery. 

Well,  let  it  be !  I  have  long  thought  of  it, 

So  let  it  burst  then ! 

[Turns  to  Max. 
Well,  how  is  it  with  thee  ? 
Wilt  thou  attempt  a  heat  with  me.    Away ! 
Thou  art  free  to  go.    Oppose  thyself  to  me, 
Front  against  front,  and  lead  them  to  the  battle  ; 
Thou'rt  skilled  in  war,  thou  hast  learn'd  somewhat 

vuider  me, 
I  need  not  be  ashamed  of  my  opponent. 
And  never  hadst  thou  fairer  opportunity 
To  pay  me  for  thy  schooling. 

COUNTESS. 

Is  it  then. 
Can  it  have  come  to  this  ? — What !  Cousin,  cousin ! 
Have  you  the  heart  ? 

V  MAX. 

The  regiments  that  are  trusted  to  my  care 

I  have  pledged  my  troth  to  bring  away  from  Pilsen 

True  to  the  Emperor,  and  this  promise  will  I 

Make  good,  or  perish.    More  than  this  no  duty 

Requires  of  me.    I  will  not  fight  against  thee, 

Unless  compell'd ;  for  though  an  enemy. 

Thy  head  is  holy  to  me  slill. 

[Two  reports  of  cayman.  Illo  aiid  Tertsky  hurry 
to  the  window. 


WALLENSTEIN. 


What's  that? 


He  falls. 


WALLENSTELV. 

Falls!  who? 


Discharged  the  ordnance. 


Tiefenbach's  corps 


WALLENSTEIN. 

Upon  whom? 

ILLO. 

On  Neumann, 


Your  messenger. 


WALLENSTEIN  {starling  vp). 

Ha !  Death  and  Hell !  I  will- 

TERTSKY. 

Expose  thyself  to  their  blind  frenzy  ? 
vv CHESS  and  countess. 


No! 


For  God's  sake,  no ! 


ILLO. 

Not  yet,  my  General ! 
countess. 
0,  hold  him !  hold  him ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Leave  me 

MAX. 

Do  it  not ; 
Nor  yet !  This  rash  and  bloody  deed  has  thrown  them 
Into  a  frenzy-fit — allow  them  time 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Away !  too  long  already  have  I  loiter'd. 
They  are  embolden'd  to  these  outrages. 
Beholding  not  my  face.    They  shall  behold 

My  countenance,  shall  hear  my  voice 

Are  they  not  my  troops  ?  Am  I  not  their  General, 
And  their  long-fear'd  commander!  Let  rae  see. 
Whether  indeed  they  do  no  longer  know 
That  countenance,  which  was  their  sim  in  battle ! 
From  the  balcony  (mark !)  I  show  myself 
To  these  rebellious  forces,  and  at  once 
Revolt  is  mounded,  and  the  high-swoln  current 
Shrinks  back  into  the  old  bed  of  obedience. 
[Exit  WALLENSTEIN :  Illo,  Tertsky,  and  Butler 
follow. 


SCENE  IX. 


Countess,  Duchess,  Max.  and  Thekla. 

COUNTESS  [to  the  Duchess). 
Let  them  but  see  him — there  is  hope  still,  sister. 

duchess. 
Hope !  I  have  none ! 

MAX.  {wJio  during  the  last  scene  has  been  standing  at 
distance  in  a  visible  struggle  of  feelings,  advances,). 
Tliis  can  I  not  endure. 
With  most  determined  soul  did  I  come  hither. 
My  purposed  action  seem'd  vmblamable 
To  my  own  conscience — and  I  must  stand  here 
Like  one  abhorr'd,  a  hard  inhuman  being; 
Yea,  loaded  with  the  curse  of  all  I  love ! 
Must  see  all  whom  I  love  in  this  sore  anguish, 
Whom  I  with  one  word  can  make  happy — O ! 
My  heart  revolts  within  me,  and  two  voices 
Make  themselves  audible  within  my  bosom. 
My  soul 's  benighted ;  I  no  longer  can 
Distinguish  the  right  track      O,  well  and  truly 
Didst  thou  say,  father,  I  rehed  too  much 
On  my  own  heart.    My  mind  moves  to  and  fro — 
I  know  not  what  to  do. 

COUNTESS. 

What !  you  know  not  ? 
Does  not  your  own  heart  tell  you  ?  O !  then  I 
Will  tell  it  you.    Your  father  is  a  traitor, 
A  frightful  traitor  to  us — he  has  plotted 
Against  our  General's  life,  has  plunged  us  all 
In  misery — and  you're  his  son!  'Tis  your's 
To  make  the  amends — Make  you  the  son's  fidelity 
Outweigh  the  father's  treason,  that  the  name 
Of  Piccolomini  be  not  a  proverb 
Of  infamy,  a  common  form  of  cursing 
To  the  posterity  of  Wallenstein. 

MAX. 

Where  is  that  voice  of  truth  which  I  dare  follow  ? 
It  speaks  no  longer  in  mi/  heart.    We  all 
But  utter  what  our  passionate  wishes  dictate  • 

192 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


183 


O  that  an  angel  would  descend  from  Heaven, 
And  scoop  for  me  the  right,  the  uucorrupted, 
With  a  pure  Imnd  from  the  pure  Fount  of  Light, 

[His  ei/cs  glance  on  Thekla. 
What  other  angel  seek  I '.    To  this  heart, 
To  tills  unerring  heart,  will  I  siilimit  it ; 
Will  ask  thy  love,  which  has  the  power  to  bless 
The  happy  man  alone,  averted  ever 
From  the  disquieted  and  guilty — canst  thou 
Still  love  me,  if  I  stay  ?  Say  that  thou  canst, 
And  I  am  the  Duke's 

COUNTESS. 

Think,  niece 


Tliink  nothing,  Thekla ! 


Speak  what  ihon  feelest. 


COUNTESS. 

Think  upon  your  father. 

MAX. 

I  did  not  question  thee,  as  Friedland's  daughter. 

Thee,  the  beloved  and  the  unerring  god 

Within  thy  heart,  I  question.    What 's  at  stake  ? 

Kot  whether  diadem  of  royalty 

Be  to  be  won  or  not — that  might'st  thou  think  on. 

Thy  friend,  and  his  soul's  quiet,  are  at  stake  ; 

The  fortune  of  a  thousand  gallant  men, 

V\'Tio  will  all  Ibllovv  me ;  shall  I  forswear 

My  oath  and  duty  to  the  Emperor? 

Say,  shall  I  send  into  Octavio's  camp 

The  parricidal  ball  I  For  when  the  ball 

Has  left  its  cannon,  and  is  on  its  flight. 

It  is  no  longer  a  dead  instrument! 

It  lives,  a  spirit  passes  into  it. 

The  avenging  furies  seize  possession  of  it. 

And  with  sure  malice  guide  it  tlie  worst  way. 

THEKLA. 

0!  Max. 

MAX.  (internipting  her). 

Nay,  not  precipitately  either,  Tliekla. 
I  understand  thee.    To  thy  noble  heart 
The  hardest  duty  might  appear  the  highest. 
The  human,  not  the  great  part,  would  I  act. 
Even  from  my  childhood  to  this  present  hoiuv 
Think  what  the  Duke  has  done  for  me,  how  loved  me, 
And  think  too,  how  my  father  has  repaid  liim. 
O  likewise  the  free  lovely  impulses 
Of.  hospitality,  the  pious  friend's 
Faithful  attachment,  these  too  are  a  holy 
Religion  to  the  heart ;  and  heavily 
Tlie  shudderings  of  nature  do  avenge 
Themselves  on  the  barbarian  that  insults  them. 
Lay  all  upion  the  balance,  all — then  speak. 
And  let  thy  heart  decide  it. 

THEKLA. 

O,  thy  own 
Hath  long  ago  decided.    Follow  thou 
Thy  heart's  first  feeling 

COUNTESS. 

Oh !  ill-fated  woman ! 

THEKLA. 

Is  it.  possible,  that  that  can  be  the  right. 
The  which  thy  tender  heart  did  not  at  first 
Detect  and  seize  with  instant  impulse  ?  Go, 
Fulfil  thy  duty !   I  should  ever  love  thee. 
'Whate'er  thou  hadst  chosen,  thou  wouldst  still  have 
acted 


Nobly  and  worthy  of  thee — but  repentance 
Shall  ne'er  disturb  thy  soul's  lair  peace. 


Then  I 


Must  leave  thee,  must  part  from  thee ! 


Being  faithful 

To  thine  own  self,  thou  art  faithful  too  to  me : 

If  our  fates  part,  our  hearts  remain  tiniled. 

A  bloody  haired  will  divide  for  ever 

The  houses  Piccolomini  and  Friedland  ; 

But  we  belong  not  to  our  hou.ses — Go ! 

Quick !  quick !  and  separate  thy  righteous  cause 

From  our  unholy  and  unblessed  one ! 

The  curse  of  Heaven  lies  upon  our  head: 

'Tis  dedicate  to  ruin.    Even  me 

My  father's  guilt  drags  with  it  to  perdition. 

Mourn  not  for  me  : 

My  destiny  will  quickly  be  decided. 

[Max.  clasps  her  in  his  arms  in  extreme  emotion. 
There  is  heard  from  behind  the  Scene  a  loud, 
wild,  long-continued  cry,  Vivat  Ferdinan- 
Dus,  accompanied  by  warlike  Instruments. 
Max  and  Thekla  remain  without  motion 
in  each  other's  embraces. 


SCENE  X. 
To  these  enter  Tertsky. 
COUNTESS  (meeting  him). 
What  meant  that  cry  ?  What  was  it ! 

TERTSKY. 

All  is  lost ! 

COUNTESS. 

What !  they  regarded  not  his  countenance  ? 

TERTSKY. 

'Twas  all  in  vain. 

DUCHESS. 

They  shouted  Vivat ! 

TERTSKY. 

To  the  Emperor 

COUNTESS. 

The  traitors ! 

TERTSKY. 

Nay !  he  was  not  once  permitted 
Even  to  address  them.    Soon  as  he  began, 
With  deafening  noise  of  warlike  instruments 
They  drown'd  his  words.     But  here  he  comes. 


SCENE  XI. 


To  these  enter  Wallenstein,  accompanied  by  Illo 
and  Butler. 

wallensteln  [OS  he  enters). 

Tertsky ! 

TERTSKY. 

My  General  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Let  our  regiments  hold  themselves 
In  readiness  to  march ;  for  we  shall  leave 
Pilsen  ere  evening.  [Exit  Tertskv. 

Butler! 


butler. 


Yes  my  General. 


184 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


WALLENSTEIN. 

Tlie  Governor  at  Egra  is  your  friend 
And  countryman.     Write  to  him  instantly 
By  a  post-courier.    He  must  be  advised, 
That  we  are  with  him  early  on  the  morrow. 
You  follow  us  yourself,  your  regiment  with  you. 

BUTLER. 

It  shall  be  done,  my  General ! 

Wallenstein  (steps  between  Max.  and  Thekla,  w7io 

have  remained  during  this  time  in  each  other's 

arms). 

Part! 

MAX. 

OGod! 

[Cuirassiers  enter  with  drawn  swords,  and  assemble  in 
the  back-ground.  At  the  same  time  there  are  heard 
from  below  some  spirited  passages  out  of  the  Pap- 
penheim  March,  which  seem  to  address  Max. 
WALLENSTEIN  (to  the  Cuirassicrs). 
Here  he  is,  he  is  at  liberty :  I  keep  him 
No  longer. 

[He  turns  away,  and  stands  so  that  Max.  cannot 
pass  by  him  nor  approach  the  Princess. 

MAX. 

Thou  know'st  that  I  have  not  yet  learnt  to  live 
Without  thee  !  I  go  forth  into  a  desert, 
Leaving  my  all  behind  me.    O  do  not  turn 
Thine  eyes  away  from  me  !  O  once  more  show  me 
Thy  ever  dear  and  honor'd  countenance. 

[Max.  attempts  to  take  his  hand,  but  is  repelled; 
he  turns  to  the  Countess. 
Is  there  no  eye  that  has  a  look  of  pity  for  me  ? 

[The  Countess  tur7is  away  from  him ;  he  turns 
to  the  Duchess. 
My  mother' 

duchess. 
Go  where  duty  calls  you.     Haply 
The  time  may  come,  when  you  may  prove  to  us 
A  true  friend,  a  good  angel  at  the  throne 
Of  the  Emperor. 

max. 
You  give  me  hope  ;  you  would  not 
Suffer  me  wholly  to  despair.    No  !  no  ! 
Mine  is  a  certain  misery — Thanks  to  Heaven 
That  offers  me  a  means  of  ending  it. 

[Tlte  military  music  begins  again.   The  stage  f  lis 
more  and  more  with  armed  men.    Max.  sees 
Butler,  ojuI  addresses  him. 
And  you  here,  Colonel  Butler — and  will  you 
IVot  follow  me  ?    Well,  then  !  remain  more  faithful 
To  your  new  lord,  than  you  have  proved  yourself 
To  the  Emperor.    Come,  Butler !  promise  me, 
Give  me  your  hand  upon  it,  that  you  '11  be 
The  guardian  of  his  life,  its  sliield,  its  watchman. 
He  is  attainted,  and  his  princely  head 
Fair  booty  for  each  slave  that  trades  in  murder. 
Now  he  doth  need  the  failliful  eye  of  friendship, 
And  those  whom  here  I  see — 

[Casting  suspicious  looks  on  Illo  and  Butler. 


Go — seek  for  traitors 
In  Galas',  in  your  father's  quarters.    Here 
Is  only  one.    Away  !  away  !  and  free  us 
From  his  detested  sight !  Away .' 

[Max.  attempts  once  more  to  approach  Thekla. 
wallenstein  jjrevents  him.    Max.  stands 


irresolute,  and  in  apparent  anguish.  In  the 
mean  time  the  stage  f  lis  more  and  more; and 
the  horns  sound  from  below  louder  a?ui 
louder,  aivl  each  time  after  a  shorter  inter- 
val. 

max. 
Blow,  blow !  O  were  it  but  the  Swedish  trumpets, 
And  all  the  naked  swords,  which  I  see  here. 
Were  plunged  into  my  breast !   Wliat  purpose  you  ? 
You  come  to  tear  me  from  this  place !   Beware, 
Ye  drive  me  not  to  desperation. — Do  it  not ! 
Ye  may  repent  it ! 

[The  stage  is  entirely  filed  ivith  armed  men 
Yet  more !  weight  upon  weight  to  drag  me  dowTi ! 
Think  what  ye're  doing.    It  is  not  well  done 
To  choose  a  man  despairing  for  your  leader; 
You  tear  me  from  my  happiness.    Well,  then, 
I  dedicate  your  souls  to  vengeance.    Mark ! 
For  your  own  ruin  you  have  chosen  me  : 
Who  goes  with  me,  must  be  prepared  to  perish. 

[He  turns  to  the  back-ground,  there  ensues  a  sud 
den  and  violent  movement  among  the  Cuiras 
siers;  they  surround  him,  and  carry  him  off 
in  wild  tumult.  Wallenstein  remains  im- 
movable. Thekla  sinks  into  her  mother's 
arms.  Tlie  curtain  falls.  Tlie  music  be- 
cotnes  loud  aiul  overpowering,  and  passes 
into  a  complete  war-march — the  orchestra 
joins  it — arid  continues  during  the  iiUerval 
between  the  second  and  third  Acts. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. 
Scene — The  Burgomaster's  House  at  Egra. 
butler  (just  arrived). 
Here  then  he  is,  by  his  destiny  conducted. 
Here,  Friedland  I  and  no  farther!  From  Bohemia 
Thy  meteor  rose,  traversed  the  sky  awhile, 
And  here  upon  the  borders  of  Bohemia 
Must  sink. 

Thou  hast  forsworn  the  ancient  colors, 
Blind  man !  yet  trustest  to  thy  ancient  fortunes. 
Profaner  of  the  altar  and  the  hearth. 
Against  thy  Emperor  and  fellow-citizens 
Thou  mean'st  to  wage  the  war.  Friedland,  beware- 
The  evil  spirit  of  revenge  impels  thee — 
Beware  thou,  that  revenge  destroy  thee  not ! 


SCENE  II. 
Butler  and  Gordon. 


GORDON. 

Is  it  you  ? 
How  my  heart  sinks !  The  Duke  a  fugitive  traitor ! 
His  princely  head  attainted  !  O  my  God ! 

butler. 
You  have  received  the  letter  which  I  sent  you 
By  a  post-courier? 

GORDON. 

Yes  :  and  in  obedience  to  it 
Open'd  the  strong-hold  to  him  without  scruple. 
For  an  imperial  letter  orders  me 
To  follow  your  commands  implicitly. 
But  yet  forgive  me  ;  when  even  now  I  saw 
194 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


185 


Tlie  Duke  hiniself,  my  scruples  recommenced. 
For  truly,  not  like  an  attainted  man, 
Into  this  town  did  Friedland  make  his  entrance ; 
His  wonted  majesty  beam'd  from  liis  brow, 
And  calm,  as  iji  the  days  when  all  was  right, 
Did  he  receive  from  me  the  accounts  of  odice. 
"Tis  said,  that  fallen  pride  learns  condescension: 
But  sparing  and  with  dignity  the  Duke 
Weigh'd  every  syllable  of  approbation, 
As  masters  praise  a  servant  who  has  done 
His  duty,  and  no  more. 

BUTLER. 

'Tis  all  precisely 
As  I  related  in  my  letter.    Friedland 
Has  sold  the  army  to  the  enemy. 
And  pledged  liimself  to  give  up  Prague  and  Egra. 
On  this  report  the  regiments  all  forsook  him, 
The  five  excepted  that  belong  to  Tertsky, 
And  which  have  follow'd  him,  as  thou  hast  seen. 
The  sentence  of  attainder  is  pa.ss'd  on  him, 
And  every  loyal  subject  is  required 
To  give  him  in  to  justice,  dead  or  living. 

G0RD0.\. 

A  traitor  to  the  Emperor — Such  a  noble ! 

Of  such  high  talents !  ^\^lat  is  human  greatness  ? 

I  often  said,  this  can't  end  happily. 

His  might-  his  greatness,  and  this  obscure  power 

Are  but  a  cover'd  pit-fall.    The  human  being 

May  not  be  trusted  to  self-government. 

The  clear  and  written  law,  the  deep-trod  foot-marks 

Of  ancient  custom,  are  all  necessary 

To  keep  him  in  the  road  of  faith  and  duty. 

The  authority  intrusted  to  this  man 

Was  unexampled  and  unnatural. 

It  placed  him  on  a  level  with  his  Emperor, 

Till  the  proud  soul  unleam'd  submission.  Woe  is  me ; 

I  mourn  for  him !  for  where  he  fell,  I  deem 

Might  none  stand  firm.    Alas  !  dear  General, 

We  in  our  lucky  mediocrity 

Have  ne'er  experienced,  cannot  calculate, 

WTiat  dangerous  wishes  such  a  height  may  breed 

In  the  heart  of  such  a  man. 

BUTLER. 

Spare  your  laments 
Till  he  need  sympathy ;  for  at  this  present 
He  is  still  mighty,  and  still  formidable. 
The  Swedes  advance  to  Egra  by  forced  marches. 
And  quickly  will  the  junction  be  accomplish'd. 
This  must  not  be  I  The  Duke  must  never  leave 
This  strong-hold  on  free  footing ;  for  I  have 
Pledged  life  and  honor  here  to  hold  him  prisoner, 
And  your  assistance  'tis  on  which  I  calculate. 

GORDON. 

O  that  I  had  not  lived  to  see  this  day ! 
From  his  hand  I  received  this  dignity. 
He  did  himself  intrust  liiis  strong-hold  to  me. 
Which  I  am  now  required  to  make  his  dungeon. 
We  subalterns  have  no  will  of  our  own  : 
The  free,  the  mighty  man  alone  may  listen 
To  the  fair  impulse  of  his  human  nature. 
Ah !  we  are  but  the  poor  tools  of  the  law, 
Obedience  the  sole  virtue  we  dare  aim  at ! 

BUTLER. 

Nay !  let  it  not  afflict  you,  that  your  power 
Is  circumscribed.    Much  liberty,  much  error  I 
I'he  narrow  path  of  duty  is  securest 


GORDON. 

And  all  then  have  deserted  him,  you  say  ? 
He  has  built  up  the  luOk  of  many  tiiousands; 
For  kingly  was  his  spirit :  his  full  hand 
Was  ever  open!  Many  a  one  from  dust 

[Wiih  a  slij  glance  on  Butler. 
Hath  he  selected,  from  the  very  dust 
Hath  raised  him  into  dignity  and  honor. 
And  yet  no  friend,  not  one  friend  hath  he  purchased 
Whose  heart  beats  true  to  him  in  the  evil  hour 

BUTLER. 

Here  's  one,  I  see. 

GORDON. 

I  have  cnjoy'd  from  him 
No  grace  or  favor.    I  could  almost  doubt. 
If  ever  in  his  greatness  he  once  thought  on 
An  old  friend  of  his  youth.    For  still  my  oflice 
Kept  me  at  distance  from  him  ;  and  when  first 
He  to  this  citadel  appointed  me. 
He  was  sincere  and  serious  in  his  duty. 
I  do  not  then  abuse  his  confidence, 
If  I  preserve  my  fealty  in  that 
Which  to  my  fealty  was  first  deliver'd 

BUTLER. 

Say,  then,  will  you  fulfil  the  attainder  on  him  ? 

GORDON  [pauses  reflecting — t/ien  as  m  deep  dcjeclion) 

If  it  be  so — if  all  be  as  you  say — 

If  he  've  betray'd  the  Emperor,  his  master, 

Have  sold  the  troops,  have  purposed  to  deliver 

The  strong-holds  of  the  country  to  the  enemy — 

Yea,  truly  I — there  is  no  redemption  for  him ! 

Yet  it  is  hard,  that  me  the  lot  should  destine 

To  be  the  instrument  of  his  perdition  ; 

For  we  were  pages  at  the  court  of  Bergau 

At  the  same  period  ;  but  I  was  the  senior. 

BUTLER. 

I  have  heard  so 

GORDON. 

'Tis  full  thirty  years  since  then. 
A  youth  who  scarce  had  seen  his  twentieth  year 
Was  Wallenstein,  when  he  and  I  were  friends : 
Yet  even  then  he  had  a  daring  soul : 
His  frame  of  mind  was  serious  and  severe 
Beyond  his  years :  his  dreams  were  of  great  objects 
He  walk'd  amidst  us  of  a  silent  spirit, 
Communing  with  himself;  yet  I  have  known  him 
Transported  on  a  sudden  into  utterance 
Of  strange  conceptions;  kindling  into  splendor 
His  soul  reveal'd  itself,  and  he  spake  so 
That  we  look'd  round  perplex'd  upon  each  other, 
Not  knowing  whether  it  were  craziness. 
Or  whether  it  were  a  god  that  spoke  in  him. 

BUTLER. 

But  was  it  where  ho  fell  two  story  high 

From  a  window-ledge,  on  w  hich  he  had  fallen  asleep 

And  rose  up  free  from  injury?  From  this  day 

(It  is  reported)  he  betray'd  clear  marks 

Of  a  distemper'd  fancy. 

GORDON. 

He  became 
Doubtless  more  self-enwrapl  and  melancholy ; 
He  made  himself  a  Catholic.    Marvellously 
His  marvellous  preservation  had  transform"d  him 
Thenceforth  he  held  himself  ibr  an  exempted 
And  privileged  being,  and,  as  if  he  were 
Incapable  of  dizziness  or  liill, 

195 


186 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


He  ran  alone  the  unsteady  rope  of  life. 

But  now  our  destinies  drove  us  asunder  ; 

He  paced  with  rapid  step  the  way  of  greatness, 

Was  Count,  and  Prince,  Duke-regent,  and  Dictator. 

And  now  is  all,  all  this  too  little  for  him ; 

He  stretches  forth  his  hands  for  a  king's  crown, 

And  plunges  in  unfathomable  ruin. 

BUTLER. 

IVo  more,  he  comes. 


SCENE  HI. 


To  these  enter  Wallenstein,  in  conversation  with  the 
Burgomaster  of  Egra. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

You  were  at  one  time  a  free  town.  I  see, 
Ye  bear  the  half  eagle  in  your  city  arms. 
Why  the  half  eagle  only  ? 

BURGOMASTER. 

We  were  free. 
But  for  these  last  two  hundred  yeare  has  Egra 
Remain'd  in  pledge  lo  tlie  Bohemian  crown  ; 
Therefore  we  bear  tlie  half  eagle,  the  other  half 
Being  cancell'd  till  the  empire  ransom  us, 
If  ever  that  should  be. 

wallenstein. 

Ye  merit  freedom. 
Only  be  firm  and  dauntless.    Lend  your  ears 
To  no  designing  whispering  court-minions. 
What  may  your  imposts  be  ? 

burgomaster. 

So  heavy  that 
We  totter  under  them.  The  garrison 
Lives  at  our  costs. 

wallenstein. 
I  will  relieve  you.    Tell  me. 
There  are  some  Protestants  among  you  still  ? 

[The  Burgomaster  hesitates. 
Yes,  yes  ;  I  know  it.    Many  lie  conceal'd 
Within  these  walls — Confess  now — you  yourself'— 

[Fixes  his  eye  on  him.   The  Burgomaster  alarmed. 
Be  not  alarm'd.    I  hate  the  Jesuits. 
Could  my  will  have  determined  it,  they  had 
Been  long  ago  expell'd  the  empire.    Trust  me — 
Mass-book  or  Bible — 'tis  all  one  to  me. 
Of  that  the  world  has  had  sufficient  proof 
I  built  a  church  for  the  reform'd  in  Glogau 
At  my  own  instance.    Harkye,  Burgomaster  ! 
What  is  your  name  ? 

burgomaster. 
Pachhalbel,  may  it  please  you. 

wallenstein. 

llarkye  ! 

But  let  it  go  no  further,  what  I  now 
Disclose  to  you  in  confidence. 

[Laying  his  hand  on  the  Burgomaster's  shoulder 
with  a  certain  solemnity. 

The  times 
Draw  near  to  their  fulfilment.  Burgomaster ! 
The  high  will  fall,  the  low  will  be  exalted. 
Harkye!  But  keep  it  to  yourself !  The  end 
Apjiroaches  of  the  Spanish  doable  monarchy — 
A  new  arrangement  is  at  hand.  You  saw 
'  The  three  moons  that  appear'd  at  once  in  the  Heaven 


burgomaster. 
With  wonder  and  affi'ight ! 

wallenstein. 

Whereof  did  two 
Strangely  transform  themselves  to  bloody  daggers, 
And  only  one,  the  middle  moon,  remain'd 
Steady  and  clear. 

burgomaster. 
We  applied  it  to  the  Turks. 

wallenstein. 
The  Turks  !  That  all"? — I  tell  you,  tliat  two  empires 
Will  set  in  blood,  in  the  East  and  in  the  West, 
And  Luth'ranism  alone  remain. 

[Observing  Gordon  and  Butler. 
r  faith, 
'T  was  a  smart  cannonading  that  we  heard 
This  evening,  as  we  journey "d  hitherward ; 
'T  was  on  our  left  hand.    Did  you  hear  it  here  1 

GORDON. 

Distinctly.  The  wind  brought  it  from  the  South. 

butler. 
Tt  seem'd  to  come  from  Weidcn  or  from  Neustadt. 

wallenstein. 
'Tis  likely.  That's  the  route  the  Swedes  are  taking. 
How  strong  is  the  garrison  ? 

GORDON. 

Not  quite  two  hundred 
Competent  men,  the  rest  are  invalids. 

wallenstein. 
Good  !  And  how  many  in  tlie  vale  of  Jochim. 

GORDON. 

Two  hundred  arquebusiers  have  I  sent  thither. 
To  fortify  the  posts  against  the  Swedes. 

wallenstein. 
Good  !  I  commend  your  foresight.  At  the  works  too 
You  have  done  somewhat  ? 

GORDON. 

Two  additional  batteries 
I  caused  to  be  run  up.    They  were  needed. 
The  Rhinegrave  presses  hard  upon  us.  General ! 

wallenstein. 
You  have  been  watchful  in  your  Emperor's  service 
I  am  content  with  you,  Lieutenant-Colonel. 

[To  Butler. 
Release  the  outposts  in  the  vale  of  Jochim 
With  all  the  stations  in  the  enemy's  route. 

[To  Gordon 
Governor,  in  your  faithful  hands  I  leave 
My  wife,  my  daughter,  and  my  sister.    I 
►Shall  make  no  stay  here,  and  wait  but  the  arrival 
Of  letters  to  take  leave  of  you,  together 
With  all  the  regiments. 


SCENE  IV. 
To  these  enter  Count  Tertsky. 

TERTSKY. 

Joy,  General ;  joy  !  I  bring  you  welcome  tidings. 

wallenstein. 
And  what  may  they  be  ? 

TERTSKY. 

There  has  been  an  engagement 
At  Neustadt ;  the  Swedes  gain'd  the  victory. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

From  whence  did  you  receive  the  intelligence  ? 

196 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


187 


TERTSKY. 

A  countryman  from  Tirschenseil  convey 'J  it. 
Soon  after  sunrise  did  the  fight  begin ! 
A  troop  of  the  Imperialists  i'vom  Fachau 
Had  forced  their  way  into  the  Swedisli  camp ; 
The  cannonade  continued  full  two  hours; 
There  were  left  dead  upon  the  field  a  thousand 
Imperialists,  together  \vitli  their  Colonel ; 
Further  than  this  he  did  not  know. 

WALLENSTEI.V. 

How  came 
Imperial  troops  at  Neustadt?  Altringer, 
But  yesterday,  stood  sixty  miles  from  there. 
Count  Galas'  force  collects  at  Frauenberg, 
And  have  not  the  full  complement.    Is  it  possible. 
That  Suys  perchance  had  ventured  so  far  onward  ? 
It  cannot  be. 

TERTSKY. 

We  shall  soon  know  the  whole, 
For  here  comes  Illo,  full  of  haste,  and  joyous. 


SCENE  V. 
To  these  enter  Illo. 

ILLO  (to  Wallenstein). 
A  courier,  Duke !  he  wishes  to  speak  with  thee. 

TERTSKY  (eagerli/). 
Does  he  bring  confirmation  of  the  victory  ? 
wallenstein  (at  the  same  time). 
A\Tiat  does  he  bring  ?  Whence  comes  he  ? 

ILLO. 

From  the  Rhinegrave. 
And  what  he  brings  I  can  announce  to  you 
Beforehand.    Seven  leagues  distant  are  the  Swedes; 
At  Neustadt  did  Max.  Piccolomini 
Throw  himself  on  them  with  the  cavalry ; 
A  murderous  fight  took  place !  o'erpower'd  by  numbers 
The  Pappenheimers  all,  with  Max.  their  leader, 

[Wallenstein  shudders  arid  turns  pale. 
Were  left  dead  on  the  field. 

wallenstein  [after  a  pause,  in  a  low  voice). 
Where  is  the  messenger  ?  Conduct  me  to  him. 

[Wallenstein  is  going,  when  Lady  Neubrunn 
rushes  into  the  room.  Some  Servants  follow 
her,  and  run  across  the  stage. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Help!  Help! 

illo  and  TERTSKY  (at  the  same  time). 
What  now  ? 

NEUBRUNN. 

The  Princess! 

WALLENSTEIN  and  TERTSKY. 

Does  she  know  it  ? 
NEUBRUNN  (at  the  same  time  with  them). 
She  is  dying!      [Hurries  off  the  stage,  when  Wallen- 
stein and  Tertsky  follow  her. 


SCENE  VI. 
Butler  and  Gordon. 

GORDON. 

What's  this? 

butler. 
She  has  lost  the  man  she  loved — 
Young  Piccolomini,  who  fell  in  the  battle. 


GORDON. 

Unfortunate  Lady ! 

butler. 
You  have  heard  what  Illo 
Reporteth,  that  the  Swedes  are  conquerors, 
And  marching  hitherward. 

GORDON. 

Too  well  I  heard  it. 
butler. 
They  are  t^velve  regiments  strong,  and  there  are  five 
Close  by  us  to  protect  the  Duke.    We  have 
Only  my  single  regiment ;  and  the  garrison 
Is  not  two  hundred  strong. 

GORDON. 

'Tis  even  so 
butler. 
It  is  not  possible  with  such  small  force 
To  hold  in  custody  a  man  like  him. 

GORDON. 

I  grant  it. 

butler. 
Soon  the  numbers  would  disarm  us, 
And  liberate  him. 

GORDON. 

It  were  to  be  fear'd. 
butler  (after  a  pause). 
Know,  I  am  warranty  for  the  event ; 
With  my  head  have  I  pledged  myself  for  his, 
Must  make  my  word  good,  cost  it  what  it  will, 
And  if  alive  we  cannot  hold  him  prisoner, 
AVhy — death  makes  all  things  certain ! 

GORDO.N. 

Butler !  What , 
Do  I  understand  you  ?  Gracious  God !   You  could— 

butler. 
He  must  not  live. 

GORDON. 

And  you  can  do  the  deed ! 
butler. 
Either  you  or  I.    This  morning  was  his  last 

GORDON. 

You  would  assa.ssinate  him. 

BUTLER. 

'Tis  my  purpose 

GORDON. 

Who  leans  with  his  whole  confidence  upon  you ! 

BUTLER. 

Such  is  his  evil  destiny ! 

GORDON. 

Your  General ! 
The  sacred  person  of  your  General! 

BUTLER. 

My  General  he  has  been. 

GORDON, 

That  'tis  only 
An  "has  been"  washes  out  no  villany. 
And  without  judgment  pass'd  ? 

BUTLER. 

The  execution 
Is  here  instead  of  judgment. 

GORDON. 

This  were  murder, 
Not  justice.    The  most  guilty  should  be  heard 

BUTLER. 

His  guilt  is  clear,  the  Emperor  has  pass'd  judgmenl, 
And  we  but  execute  his  will. 

26  197 


II 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


GORDON. 

We  should  not 
Hurry  to  realize  a  bloody  sentence. 
A  word  may  be  recall'd,  a  life  can  never  be. 

BUTLER. 

Dispatch  in  service  pleases  sovereigns. 

GORDON. 

No  honest  man 's  ambitious  to  press  forward 
To  the  hangman's  service. 

BUTLER. 

And  no  brave  man  loses 
His  color  at  a  daring  enterprise. 

GORDON. 

A  brave  man  hazards  life,  but  not  his  conscience. 

BUTLER. 

What  then  ?  Shall  he  go  forth,  anew  to  kindle 
The  unextinguishable  flame  of  war? 

GORDON. 

Seize  him,  and  hold  him  prisoner — do  not  kill  him ! 

BUTLER. 

Had  not  the  Emperor's  army  been  defeated, 
I  might  have  done  so  — But  't  is  now  past  by. 

GORDON. 

O,  wherefore  open'd  I  the  strong-hold  to  him  ? 

BUTLER. 

His  destiny  and  not  the  place  destroys  him. 

GORDON. 

Upon  these  ramparts,  as  beseem'd  a  soldier, 
I  had  fallen,  defending  the  Emperor's  citadel ! 

BUTLER. 

Yes !  and  a  thousand  gallant  men  have  perish'd ! 

GORDON. 

Doing  their  duty — that  adorns  the  man  ! 

But  murder's  a  black  deed,  and  nature  curses  it. 

BUTLER  {brings  out  a  paper). 
Here  is  the  manifesto  which  commands  us 
To  gain  possession  of  his  person.    See — 
It  is  address'd  to  you  as  well  as  me. 
Are  you  content  to  take  the  consequences. 
If  through  our  fault  he  escape  to  the  enemy  ? 

GORDON. 

I  ?  Gracious  God  ! 

BUTLER. 

Take  it  on  yourself 
Come  of  it  what  it  may,  on  you  I  lay  it. 

GORDON. 

0  God  in  heaven  ! 

BUTLER. 

Can  you  advise  aught  else 
Wherewith  to  execute  the  Emperor's  purpose  ? 
Say  if  you  can.    For  I  desire  his  fall, 
Not  his  destruction. 

GORDON. 

Merciful  heaven !  what  must  be 

1  see  as  clear  as  you.    Yet  still  the  heart 
Within  my  bosom  beats  with  other  feelings ! 

BUTLER. 

Mine  is  of  harder  stuff!  Necessity 

In  her  rough  school  hath  steel'd  me.    And  this  Illo 

And  Tertsky  likewise,  they  must  not  survive  him. 

GORDON. 

I  feel  no  pang  for  these.    Their  own  bad  hearts 
Impell'd  liiem,  not  the  influence  of  the  stars, 
'Twas  they  who  strew'd  the  seeds  of  evil  passions 
la  his  calm  breast,  and  with  officious  villany 


Water'd  and  nurs'd  the  pois'nous  plants.    May  they 
Receive  their  earnests  to  the  uttermost  mite ! 

BUTLER. 

And  their  death  shall  precede  his! 

We  meant  to  have  taken  them  alive  this  evening 

Amid  !he  merry-making  of  a  feast. 

And  keep  them  prisoners  in  the  citadels 

But  this  makes  shorter  work.    I  go  this  instant 

To  give  the  necessary  orders. 


SCENE  VII. 


To  these  enter  Illo  and  Tertsky. 

TERTSKY. 

Our  luck  is  on  the  turn.    To-morrow  come 
The  Swedes — twelve  thousand  gallant  warriors,  Illo 
Then  straightways  for  Vienna.    Cheerily,  friend  ! 
What !  meet  such  news  w  ith  such  a  moody  face  ? 

illo. 
It  lies  with  us  at  present  to  prescribe 
Laws,  and  take  vengeance  on  those  worthless  traitors 
Those  skulking  cowards  that  deserted  us ; 
One  has  already  done  his  bitter  penance, 
The  Piccolomini :   be  his  the  fate 
Of  all  who  wish  us  evil !  This  flies  sure 
To  the  old  man's  heart;  he  has  his  whole  life  long 
Fretted  and  toil'd  to  raise  his  ancient  house 
From  a  Count's  title  to  the  name  of  Prince ; 
And  now  must  seek  a  grave  for  his  only  son. 

BUTLER. 

'Twas  pity,  though  !  A  youth  of  such  heroic 
And  gentle  temperament !  The  Duke  himself, 
'Twas  easily  seen,  how  near  it  went  to  his  hear^ 

ILLO. 

Hark  ye,  old  friend !  That  is  the  very  point 
That  never  pleased  me  in  our  General — 
He  ever  gave  the  preference  to  the  Italians. 
Yea,  at  tliis  very  moment,  by  my  soul ! 
He'd  gladly  see  us  all  dead  ten  times  over, 
Could  he  thereby  recall  his  friend  to  life. 

TERTSKY. 

Hush,  hush!    Let  the  dead  rest!    This  evening's 

business 
Is,  who  can  fairly  drink  the  other  down — 
Your  regiment,  Illo  !  gives  the  entertainment. 
Come!  we  will  keep  a  merry  carnival — 
The  night  for  once  be  day,  and  'mid  full  glasses 
Will  we  expect  the  Swedish  avant-garde. 

ILLO. 

Yes,  let  us  be  of  good  cheer  for  to-day, 
For  there 's  hot  work  before  us,  friends  !  This  sword 
Shall  have  no  rest,  till  it  be  bathed  to  the  hilt 
In  Austrian  blood. 

GORDON. 

Shame,  shame!  what  talk  is  this 
My  Lord  Field  Marshal  ?  Wherefore  foam  you  so 
Against  your  Emperor  ? 

BUTLER. 

Hope  not  too  much 
From  this  first  victory.    Bethink  you,  sirs ! 
How  rapidly  the  wheel  of  Fortune  turns; 
The  Emperor  still  is  formidably  strong. 

ILLO. 

The  Emperor  has  soldiers,  no  commander 
For  this  King  Ferdinand  of  Hungary 
Is  but  a  tyro.    Galas  ?  He 's  no  luck, 

198 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLEN  STEIN. 


189 


And  was  of  old  the  ruiner  of  armies. 

And  then  this  viper,  this  Octavio, 

Is  excellent  at  stabbing  in  the  back, 

But  ne'er  meets  Fried  land  in  the  open  field. 

TEKTSKY. 

Trust  me,  my  friends,  it  cannot  but  succeed ; 
Fortune,  we  know,  can  ne'er  forsake  the  Duke! 
And  only  under  VVallenslein  can  Austria 
Be  comiueror. 

ILLO. 

The  Duke  will  soon  assemble 
A  mighty  army :  all  comes  crowding,  streaming 
To  banners,  dedicate  by  destiny, 
To  fame,  and  prosperous  fortune.    I  behold 
Old  times  come  back  again  I  he  will  become 
Once  more  the  mighty  Lord  which  he  has  been. 
How  will  the  fools,  who've  now  deserted  him, 
Look  then  ?  I  can't  but  laugh  to  think  of  them, 
•  For  lands  will  he  present  to  all  his  friends, 
And  like  a  King  and  Emperor  reward 
True  services;  but  we've  the  nearest  claims. 

[7*0  Gordon. 
You  will  not  be  forgotten,  Governor! 
He  '11  take  you  from  this  nest,  and  bid  you  shine 
In  higher  station  :  your  fidelity 
Well  merits  it. 

GORDON. 

I  am  content  already, 
And  wish  to  climb  no  higlier ;  where  great  height  is, 
The  fall  must  needs  be  great.    "  Great  height,  great 
depth." 

ILLO. 

Here  you  have  no  more  business,  for  to-morrow 
The  Swedes  will  take  possession  of  the  citadel. 
Come,  Tertsky,  it  is  supper-time.    What  think  you  ? 
Nay,  shall  we  have  the  State  illuminated 
In  honor  of  the  Swe<le  ?  And  who  refuses 
To  do  it  is  a  Spaniard  arid  a  traitor. 

TERTSKY. 

Nay !  Nay !  not  that,  it  will  not  please  the  Duke — 

ILLO. 

What!  we  are  masters  here ;  no  soul  shall  dare 
Avow  himself  imperial  where  we've  the  rule. 
Gordon !  good  night,  and  lor  the  last  time,  take 
A  fair  leave  of  the  place.    Send  out  patrols 
To  make  secure,  the  watch-word  may  be  alter'd 
At  the  stroke  of  ten ;  deliver  in  the  keys 
To  the  Duke  himself,  and  then  you  've  quit  for  ever 
Your  wardship  of  the  gates,  for  on  to-morrow 
The  Swedes  will  take  possession  of  the  citadel. 

TERTSKY  (as  he  is  goin<r,  to  Butler). 
You  come,  though,  to  the  castle  ? 

BUTLER. 

At  the  right  time. 
[Exeunt  Tertsky  and  Illo 


SCE.\E  VIII. 
Gordon  and  Butler. 


BUTLER. 

Do  as  he  order'd  you.    Send  round  patrols. 
Take  measures  for  the  citadel's  security  ; 
When  they  are  within,  I  close  the  castle-gate 
That  nothing  may  transpire. 

GORDON  [With  earnest  anxiety). 

Oh !  haste  not  so  I 
Nay,  stop;  first  tell  me 

BUTLER. 

You  have  heard  already 
To-morrow  to  the  Swedes  belongs.    This  night 
Alone  is  ours.    They  make  good  expedition. 
But  we  will  make  still  greater.    Fare  you  well. 

GORDON. 

Ah !  your  looks  tell  me  nothing  good.    Nay,  Butler 
I  pray  you,  promise  me  ! 

BUTLER. 

The  sun  has  set ; 
A  fateful  evening  doth  descend  upon  us, 
And  brings  on  their  long  night !  Their  evil  stars 
Deliver  them  imarm'd  into  our  hands. 
And  from  their  drunken  dream  of  golden  fortunes 
The  dagger  at  their  heart  shall  rouse  them.    Well, 
The  Duke  was  ever  a  great  calculatoi  , 
His  fellow-men  were  figures  on  his  chess-board, 
To  move  and  station,  as  his  game  required. 
Other  men's  honor,  dignity,  good  name. 
Did  he  shift  like  pawns,  and  made  no  conscience  of  it 
Still  calculating,  calculating  still ; 
And  yet  at  last  his  calculation  proves 
Erroneous;  the  whole  game  is  lost;  and  lo! 
His  own  life  will  be  found  among  the  forfeits. 

GORDON. 

0  think  not  of  his  errors  now ;  remember 
His  greatness,  his  munificence,  think  on  all. 
The  lovely  features  of  his  character, 
On  all  the  noble  exploits  of  his  life, 
And  let  them,  like  an  angel's  arm,  unseen 
Arrest  the  lifted  sword. 

BUTLER. 

It  is  too  late. 

1  suffer  not  myself  to  feel  compassion. 
Dark  thoughts  and  bloody  are  my  duty  now : 

[Grasping  Gordon's  hand. 
Gordon  !  'tis  not  my  hatred  (I  pretend  not 
To  love  the  Duke,  and  have  no  cause  to  love  him), 
Yet  'tis  not  now  my  hatred  that  impels  me 
To  be  his  murderer.    'Tis  his  evil  fate. 
Hostile  concurrences  of  many  events 
Control  and  subjugate  me  to  the  ofllce. 
In  vain  the  human  being  meditates 
Free  action.    He  is  but  the  wire-work'd*  puppet 
Of  the  blind  Power,  which  out  of  his  own  choice 
Creates  for  him  a  dread  necessity. 
Wliat  too  would  it  avail  him,  if  there  were 
A  something  pleading  for  him  in  my  heart — 
Still  I  must  kill  him. 


GoRDo.v  (looking  after  them). 
Unhappy  men!    How  free  from  all  foreboding! 
They  rush  into  tlie  outspread  net  of  murder. 
In  the  blind  drunkenness  of  victory ; 
I  have  no  pity  for  their  fate.    This  Illo, 
This  overflowing  and  foolhardy  villain, 
That  would   fain   bathe   himself  in   Ids   Emperor's 
blood. — 


If  your  heart  speak  to  you 
Follow  its  impulse.    'Tis  the  voice  of  God. 
Think  you  your  fortunes  will  grow  prosperous 
Bedew'd  with  blood — his  blood  ?    Believe  it  not ! 


•  We  doubt  the  propriety  of  pulling  so  blasphemous  a  sentj- 
ment  in  the  moulh  of  any  chiiructer.    T. 

199 


190 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


BUTLER. 

You  know  not.  Ask  not!  Wherefore  should  it  happen. 
That  the  Swedes  gain'd  the  victory,  and  hasten 
With  such  forced  marches  hitherward  ?  Fain  would  I 
Have  given  him  to  the  Emperor's  mercy. — Gordon ! 
I  do  not  wish  his  blood — But  I  must  ransom 
The  honor  of  my  word, — it  lies  in  pledge — 

And  he  must  die,  or 

{Passionately  grasping  Gordon's  hand. 
Listen  then,  and  know  ! 
I  am  dishojior'd  if  the  Duke  escape  us. 

GORDON. 

O !  to  save  such  a  man 

BUTLER. 

What! 

GORDON. 

It  is  worth 
A  sacrifice. — Come,  friend  !    Be  noble-minded  ! 
Our  own  heart,  and  not  other  men's  opinions, 
Forms  our  true  honor. 

BUTLER  {with  a  cold  and  haughty  air). 
He  is  a  great  Lord, 
This  Duke — and  I  am  but  of  mean  importance. 
This  is  what  you  would  say  ?    Wherein  concerns  it 
The  world  at  large,  you  mean  to  hint  to  me, 
Whether  the  man  of  low  extraction  keeps 
Or  blemishes  his  honor — 
So  that  the  man  of  princely  rank  be  saved  ? 
We  all  do  stamp  our  value  on  ourselves. 
The  price  we  challenge  for  ourselves  is  given  us. 
There  does  not  live  on  earth  the  man  so  station'd, 
That  I  despise  myself  compared  with  him. 
Man  is  made  great  or  little  by  his  own  will  ; 
Because  I  am  true  to  mine,  therefore  he  dies. 

GORDON. 

I  am  endeavoring  to  move  a  rock. 

Thou  hadst  a  mother,  yet  no  human  feelings. 

I  cannot  hinder  you,  but  may  some  God 

Rescue  him  from  you  !  [Exit  Gordon. 


SCENE  IX. 


BUTLER  (alone). 
I  treasured  my  good  name  all  my  life  long ; 
The  Duke  has  cheated  me  of  life's  best  jewel, 
So  that  I  blush  before  this  poor  weak  Gordon  ' 
He  prizes  above  all  his  fealty ; 
His  conscious  soul  accuses  him  of  nothing ; 
In  opposition  to  his  own  soft  heart 
He  subjugates  himself  to  an  iron  duty. 
Me  in  a  weaker  moment  passion  warp'd  ; 
I  stand  beside  him,  and  must  feel  myself 
The  worse  man  of  the  two.   What,  though  the  world 
Is  ignorant  of  my  purposed  treason,  yet 
One  man  does  know  it,  and  can  prove  it  too — 
High-minded  Piccolomini ! 
There  lives  the  man  who  can  dishonor  me ! 
This  ignominy  blood  alone  can  cleanse ! 
Duke  Friedland,  thou  or  I — Into  ray  own  hands 
Fortune  delivers  me — The  dearest  thing  a  man  has 
is  himself 

{The  curtain  drops.) 


ACT  IV. 
SCENE  I. 

Scene — Butler's  Chamber. 
Butler,  Major,  and  Geraldin. 

BUTLER. 

Find  me  twelve  strong  Dragoons,  arm  them   \nth 

pikes. 
For  there  must  be  no  firing — 
Conceal  them  somewhere  near  the  banquet-rorm, 
And  soon  as  the  dessert  is  served  up,  rush  all  in 
And  cry — Who  is  loyal  to  the  Emperor? 
I  will  overturn  the  table — while  you  attack 
Illo  and  Tertsky,  and  dispatch  them  both. 
The  castle-palace  is  well  barr'd  and  guarded, 
That  no  intelligence  of  this  proceeding 
May  make  its  way  to  the  Duke. — Go  instantly ; 
Have  you  yet  sent  for  Captain  Devereux 
And  the  Macdonald  ? — ■ — 

GERALDIN. 

They'll  be  here  anon. 

{Exit  Geraldin. 

BUTLER. 

Here 's  no  room  for  delay.    The  citizens 
Declare  for  him,  a  dizzy  drunken  spirit 
Possesses  the  whole  town.    They  see  in  the  Duke 
A  Prince  of  peace,  a  founder  of  new  ages 
And  golden  times.    Arms  too  have  been  given  out 
By  the  town-council,  and  a  hundred  citizens 
Have  volunteer'd  themselves  to  stand  on  guard 
Dispatch  then  be  the  word.    For  enemies 
Threaten  us  from  without  and  from  within. 


SCENE  n. 
BoTLER,  Captain  Devereu.x,  and  Macdonald. 

MACDONALD. 

Here  we  are,  General. 

devereux. 
What's  to  be  the  watch-word? 

BUTLER. 

Long  live  the  Emperor ! 

BOTH  (recoiling). 
How? 

butler. 

Live  the  House  of  Austria! 
devereu.y. 
Have  we  not  sworn  fidehty  to  Friedland  ? 

MACDONALD. 

Have  we  not  march'd  to  this  place  to  protect  him  ? 

butler. 
Protect  a  traitor,  and  his  country's  enemy  ! 

devereu.x. 
Why,  yes !  in  his  name  you  administer'd 
Our  oath. 

MACDONALD. 

And  followed  him  yourself  to  Egra. 

BUTLER. 

I  did  it  the  more  surely  to  destroy  him. 

devereux. 
So  then! 


MACDONALD. 

An  alter'd  case  I 


200 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


191 


BUTLER  {to  DeVEREUX). 

Thou  wretched  man ! 
So  easily  leavest  thou  tliy  oath  and  colors  ? 

DEVEREUX. 

The  de-v-il ! — I  but  foliovv'd  your  example. 
If  you  could  prove  a  villain,  why  not  we  ? 

MACDONALD. 

We've  nought  to  do  with  thinking — that's   your 

business. 
You  are  our  General,  and  give  out  the  orders ; 
We  follow  you,  tliough  the  track  lead  to  hell. 

BUTLER  (appeased). 
Good  then !  we  know  each  other. 

MACDONALD. 

I  should  hope  so. 

DEVEREUX. 

Soldiers  of  fortune  are  we — who  bids  most. 
He  has  us 

MACDONALD. 

'Tis  e'en  so! 

BUTLER. 

Well,  for  the  present 
Ye  must  remain  honest  and  faithful  soldiers. 


We  wish  no  other. 


DEVEREUX. 
BUTLER. 

Ay,  and  make  your  fortunes. 

MACDONALD. 

That  is  still  better. 

BUTLER. 

Listen ! 

BOTH. 

We  attend. 

BUTLER. 

It  is  the  Emperor's  will  and  ordinance 

To  seize  the  person  of  the  Prince-duke  Friedland, 

Alive  or  dead. 

DEVEREUX. 

It  runs  so  in  the  letter. 

MACDONALD. 

Alive  or  dead — these  were  the  very  words. 

BUTLER. 

And  he  shall  be  rewarded  from  the  State 
In  land  and  gold,  who  proffers  aid  thereto. 

DEVEREUX. 

Ay !  that  sounds  well.  The  words  sound  always  well 
That  travel  hither  from  the  Court.    Yes  !  yes  I 
We  know  already  what  Court-words  import. 
A  golden  chain  perhaps  in  sign  of  favor, 
Or  an  old  charger,  or  a  parchment  patent. 
And  such  like. — The  Prince-duke  pays  better. 

MACDONALD. 

Yes, 
The  Duke's  a  splendid  paymaster. 

BUTLER. 

All  over 
With  that,  my  friends !  His  lucky  stars  are  set. 

MACDONALD. 

And  is  that  certain? 

BUTLER. 

You  have  my  word  for  it. 

DEVEREUX. 

His  lucky  fortunes  all  past  by  ? 

BUTLER. 

For  ever 
He  IS  as  poor  as  we. 


MACDONALD. 

As  poor  as  we  ? 

DEVEREUX. 

Macdonald,  we  '11  desert  him. 

BUTLER. 

We  '11  desert  him  ' 
Full  twenty  thousand  have  done  that  already ; 
We  must  do  more,  my  countrymen  !  In  short — 
We — we  must  kill  him. 

BOTH  {starting  had;). 
Kill  him ! 

BUTLER. 

Yes  !  must  kill  him  ; 
And  for  that  purpose  have  I  chosen  you. 

BOTH. 

Us' 

BUTLER. 

You,  Captain  Devereux,  and  thee,  Macdonald 

DEVEREUX  {after  a  pause). 
Choose  yeu  some  other. 

BUTLER. 

What  ?  art  dastardly  ? 
Thou,  with  full  thirty  lives  to  answer  for— 
Thou  conscientious  of  a  sudden  ? 

DEVEREUX. 

Nay, 
To  assassinate  our  Lord  and  General — 

MACDONALD. 

To  whom  we  've  sworn  a  soldier's  oath — 

BUTLER. 

The  oath 
Is  null,  for  Friedland  is  a  traitor. 

DEVEREUX. 

No,  no !  it  is  too  bad  ! 

MACDONALD. 

Yes,  by  my  soul ! 
It  is  too  bad.    One  has  a  conscience  too — 

DEVEREUX. 

If  it  were  not  our  Chieftain,  who  so  long 

Has  issued  the  commands,  and  claim'd  our  duty, 

BUTLER. 

Is  that  the  objection  ? 

DEVEREUX. 

Were  it  my  own  father. 
And  the  Emperor's  service  should  demand  it  of  me, 
It  might  be  done,  perhaps — But  we  are  soldiers, 
And  to  assassinate  our  Chief  Commander, 
That  is  a  sin,  a  foul  abomination. 
From  which  no  Monk  or  Confessor  absolves  us 

BUTLER. 

I  am  your  Pope,  and  give  you  absolution. 
Determine  quickly ! 

DEVEREUX. 

'Twill  not  do. 

MACDONALD. 

'T  wont  do . 

BUTLER. 

Well,  off  then !  and — send  Pestalutz  to  me. 

DEVEREUX  {hesilales). 
The  Pestalutz — 

MACDONAIJ). 

What  may  you  want  with  him  I 

BUTLER. 

If  you  reject  it,  we  can  find  enough — • 

DEVEREUX. 

Nay,  if  he  must  fall,  we  may  earn  the  bounty 
201 


192 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


As  well  as  any  other.    What  tliink  you, 
Brotlier  Macdonald  ? 

MACDONALD. 

Why,  if  he  must  fall, 
And  will  fall,  and  it  can't  be  otherwise. 
One  would  not  give  place  to  this  Pestalutz. 
DEVEREUX  (after  some  reflection). 
When  do  you  purpose  he  should  fall  ? 

BUTLER. 

This  night, 
To-morrow  will  the  Swedes  be  at  our  gates. 

DEVEREUX. 

You  take  upon  you  all  the  consequences ' 

BUTLER. 

I  take  the  whole  upon  me. 

DEVEREUX. 

And  it  is 
The  Emperor's  will,  his  express  absolute  will? 
For  we  have  instances,  that  folks  may  like 
The  mxirder,  and  yet  hang  the  murderer. 

BUTLER. 

The  manifesto  says — alive  or  dead. 
Alive — 'tis  not  possible — you  see  it  is  not. 

DEVEREUX. 

Well,  dead  then !  dead !  But  how  can  we  come  at  him  ? 
The  town  is  fill'd  with  Terlsky's  soldiery. 

MACDONALD. 

Ay!  and  then  Tertsky  still  remains,  and  Illo — 

BUTLER. 

With  these  you  shall  begin — you  understand  me  ? 

DEVEREUX. 

How  ?  And  must  they  too  perish  ? 

BUTLER. 

They  the  first 

MACDONALD. 

Hear,  Devereux !  A  bloody  evening  this. 

DEVEREUX. 

Have  you  a  man  for  that  ?  Commission  me — 

BUTI^ER. 

'Tis  given  in  trust  to  Major  Geraldin; 
This  is  a  carnival  night,  and  there 's  a  feast 
Given  at  the  castle — there  we  shall  surprise  them. 
And  hew  them  down.    The  Pestalutz,  and  Lesley 
Have  that  commission — soon  as  that  is  fmish'd — 

DEVEREUX. 

Hear,  General !  It  will  be  all  one  to  you — 
Harkye,  let  me  exchange  with  Geraldin. 

BUTLER. 

'Twill  be  the  lesser  danger  with  the  Duke. 

DEVEREUX. 

Danger!  the  devil!  What  do  you  think  me.  General  ? 
'Tis  the  Duke's  eye,  and  not  his  sword,  I  fear, 

BUTLER. 

"Vhat  can  his  eye  do  to  thee  ? 

DEVEREUX. 

Death  and  hell ! 
Thou  know'st  that  I'm  no  milk-sop,  General ! 
But  'lis  not  eight  days  since  the  Duke  did  send  me 
Twenty  gold  pieces  for  this  good  warm  coat 
Which  I  have  on !  and  then  for  him  to  see  me 
Standing  before  him  with  the  pike,  his  murderer, 
'ITiat  eye  of  his  looking  upon  this  coat — 
Why — why — the  devil  fetch  me !  -I  'm  no  milk-sop ! 

BUTLER. 

The  Duke  presented  thee  thus  good  warm  coat, 
And  thou,  a  needy  wight,  hast  pangs  of  conscience 


To  run  him  through  the  body  in  return. 

A  coat  that  is  far  better  and  far  warmer 

Did  the  Emperor  give  to  him,  the  Prince's  mande 

How  doth  he  ihank  the  Emperor  ?  With  revolt, 

And  treason. 

DEVEREUX. 

That  is  true.    The  devil  take 
Such  thankers !  I  '11  dispatch  him. 

BUTLER. 

And  wouldst  quiet 
Thy  conscience,  thou  hast  naught  to  do  but  simply 
Pull  off  the  coat ;  so  canst  thou  do  the  deed 
With  light  heart  and  good  spirits. 

DEVEREUX. 

You  are  right. 
That  did  not  strike  me.  I'll  pull  off  the  coat — 
So  there 's  an  end  of  it. 

MACDO.NALD. 

Yes,  but  there's  another 
Point  to  be  thought  of. 

BUTLER. 

And  what's  that,  Macdonald 

MACDONALD. 

What  avails  sword  or  dagger  against  him  ? 
lie  is  not  to  be  wounded — he  is — 

BUTLER  (starting  up). 

What? 

MACDONALD. 

Safe  against  shot,  and  stab  and  flash !  Hard  frozen. 
Secured,  and  warranted  by  the  black  art! 
His  body  is  impenetrable,  I  tell  you. 

DEVEREUX. 

In  Inglestadt  there  was  just  such  another : 

His  whole  skin  was  the  same  as  steel ;  at  last 

We  were  obliged  to  beat  him  down  with  gunstocka 

MACDONALD. 

Hear  what  I  '11  do. 

DEVEREUX. 

Well  ? 

MACDONALD. 

In  the  cloister  here 
There 's  a  Dominican,  my  countryman. 
I  '11  make  him  dip  my  sword  and  pike  for  me 
In  holy  water,  and  say  over  them 
One  of  his  strongest  blessings.  That 's  probatum. 
Nothing  can  stand  'gainst  that 

BUTLER. 

So  do,  Macdonald 
But  now  go  and  select  from  out  the  regiment 
Twenty  or  thirty  able-bodied  fellows. 
And  let  them  take  the  oaths  to  the  Emperor. 
Then  when  it  strikes  eleven,  when  the  first  lounds 
Are  pass'd,  conduct  them  .silently  as  may  be 
To  the  house — I  will  myself  be  not  far  off 

DEVEREUX. 

But  how  do  we  get  through  Hartschier  and  Gordon 
That  stand  on  guard  there  in  the  inner  chamber  ? 

BUTLER. 

I  have  made  myself  acquainted  with  the  place. 

I  lead  you  through  a  back-door  that's  defended 

By  one  man  only.    Me  my  rank  and  office 

Give  access  to  the  Duke  at  every  hour, 

I  '11  go  before  you — with  one  poniard-stroke 

Cut  Hartschier's  windpipe,  and  make  way  for  you 

DEVEREUX. 

And  when  we  are  there,  by  w  hat  means  shall  we  gam 

902 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEiN. 


193 


The  Duke's  be<i-chamlier,  witliout  his  alarming 
The  servants  of  the  Court;  for  he  has  here 
A  numerous  conijiauy  of  followers  ? 

BUTLER. 

The  attendants  fill  the  right  wing ;  he  hates  bustle, 
And  lodges  in  the  left  wing  quite  alone. 

DF.VEREL'.X. 

Were  it  well  over — hey,  Macdonald  ?  I 
Feel  queerly  on  the  occasion,  devil  knows  ! 

MACDONALn. 

And  I  too.   'T  is  too  great  a  personage. 
People  will  hold  us  for  a  brace  of  villains. 

BUTLER. 

In  plenty,  honor,  splendor — You  may  safely 
Laugh  at  the  people's  babble. 

DEVEREUX. 

If  the  business 
Squares  with  one's  honor — if  that  be  quite  certain — 

BUTLER. 

Set  your  hearts  quite  at  ease.  Ye  save  for  Ferdinand 
His  Crown  and  Empire.    The  reward  can  be 
No  small  one. 

DEVEREU.V. 

And  'tis  his  purpose  to  dethrone  the  Emperor? 

BUTLER. 

Yes  ! — Y^es ! — to  rob  him  of  his  Crown  and  Life. 

DEVEREUX. 

And  he  must  fall  by  the  executioner's  hands, 
Should  we  deliver  him  up  to  the  Emperor 
Alive  ? 

BUTLER. 

It  were  his  certain  destiny. 

DEVEREUX. 

Well !  Well !  Come  then,  Macdonald,  he  shall  not 
Lie  long  in  pain. 

[Exeunt  Butler  through  one  door,  Macdonald  and 
Devereux  through  the  other. 


SCENE  III. 


Scene — A  Gothicand  gloomy  Apartment  attheDvcitEss 
Friedland's.  Tiiekla  on  a  seat,  pale,  her  eyes 
closed.  The  Duchess  and  Lady  Neubrunn 
busied  about  her.  WALLENSTEiNanc/MeCooNTESS 
in  conversation. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

How  knew  she  it  so  soon  ? 

COUNTESS. 

She  seems  to  have 
Foreboded  some  misfortune.     The  report 
Of  an  engagement,  in  the  which  had  fallen 
A  colonel  of  the  Imperial  army,  frighten'd  her. 
I  saw  it  instantly.    She  flow  to  meet 
The  Swedish  courier,  and  with  sudden  questioning. 
Soon  wrested  from  him  the  disastrous  secret. 
Too  late  we  miss'd  her,  hasteii'd  after  her. 
We  found  her  lying  in  his  arms,  all  pale 
And  in  a  swoon. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

A  heavy,  heavy  l)low  ! 
And  she  so  unprepared  !  Poor  child  I  How  is  it  ? 

[Turning  to  the  Duchess. 
(s  she  coming  to  herself 

DUCHESS. 

Her  eyes  are  opening. 

COUNTESS. 

She  lives. 

14  S2 


TIIEKLA  (looJdng  around  her). 
Where  am  I  ? 
WALLENSTEIN  {steps  to  her,  raising  her  vp  in  his  arms). 
Come,  cheerly,  Tliekla  !  be  my  own  brave  girl ! 
See,  there's  thy  loving  mollier.    Thou  art  in 
Thy  father's  arms. 

THEKLA  {standing  vp). 

Where  is  he  ?  Is  he  gone  ? 

DUCHESS. 

Who  gone,  my  daughter  ? 

THEKLA. 

He — the  man  who  utter'd 
That  word  of  miserj'. 

DUCHESS. 

O !  think  not  of  it, 
MyThekIa! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Give  her  sorrow  leave  to  talk ! 
Let  her  complain — mingle  your  tears  with  hers, 
For  she  hath  siiffer'd  a  deep  anguish  ;  but 
She'll  rise  superior  to  it,  for  my  Thekla 
Hath  all  her  father's  unsubdued  heart. 

THEKLA. 

I  am  not  ill.  See,  I  have  power  to  stand. 

Why  does  my  mother  weep  ?    Have  I  alarm'd  her  ? 

It  is  gone  by — I  recollect  myself— 

[She  casts  her  eyes  round  the  room,  as  seeking  some 
one. 
Where  is  he  ?  Please  you,  do  not  hide  him  from  me 
You  see  I  have  strength  enough :  now  I  will  hear  him. 

DUCHESS. 

No,  never  shall  this  messenger  of  evil 
Enter  again  into  thy  jiresence,  Thekla  I 

THEKLA. 

My  father — 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Dearest  daughter ! 

THEKLA. 

I  'm  not  weak — 
Shortly  I  shall  be  quite  myself  again. 
You'll  grant  me  one  request? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Name  it,  my  daughter 

THEKLA. 

Permit  the  stranger  to  be  call'd  to  me, 
And  grant  me  leave,  that  by  myself  I  may 
Hear  his  report  and  question  him. 

DUCHESS. 

No,  never ! 

COUNTESS. 

'Tis  not  advi-sable — assent  not  to  it 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Hush !  Wherefore  wouldst  thou  speak  with  him,  my 
daughter  ? 

TIIICKLA, 

Knowing  the  whole,  I  shall  be  more  collected  : 
I  w  ill  not  be  deceived.    My  mother  wishes 
Only  to  spare  me.    1  will  not  be  spared, 
The  worst  is  said  already  :  I  can  hear 
Nothing  of  deeper  anguish  ! 

DUCHESS  and  countess. 
Do  it  not 

TIIEKLA. 

The  horror  overpowcr'd  me  ijy  surprise. 
My  heart  betray'd  me  in  the  stranger's  presence  f 
He  was  a  witness  of  my  weakness,  yea, 
203 


194 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I  sank  into  liis  arms ;  and  that  has  shamed  me. 
I  must  replace  myself  in  his  esteem, 
And  I  must  speak  with  him,  perforce,  that  he, 
The  stranger,  may  not  think  imgently  of  me. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

I  see  she  is  in  the  right,  and  am  inclined 

To  grant  her  this  request  of  hers.    Go,  call  him. 

(Lady  Neubrunn  goes  to  call  Mm). 

DUCHESS. 

But  I,  thy  mother,  will  be  present — 

THEKLA. 

'T  were 
More  pleasing  to  me,  if  alone  I  saw  him : 
Trust  me,  I  shall  behave  myself  the  more 
Collectedly. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Permit  her  her  own  will. 
Leave  her  alone  with  him  :  for  there  are  sorrows, 
Where  of  necessity  the  soul  must  be 
Its  own  support.    A  strong  heart  will  rely 
On  its  own  strength  alone.    In  her  own  bosom. 
Not  in  her  mother's  arms,  must  she  collect 
The  strength  to  rise  superior  to  this  blow. 
It  is  mine  own  brave  girl.    I  'II  have  her  treated 
Not  as  the  woman,  but  the  heroine.  {Going. 

COUNTESS  {detaining  him). 
Where  art  thou  going  ?  I  heard  Tertsky  say 
That  'tis  thy  purpose  to  depart  from  hence 
To-morrow  early,  but  to  leave  us  here. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Yes,  ye  stay  here,  placed  under  the  protection 
Of  gallant  men. 

COUNTESS. 

O  take  us  with  you,  brother ! 
Leave  us  not  in  this  gloomy  solitude 
To  brood  o'er  anxious  thoughts.    The  mists  of  doubt 
Magnify  evils  to  a  shape  of  horror. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Who  spealis  of  evil  ?  I  entreat  you,  sister, 
Use  words  of  better  omen. 

COUNTESS. 

Then  take  us  with  you. 

0  leave  us  not  behind  you  in  a  place 
That  forces  us  to  such  sad  omens.    Heavy 
And  sick  within  me  is  my  heart 

These  walls  breathe  on  me,  like  a  church-yard  vault. 

1  cannot  tell  you,  brother,  how  this  place 
Doth  go  against  my  nature.    Take  us  with  you. 
Come,  sister,  join  you  your  entreaty  ! — Niece, 
Yours  too.  We  all  entreat  you,  take  us  with  you ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  place's  evil  omens  will  I  change. 

Making  it  that  which  shields  and  shelters  for  me 

My  best  beloved. 

LADY  NEUBRUNN  {returning). 
The  Swedish  officer. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Leave  her  alone  with  me.  [Exit. 

DUCHESS  {to  Thekla,  who  sturts  and  shivers). 
There — pale  as  death! — Child,  'tis  impossible 
That  thou  shouldst  speak  with  him.  Follow  thy  mother. 

THEKLA. 

The  Lady  Neubrunn  then  may  stay  with  me. 

{Exeunt  Duchess  and  Countess. 


SCENE  IV. 
Thekla,  the  Swedish  Captain,  Lady  Neubrunn. 

CAPTAIN  {respectfully  approaching  her). 
Princess — I  must  entreat  your  gentle  pardon — 
My  inconsiderate  rash  speech — How  could  I — 

THEKLA  {with  dignity). 
You  have  beheld  me  in  my  agony. 
A  most  distressful  accident  occasion'd 
You  from  a  stranger  to  become  at  once 
My  confidant. 

CAPTAIN. 

I  fear  you  hate  my  presence, 
For  my  tongue  spake  a  melancholy  word. 

THEKLA. 

The  fault  is  mine.    Myself  did  wrest  it  from  you. 
The  horror  which  came  o'er  me  interrupted 
Your  tale  at  its  commencement.  May  it  please  you. 
Continue  it  to  the  end. 

CAPTAIN. 

Princess,  'twill 
Renew  your  anguish. 

THEKLA. 

I  am  firm. 

I  will  be  firm.  Well — how  began  the  engagement? 

CAPTAIN. 

We,  lay,  expecting  no  attack,  at  Neustadt, 
Intrench'd  but  insecurely  in  our  camp. 
When  towards  evening  rose  a  cloud  of  dust 
From  the  wood  thitherward ;  our  vanguard  fled 
Into  the  camp,  and  soimded  the  alarm. 
Scarce  had  we  mounted,  ere  the  Pappenheimers, 
Their  horses  at  full  speed,  broke  through  the  lines. 
And  leapt  the  trenches  ;  but  their  heedless  courage 
Had  borne  them  onward  far  before  the  others — 
The  infantry  were  still  at  distance  only. 
The  Pappenheimers  follow'd  daringly 
Their  daring  leader 

[Thekla  betrays  agitation  in  her  gestures.  The 
Officer  pauses  till  she  makes  a  sign  to  him  to 
proceed. 

CAPTAIN. 

Both  in  van  and  flanks 
With  our  whole  cavalry  we  now  received  them  ; 
Back  to  the  trenches  drove  them,  where  the  foot 
Stretch'd  out  a  solid  ridge  of  pikes  to  meet  them. 
They  neither  could  advance,  nor  yet  retreat  • 
And  as  they  stood  on  every  side  wedged  in. 
The  Rhinegrave  to  their  leader  call'd  aloud, 
Inviting  a  surrender ;  but  their  leader. 

Young  Piccolomini 

[Thekla,  as  giddy,  grasps  a  chair 
Known  by  his  plume, 
And  Ills  long  hair,  gave  signal  for  the  trenches; 
Himself  leapt  first,  the  regiment  all  plunged  after 
His  charger,  by  a  halbert  gored,  rear'd  up, 
Flung  him  with  violence  ofl^,  and  over  him 

The  horses,  now  no  longer  to  be  curb'd, 

[Thekla  who  has  accompanied  the  last  speech  with 
all  the  marhs  of  increasing  agony,  trembles 
through  her  whole  frame,  and  is  falling.  The 
Lady  Neubrunn  runs  to  her,  and  receives  Itet 
in  her  arms. 


My  dearest  lady- 


204 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


195 


CAPTAIN. 

I  retire. 


'T  is  over. 


Proceed  to  the  conclusion. 


CAPTAIN. 

Wild  despair 
Inspired  the  troops  w-ilh  frenzy  when  they  saw 
Their  leader  perish ;  every  tliought  of  rescue 
Was  spum'd  ;  they  fought  like  wounded  tigers ;  their 
Frantic  resistance  roused  our  soldiery  ; 
A  murderous  fight  took  place,  nor  was  the  contest 
Finish'd  before  their  last  man  fell. 

THEKLA  (faltering). 

And  wliere 

Where  is — You  have  not  told  me  all. 

CAPTAIN  (afler  a  pause). 

This  morning 
We  buried  him.    Twelve  youths  of  noblest  birth 
Did  bear  him  to  interment ;  the  whole  army 
Follow'd  the  bier.     A  laurel  deck'd  his  coflin  ; 
The  sword  of  the  deceased  was  placed  upon  it, 
In  mark  of  honor,  by  the  Rhinegrave's  self 
Nor  tears  were  wanting ;  for  there  are  among  us 
Many,  who  had  themselves  experienced 
The  greatness  of  his  mind,  and  gentle  maimers ; 
All  were  affected  at  his  fate.    The  Rhinegrave 
Would  willingly  have  saved  him ;  but  himself 
Made  vain  the  attempt — 'tis  said  he  wish'd  to  die. 

NEUBRUNN  {io  Thekla,  who  has  hidden  her  coun- 
tenance). 
Look  up,  my  dearest  lady 

TIIEKLA. 

Where  is  his  grave  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

At  Neustadt,  lady ;  in  a  cloister  church 

Are  his  remains  deposited,  until 

We  can  receive  directions  from  his  father. 

TIIEKLA. 

What  is  the  cloister's  name  ? 


Saint  Catherine's. 

THEKLA. 

And  how  far  is  it  thither  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

Near  twelve  leagues. 

THEKLA. 

And  which  the  way  ? 

CAPTAIN. 

You  go  by  Tirschenreit 
And  Falkenberg,  through  our  advanced  posts. 


Who 


Is  their  commander  ? 


CAPTAIN. 

Colonel  Seckendorf 

[THEKLA  steps  to  the  table,  and  takes  a  ring  from 
a  casket. 

TIIEKLA. 

You  have  beheld  me  in  my  agony, 

And  showTi  a  feeling  heart.    Please  you,  accept 

[Giving  him  the  ring. 
A  small  memorial  of  this  hour.     Now  go  I 


CAPTAIN  [confused) 

Princess 

[Thekla  silently  makes  signs  to  him  to  go,  and 
turns  from  him.  The  Captain  lingers,  and 
is  about  to  speak.  Ladv  Neubrunn  repeats 
the  signal,  and  he  retires. 


SCENE  V. 

Thekla,  Lady  Neubrunn. 

THEKLA  [falls  on  Lady  Neobrunn's  neck). 
Now,  gentle  Neubrunn,  show  me  the  affection 
Which  thou  hast  ever  promised — prove  thyself 
My  own  true  friend  and  faithful  fellow-pilgrim. 
This  night  we  must  away ! 

neubrunn. 

Away!  and  whicher? 
thekla. 
Whither !   There  is  but  one  place  in  the  world. 
Thither  where  he  lies  buried  !   To  his  coffm ! 

neubrunn. 
What  would  you  do  there  ? 

TIIEKLA. 

What  do  there  ? 
That  wouldst  thou  not  have  ask'd,  hadst  thou  e'er 

loved. 
There,  there  is  all  that  still  remains  of  hira. 
That  single  spot  is  the  whole  earth  to  me. 

NEUBRUNN. 

That  place  of  death 

TIIEKLA. 

Is  now  the  only  place. 
Where  life  yet  dwells  for  me :  detain  me  not ! 
Come  and  make  preparations :  let  us  think 
Of  means  to  fly  from  hence. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Your  father's  rage— — 

TIIEKLA. 

That  time  is  past 

And  now  I  fear  no  human  being's  rage. 

NEUBRUNN. 

The  sentence  of  the  world !  The  tongue  of  calumny ! 

THEKLA. 

Whom  am  I  seeking  ?   Him  who  is  no  more. 

Am  I  then  hastening  to  the  arms O  God ! 

I  haste  but  to  the  grave  of  the  beloved. 

NEUBRUNN. 

And  we  alone,  two  helpless  feeble  women  ? 

THEKLA. 

We  will  take  weapons :  my  arm  shall  protect  thee. 

NEUBRUNN. 

In  the  dark  night-time  ? 

THEKLA. 

Darkness  will  conceal  us. 

NEUBRUNN. 

This  rough  tempestuous  night 

TIIEKLA. 

Had  be  a  soft  bed 
Under  the  hoofs  of  his  war-horses  ? 

NEUBRUNN. 

Heaven ! 

And  then  the  many  posts  of  the  enemy ! 

THEKLA. 

They  are  human  beings.    Misery  travels  free 
Through  the  whole  earth. 

27  205 


196 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


NEUBRUNN. 

The  journey's  weary  length — 

THEKLA. 

rhe  pilgrim,  travelling  to  a  distant  shrine 

Of  hope  and  healing,  doth  not  count  the  leagues. 

NEUBRUNN. 

How  can  we  pass  the  gates  ? 

THEKLA. 

Gold  opens  them. 
Go,  do  but  go. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Should  we  be  recognized — 

THEKLA. 

In  a  despairing  woman,  a  poor  fugitive. 

Will  no  one  seek  the  daughter  of  Duke  Friedland. 

NEUBRUNN. 

And  where  procure  we  horses  for  our  flight  ? 

THEKLA. 

My  equerry  procures  them.    Go  and  fetch  him. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Dares  he,  without  the  knowledge  of  his  lord  ? 

THEKLA. 

He  will.    Go,  only  go.    Delay  no  longer. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Dear  lady !  and  your  mother  ? 

THEKL.A.. 

Oh !  my  mother  ! 

NEUBRUNN. 

■  So  much  as  she  has  sufTer'd  too  already  ; 
Your  tender  mother — Ah  !  how  ill  prepared 

■  For  this  last  anguish ! 

THEKLA. 

Woe  is  me !  my  mother  ! 

[Pauses. 
Go  instantly. 

NEUBRUNN. 

But  think  what  you  are  doing ! 

THEKLA. 

What  can  be  thought,  already  has  been  thought. 

NEUBRUNN. 

And  being  there,  what  purpose  you  to  do  ? 

THEKLA. 

There  a  Divinity  will  prompt  my  soul. 

NEUBRUNN. 

Your  heart,  dear  lady,  is  disquieted ! 

And  this  is  not  the  way  that  leads  to  quiet. 

THEKLA. 

To  a  deep  quiet,  such  as  he  has  found, 

It  draws  me  on,  I  know  not  what  to  name  it, 

Resistless  does  it  draw  me  to  his  grave. 

There  will  my  heart  be  eased,  my  tears  will  flow. 

0  hasten,  make  no  further  questioning ! 
There  is  no  rest  for  me  till  I  have  left 

These  walls — they  fall  in  on  me — a  dim  power 
Drives  me  from  hence — O  mercy !   What  a  feeling ! 
What  pale  and  hollow  forms  are  those !    They  fill. 
They  crowd  the  place !  I  have  no  longer  room  here ! 
Mercy !  Still  more !  More  still !  The  hideous  swarm 
They  press  on  me  ;  they  chase  me  from  these  walls — 
Those  hollow,  bodiless  forms  of  living  men ! 

NEUBRUNN. 

You  frighten  me  so,  lady,  that  no  longer 

1  dare  stay  here  myself     I  go  and  call 
Rosenberg  instantly.  [Exit  Lady  Neubrunn. 


SCENE  Vl. 

THEKLA. 

His  spirit  'tis  that  calls  me  :  'tis  the  troop 

Of  his  true  followers,  who  offer'd  up 

Themselves  to  avenge  his  death :  and  they  accuse  me 

Of  an  ignoble  loitering — they  would  not 

Forsake  their  leader  even  in  his  death — they  died  foi 

him ! 
And  shall  /  live  ? — 

For  me  too  was  that  laurel-garland  twined 
That  decks  his  bier.    Life  is  an  empty  casket ; 
I  throw  it  from  me.    O  !  my  only  hope ; — 
To  die  beneath  the  hoofs  of  trampling  steeds — 
That  is  the  lot  of  heroes  upon  earth !  [Exit  Thekla. 
{The  curtain  drops). 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

ScENi; — A  Saloon,  terminated  by  a  Gallery  which  ex- 
tends far  into  the  back-ground. 

Wallenstein  {sitting  at  a  table). 
The  Swedish  Captain  {standing  before  him). 
wallenstein. 
Commend  me  to  your  lord.    I  sympathize 
In  his  good  fortune ;  and  if  you  have  seen  me 
Deficient  in  the  expressions  of  that  joy, 
Which  such  a  victory  might  well  demand. 
Attribute  it  to  no  lack  of  good-will, 
For  henceforth  are  our  fortunes  one.     Farewell, 
And  for  your  trouble  take  my  thanks.     To-morrow 
The  citadel  shall  be  surrender'd  to  you 
On  your  arrival. 

[The  Swedish  Captain  retires.  Wallenstein  sits 
lost  in  thought,  his  eyes  fxed  vacantly,  and  his 
head  sustained  by  his  hand.  The  Countess 
Tertsky  enters,  stands  before  him  awhile,  un- 
observed by  him  ;  at  length  he  starts,  sees  her 
and  recollects  himself. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Comest  thou  from  her  ?  Is  she  restored  ?  How  is  she  ? 

COUNTESS. 

My  sister  tells  me,  she  was  more  collected 
After  her  conversation  with  the  Swede. 
She  has  now  retired  to  rest. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  pang  will  soften. 
She  will  shed  tears. 

COUNTESS. 

1  find  thee  alter'd  too, 
My  brother !  After  such  a  victory 
I  had  expected  to  have  found  in  thee 
A  cheerful  spirit.    O  remain  thou  firm! 
Sustain,  uphold  us !    For  our  light  thou  art, 
Our  sun. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Be  quiet.    I  ail  nothing.    Where 's 
Thy  husband  ? 


*  The  soliloquy  of  Thekla  consists  in  the  original  of  six-and- 
twenty  lines,  twenty  of  which  are  in  rhymes  of  irregular  recur- 
rence. I  thought  it  prudent  to  abridge  it.  Indeed  the  whole  scene 
between  Thekla  and  T^ady  Neubr  un  h  might,  perhaps,  have  been 
omiUed  without  injury  to  the  play. 

206 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


197 


COUNTESS. 

At  a  banquet — he  and  Illo. 

WALLENSTEIN  {rises  and  strides  across  the  saloon). 

The  night 's  far  spent.     Betake  thee  to  thy  chamber. 

COUNTESS. 

Bid  rae  not  go,  0  let  me  stay  with  thee ! 

w.\LLENSTEiN  {moves  to  the  window). 
There  is  a  busy  motion  in  the  Heaven, 
The  wind  doth  chase  the  flag  upon  the  tower, 
Fast  sweep  the  clouds,  the  sickle*  of  the  moon, 
StruggUng,  darts  snatches  of  uncertain  light- 
No  ibrm  of  star  is  \-isible  !    That  one 
Wliite  stain  of  hght,  that  single  glimmering  yonder. 
Is  from  Cassiopeia,  and  therein 
Is  Jupiter.    {A  pause).    But  now 
The  blackness  of  the  troubled  element  hides  him! 
[He  sinks  into  profound  melancholy,  and  looks 
vacantly  into  the  distance. 
COUNTESS  (looks  On  him  mournfully,  then  grasps  Ms 

hand). 
What  art  thou  brooding  on? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Methinks, 
If  I  but  saw  him,  'twould  be  well  with  me. 
He  is  the  star  of  my  nativity. 
And  often  marvellously  hath  his  aspect 
Shot  strength  into  my  heart. 

COUNTESS. 

Thou  'It  see  him  again. 
WALLENSTEIN  {rcTnains  for  a  while  with  absent  mind, 

then  assumes  a  livelier  inanner,  and  turns  suddenly 

to  the  Countess). 
See  him  again  ?  O  never,  never  again ! 

COUNTESS. 

How  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He  is  gone — is  dust. 

COUNTESS. 

Whom  meanest  thou  then  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

He,  the  more  fortunate  I  yea,  he  hath  finish'd ! 

For  him  there  is  no  longer  any  future, 

His  life  is  bright — bright  without  spot  it  was, 

And  cannot  cease  to  he.    No  ominous  hour 

Knocks  at  his  door  with  tidings  of  mishap. 

Far  off  is  he,  above  desire  and  fear ; 

No  more  submitted  to  the  change  and  chance 

Of  the  unsteady  planets.    O  'tis  well 

With  him .'  but  who  knows  what  the  coming  hour 

Veil'd  in  thick  darkness  bruigs  for  us  ? 

•  These  four  lines  are  expressed  in  tlie  original  with  e.'squisite 
felicity. 

Am  Himmel  ist  geschaeftige  Bewegung, 
Des  Thurmes  Fahne  jagt  der  Wind,  schnell  geht 
Der  Wolken  Zug,  die  Jfnndes-.'iichel  wankt, 
Und  dutch  die  Nacht  zuckt  ungewisse  Helle. 

The  word  "  moon-sickle,"  reminds  me  of  a  passage  in  Har- 
ris, as  quoted  by  Johnson,  under  the  word  "  falcated."  "  The 
enlightened  part  of  the  moon  appears  in  the  form  of  a  sickle  or 
reaping-hook,  which  is  while  she  is  moving  from  the  conjunc- 
tion to  the  opposition^  or  from  the  new-moon  to  the  full:  but 
from  full  to  a  new  again,  the  enlightened  pan  appears  gibbous, 
and  the  dark/aicu^fi/." 

The  words  "  wanken"  and*"  schwelju  are  not  easily  trans- 
lated. The  English  words,  by  which  we  attempt  to  render 
them,  are  either  vulgar  or  pedantic,  or  not  of  sufficiently  gene- 
ral application.  So  "  der  Wolken  Ziig" — The  Draft,  the  Pro- 
cession of  clouds. — The  Masses  of  the  Clouds  sweep  onward 
in  swift  stream. 


COUNTESS. 

Thou  spcakest 
Of  Piccolomini.    What  was  his  death  ? 
The  courier  had  just  left  thee  as  I  came. 

[WALLENSTEIN  by  a  ntotion  of  his  hand  maket 
signs  to  her  to  be  itihnl. 
Turn  not  thine  eyes  upon  the  backward  view. 
Let  us  look  forward  into  sunny  days. 
Welcome  with  joyous  heart  the  victory. 
Forget  what  it  has  cost  thcc.    Not  to-day, 
For  the  first  time,  thy  friend  was  to  thee  dead ; 
To  thee  he  died,  when  first  he  parted  from  thee. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

This  anguish  will  be  wearied  down,*  I  know  ; 
What  pang  is  permanent  willi  man  ?  From  the  highest. 
As  from  the  vilest  thing  of  every  day 
He  learns  to  wean  himself:  for  the  strong  hours 
Conquer  him.    Yet  I  feel  what  I  have  lost 
In  him.    The  bloom  is  vanish'd  from  my  life. 
For  O !  he  stood  beside  me,  like  my  youth, 
Transform 'd  for  me  the  real  to  a  dream, 
Clothing  the  palpable  and  tlic  familiar 
With  golden  exlialations  of  the  dawn. 
Whatever  fortunes  wait  ray  future  toils, 
The  beautiful  is  vanish'd — and  returns  not 

COUNTESS. 

O  be  not  treacherous  to  thy  own  power. 
Thy  heart  is  rich  enough  to  vivify 
Itself    Tliou  lovest  and  prizest  virtues  in  him, 
The  which  thyself  didst  plant,  thyself  unfold. 

WALLENSTEIN  {Stepping  to  the  door). 
Who  interrupts  us  now  at  this  late  hour? 
It  is  the  Governor.    He  brings  the  keys 
Of  the  Citadel.    'Tis  midnight.    Leave  me,  sister 

COUNTESS. 

0  't  is  so  hard  to  me  this  night  to  leave  thee — 
A  boding  fear  possesses  me ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Fear?  Wherefore? 

COUNTESS. 

Shouldst  thou  depart  this  night,  and  we  at  waking 
Never  more  find  thee  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Fancies ! 

COUNTESS. 

O  my  soul 
Has  long  been  weigh'd  down  by  these  dark  forebodingat 
And  if  I  combat  and  repel  them  waking. 
They  still  rush  down  upon  my  heart  in  dreams. 

1  saw  thee  yester-night  with  thy  first  wife 
Sit  at  a  banquet  gorgeously  attired. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

This  was  a  dream  of  favorable  omen, 

That  marriage  being  the  founder  of  my  fortunes. 

COUNTESS. 

To-day  I  dreamt  that  I  was  seeking  thee 

In  thy  own  chamber.    As  I  enler'd,  lo! 

It  was  no  more  a  chamber  :  the  Chartreuse 

At  Gitschin  't  was,  which  thou  thyself  bast  founded 


*  A  very  inadequate  translation  of  the  original. 

Verschmerzen  werd'  ich  diesen  Schlag,  das  wciss  icb, 
Denn  was  verscbinerzte  nicht  der  Mensch ! 

LITERALLY. 
I  shall  s-n'eue  down  this  blow,  of  that  I'm  conscious: 
What  does  not  man  grieve  down  1 

207 


198 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  where  it  is  thy  will  that  thou  shouldst  be 
Interr'd. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Thy  soul  is  busy  with  these  thoughts. 

COUNTESS. 

What !  dost  thou  not  believe  that  oft  in  dreams 
A  voice  of  warning  speaks  prophetic  to  us  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  there  exist  such  voices. 

Yet  I  would  not  call  them 

Voices  of  warning  that  announce  to  us 

Only  the  inevitable.    As  the  sun, 

Ere  it  is  risen,  sometimes  paints  its  image 

In  the  atmosphere,  so  often  do  the  spirits 

Of  great  events  stride  on  before  the  events, 

And  in  to-day  already  walks  to-morrow. 

That  which  we  read  of  the  fourth  Henry's  death 

Did  ever  vex  and  haunt  me  like  a  tale 

Of  my  own  future  destiny.    The  king 

Felt  in  his  breast  the  phantom  of  the  knife, 

Long  ere  Ravaillac  arm'd  himself  therewith. 

His  quiet  mind  forsook  him :  the  phantasma 

Started  him  in  his  Louvre,  chased  him  forth 

Into  the  open  air:  like  funeral  knells 

Sounded  that  coronation  festival ; 

And  still  with  boding  sense  he  heard  the  tread 

Of  those  feet  that  even  then  were  seeking  him 

Throughout  the  streets  of  Paris. 

COUNTESS. 

And  to  thee 
The  voice  within  thy  soul  bodes  nothing  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Nothing. 
Be  wholly  tranquil. 

COUNTESS. 

And  another  time 
I  hasten'd  after  thee,  and  thou  rann'st  from  me 
Through  a  long  suite,  through  many  a  spacious  hall. 
There  seem'd  no  end  of  it :  doors  creak'd  and  clapp'd ; 
I  follovv'd  panting,  but  could  not  o'ertake  ihee ; 
When  on  a  sudden  did  I  feel  myself 
Graspd    from    behind — the   hand    was    cold,    that 

grasp'd  me — 
'Twas  thou,  and  thou  didst  kiss  me,  and  there  seem'd 
A  crimson  covering  to  envelop  us. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

That  is  the  crimson  tapestry  of  my  chamber. 

COUNTESS  {gazing  on  him), 
If  it  should  come  to  that — if  I  should  see  thee, 
Who  standest  now  before  me  in  the  fullness 
Of  life —  [She  falls  on  his  breast  and  weeps. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

The  Emperor's  proclamation  weighs  upon  thee — 
Alphabets  wound  not — and  he  finds  no  hands. 

COUNTESS. 

If  he  should  find  them,  my  resolvf?  is  taken- — 
I  bear  about  me  my  support  and  refuge. 

[Exit  Countess. 


SCENE  II. 

Wallenstein,  Gordon. 

wallenstein. 
All  quiet  in  the  town  ? 

GORDON. 

The  town  is  quiet. 


WALLENSTEIN. 

I  hear  a  boisterous  music  !  and  the  Castle 
Is  lighted  up.    Who  are  the  revellers  ? 

GORDON. 

There  is  a  banquet  given  at  the  Castle 

To  the  Count  Tertsky,  and  Field  Marshal  EIo. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

In  honor  of  the  victory — This  tribe 

Can  show  their  joy  in  nothing  else  but  feasting. 

[Rings.     The  Groom  of  the  Chamber  enters. 
Unrobe  me.    I  will  lay  me  down  to  sleep. 

[Wallenstein  tahes  the  heysfrom  Gordon 
So  we  are  guarded  from  all  enemies. 
And  shut  in  with  sure  friends. 
For  all  must  cheat  me,  or  a  face  like  this 

[Fixing  his  eye  on  Gordon. 
Was  ne'er  a  hypocrite's  mask. 

[The  Groom  of  the  Chamber  takes  off  his  man' 
tie,  collar,  and  scarf. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Take  care — what  is  that 

groom    of    THE    CHAMBER. 

The  golden  chain  is  snapped  in  two. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Well,  it  has  lasted  long  enough.    Here — give  it. 

[He  fakes  and  looks  at  the  chain, 
'Twas  the  first  present  of  the  Emperor. 
He  hung  it  round  me  in  the  war  of  Friule, 
He  being  then  Archduke ;  and  I  have  worn  it 

Till  now  from  habit 

From  superstition,  if  you  will.    Belike, 

It  was  to  be  a  Talisman  to  me  ; 

And  while  I  wore  it  on  my  neck  in  faith. 

It  was  to  chain  to  me  all  my  life  long 

The  volatile  fortune,  whose  first  pledge  it  was. 

Well,  be  it  so !  Henceforward  a  new  fortune 

Must  spring  up  for  me ;  for  the  potency 

Of  this  charm  is  dissolved. 

Groom  of  the  Chamber  retires  xoith  the  vest- 
ments.    Wallenstein  rises,  takes  a  striae 
across  the  room,  and  sla/ids  at  last  befoii^ 
Gordon  in  a  jwsture  of  meditation. 
How  the  old  time  returns  upon  me !  I 
Behold  myself  once  more  at  Burgau,  where 
We  two  were  Pages  of  the  Court  together. 
We  oftentimes  disputed  :  thy  intention 
Was  ever  good ;  but  thou  wert  wont  to  play 
The  Moralist  and  Preacher,  and  wouldst  rail  at  me— 
That  I  strove  after  things  too  high  for  me, 
Giving  my  faith  to  bold  unlawful  dreams, 
And  still  extol  to  me  the  golden  mean 
— Thy  wisdom  hath  been  proved  a  thriftless  friend 
To  thy  own  self    See,  it  has  made  thee  early 
A  superannuated  man,  and  (but 
That  my  munificent  stars  will  intervene) 
Would  let  thee  in  some  miserable  comer 
Go  out  like  an  untended  lamp. 

GORDON. 

My  Prince ! 
With  light  heart  the  poor  fisher  moors  his  boat, 
And  watches  from  the  shore  the  lofty  ship 
Stranded  amid  the  storm. 

wallenstei.v. 

Art  thou  already 
201 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEIN. 


199 


In  harbor  tlieii,  old  man  ?  Well !  I  am  not. 
The  unconqucr'd  spirit  drives  me  o'er  life's  billows; 
My  planks  still  (irni,  my  canvas  swelling  proudly. 
Hope  is  my  goddess  still,  and  Youth  my  inmate ; 
And  while  we  stand  thus  front  to  front  almost, 
I  might  presume  to  say,  that  the  swift  years 
Have  pass'd  by  powerless  o'er  my  unblanch'd  hair. 
[He  moves  witfi  long  strides  across  the  Saloon,  and 

remains  on  the  opposite  side    over-against 

Gordon. 
Who  now  persists  in  calling  Fortune  false  ? 
To  me  she  has  proved  faithful,  with  fond  love 
Took  me  from  out  the  common  ranks  of  men, 
And  like  a  mother  goddess,  with  strong  arm 
Carried  me  swiftly  up  the  steps  of  life. 
Nothing  is  common  in  my  destiny, 
Nor  in  the  furrows  of  my  hand.    Who  dares 
Interpret  then  my  life  for  me  as  'twere 
One  of  the  undistinguishable  many  ? 
True,  in  this  present  moment  I  appear 
Fallen  low  indeed  ;  but  I  shall  rise  again. 
The  high  flood  will  .soon  follow  on  this  ebb ; 
The  fountain  of  my  fortune,  which  now  stops 
Repress'd  and  bound  by  some  malicious  star, 
Will  soon  in  joy  play  forth  from  all  its  pipes. 

GORDON. 

And  yet  remember  I  the  good  old  proverb, 
"  Let  the  night  come  before  we  praise  the  day." 
I  would  be  slow  from  long-continued  fortune 
To  gather  hope :  for  Hope  is  the  companion 
Given  to  the  unfortunate  by  pitying  Heaven ; 
Fear  hovers  round  the  head  of  prosperous  men : 
For  still  unsteady  are  the  scales  of  fate. 

WALLENSTEIN  (smllhlg). 

I  hear  the  very  Gordon  that  of  old 

Was  wont  to  preach  to  me,  now  once  more  preaching ; 

I  know  well,  that  all  sublunary  things 

Are  still  the  vassals  of  vicissitude. 

The  unpropitious  gods  demand  their  tribute. 

This  long  ago  the  ancient  Pagans  knew : 

And  therefore  of  their  own  accord  they  ofTer'd 

To  themselves  injuries,  so  to  atone 

The  jealousy  of  their  divinities  : 

And  human  sacrifices  bled  to  Typhon. 

[After  a  pause,  serious,  and  in  a  more  subdued 
manner. 
I  too  have  sacrificed  to  him — For  me 
There  fell  the  dearest  friend,  and  through  my  fault 
He  fell !    No  joy  from  favorable  fortune 
Can  overweigh  the  anguish  of  this  stroke. 
The  envy  of  my  destiny  is  glutted : 
Life  pays  for  life.    On  his  pure  head  the  hghtning 
Was  drawn  off  which  would  else  have  shatter'd  me. 


SCENE  in. 
To  these  enter  Senl 


WALLENSTEIN. 

Is  not  that  Seni  ?  and  beside  himself, 

If  one  may  trust  his  looks  ?    What  brings  thee  hither 

At  this  late  horn-,  Baptista  I 

SENL 

Terror,  Duke ! 
On  thy  account. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  now ' 


Flee  ere  the  day-break  ! 
Trust  not  thy  person  to  the  Swedes  ! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  now 
Is  in  thy  thoughts  ? 

SENI  {with  louder  voice). 
Trust  not  thy  person  to  these  Swedes. 

WALLENSTEIN. 

What  is  it  then  ? 
SENI  [still  more  urgently). 

0  wait  not  the  arrival  of  these  Swedes ! 
An  evil  near  at  hand  is  threatening  thee 

From  false  friends.    All  the  signs  stand  full  of  horror' 
Near,  near  at  hand  the  net-work  of  perdition — 
Yea,  even  now  'tis  being  cast  around  thee! 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Baptista,  thou  art  dreaming ! — Fear  befools  theo- 

SENI. 

Believe  not  that  an  empty  fear  deludes  me. 
Come,  read  it  in  the  planetary  aspects ;  , 

Read  it  thyself,  that  ruin  threatens  thee 
From  false  friends  I 

WALLENSTEIN. 

From  the  falseness  of  my  friends 
Has  risen  the  whole  of  my  unprosperous  fortunes. 
The  warning  should  have  come  before.  At  present 

1  need  no  revelation  from  the  stars 
To  know  that. 

SENI. 

Come  and  see .'  trust  thine  own  eyes ' 
A  fearful  sign  stands  in  the  house  of  life — 
An  enemy ;  a  fiend  lurks  close  behind 
The  radiance  of  thy  planet. — O  be  warn'd  ! 
Deliver  not  thyself  up  to  these  heathens, 
To  wage  a  war  against  our  holy  church. 

WALLENSTEIN  (laughing  gently). 
The  oracle  rails  that  way  !    Yes,  yes !    Now 
I  recollect.    This  junction  with  the  Swedes 
Did  never  please  thee — lay  thyself  to  sleep, 
Baptista !    Signs  like  these  I  do  not  fear. 

GORDON  {who  during  the  whole  of  this  dialogue  has 
shown  marks  of  extreme  agitation,  and  now  turns  to 

WALLENSTEIN). 

My  Duke  and  General  !    May  I  dare  presume  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Speak  freely. 

GORDON. 

What  if  't  were  no  mere  creation 
Of  fear,  if  God's  high  providence  vouchsafed 
To  interpose  its  aid  for  your  deliverance. 
And  made  that  mouth  its  organ  ? 

WALLENSTEIN. 

Ye 're  both  feverish! 
How  can  mishap  come  to  me  from  these  Swedes  ? 
They  sought  this  junction  with  me — 'tis  their  in- 
terest. 
GORDON  {with  difficulty  suppressing  his  emotion). 
But  what  if  the  arrival  of  these  Swedes — 
What  if  this  were  the  very  thing  that  wing'd 
The  ruin  that  is  flying  to  your  temples  ? 

[Flings  himself  at  Jiis  feet. 
There  is  yet  time,  my  Prince. 

SENI. 

O  hear  him !  hear  him  •, 
209 


1^00 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


GORDON  (rises). 
Tlie  Rhinegrave's  still  far  off    Give  but  the  orders, 
This  citadel  shall  close  its  gates  upon  him. 
If  then  he  will  besiege  us,  let  him  try  it. 
But  this  I  say  ;  he  '11  find  his  own  destruction 
With  his  whole  force  before  these  ramparts,  sooner 
Than  weary  down  the  valor  of  our  spirit. 
He  shall  experience  what  a  hand  of  heroes, 
Inspirited  by  an  heroic  leader, 
Is  able  to  perform.    And  if  indeed 
It  be  thy  serious  wish  to  make  amend 
For  that  which  thou  hast  done  amiss, — this,  this 
Will  touch  and  reconcile  the  Emperor 
Who  gladly  turns  his  heart  to  thoughts  of  mercy, 
And  Friedland,  who  returns  repentant  to  him, 
Will  stand  yet  higher  in  his  Emperor's  favor, 
Than  e'er  he  stood  when  he  had  never  fallen. 

WALLEXSTEIN  (contemplates  him  with  surprise,  remains 

silent  awhile,  betraying  strong  emotion). 
Gordon — your  zeal  and  fervor  lead  you  far. 
Well,  weW — an  old  friend  has  a  privilege. 
Blood,  Gordon,  has  been  flowing.     Never,  never 
Can  the  Emperor  pardon  me :  and  if  he  could. 
Yet  I — I  ne'er  could  let  myself  be  pardon'd. 
Had  I  foreknown  what  now  has  taken  place, 
That  he,  my  dearest  friend,  would  fall  for  me, 
My  first  death-offering ;  and  had  the  heart 
Spoken  to  me,  as  now  it  has  done — Gordon, 
It  may  be,  I  might  have  bethought  myself. 
It  may  be  too,  I  might  not.     Might  or  might  not. 
Is  now  an  idle  question.    All  too  seriously 
Has  it  begun,  to  end  in  nothing,  Gordon ! 
Let  it  then  have  its  couree. 

[Stepping  to  the  window. 
All  dark  and  silent — at  the  Castle  too 
All  is  now  hush'd — Light  me.  Chamberlain ! 

[The  Groom  of  the  Chamber,  who  had  entered 
during  the  last  dialogue,  and  had  been  stand- 
ing at  a  distance  and  listening  to  it  with 
visible  expressions  of  the  deepest  interest,  ad- 
vances in  extreme  agitation,  and  throws  him- 
self at  the  Dqke's  feet. 
And  thou  too !    But  I  know  why  thou  dost  wish 
My  reconcilement  with  the  Emperor. 
Poor  man !  he  hath  a  small  estate  in  Caemthen, 
And  fears  it  will  be  forfeited  because 
He 's  in  my  service.     Am  I  then  so  poor. 
That  I  no  longer  can  indemnify 
My  servants  ?    Well  I  to  no  one  I  employ 
Means  of  compulsion.     If  'tis  thy  belief 
That  Fortune  has  fled  from  me,  go !  forsake  me. 
This  night  for  the  last  time  mayst  thou  unrobe  me, 
And  then  go  over  to  thy  Emperor. 
Gordon,  good  night  I  I  think  to  make  a  long 
Sleep  of  it :  for  the  struggle  and  the  turmoil 
Of  tlus  last  day  or  two  was  great.  May't  please  you! 
Take  care  that  they  avvake  me  not  too  early. 

[Exit  Wallenstein,  the  Groom  of  the  Chamber 
lighting  him.  Sem  follows,  Gordon  remains 
on  the  darkened  stage,  following  the  Duke 
with  his  eye,  till  he  disappears  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  gallery :  then  by  his  gestures  the  old 
man  expresses  the  depth  of  his  anguish,  and 
stands  leaning  against  a  pillar. 


SCENE  IV. 

Gordon,  Butler  (at  first  behind  the  Scews). 
butler  (not  yet  come  into  view  of  the  stage). 
Here  stand  in  silence  till  I  give  the  signal 

GORDON  (starts  up). 
'Tis  he,  he  has  akeady  brought  the  murderers. 

butler. 
The  lights  are  out.    All  lies  in  profound  sleep. 

GORDON. 

What  shall  I  do  ?  Shall  I  attempt  to  save  him  ? 
Shall  I  call  up  the  house?   Alarm  the  guards? 
BUTLER  (appears,  but  scarcely  on  the  stage). 
A  light  gleams  hither  fram  the  corridor. 
It  leads  directly  to  the  Duke's  bed-chamber. 

GORDON. 

But  then  I  break  my  oath  to  the  Emperor ; 
If  he  escape  and  strengthen  the  enemy. 
Do  I  not  hereby  call  down  upon  my  head 
All  the  dread  consequences  ? 

BUTLER  (stepping  forward). 

Hark !  Who  speaks  theio 

GORDON. 

'Tis  better,  I  resign  it  to  the  hands 
Of  Providence.    For  what  am  I,  that  I 
Should  take  upon  myself  so  great  a  deed  ? 
/  have  not  murder'd  him,  if  he  be  murder'd  ; 
But  all  liis  rescue  were  my  act  and  deed  ; 
Mine — and  whatever  be  the  consequences 
I  must  sustain  them. 

BUTLER  (advances). 

I  should  know  that  voice. 

GORDON. 

Butler ! 

BUTLER. 

'Tis  Gordon.     What  do  you  want  here  ? 
Was  it  so  late  then,  when  the  Duke  dismiss'd  you  ? 

GORDON. 

Your  hand  bound  up  and  in  a  scarf? 

BUTLER. 

'Tig  wounded. 
That  Illo  fought  as  he  were  frantic,  till 
At  last  we  threw  him  on  the  ground. 
GORDON  (shuddering). 

Both  dead  ? 

BUTLER. 

Is  he  in  bed  ? 

GORDON. 

Ah,  Butler ! 

BUTLER. 

Is  he  ?  Speak. 

GORDON. 

He  shall  not  perish  !  Not  through  you '  The  Heaven 
Refuses  7jour  arm.    See — 'tis  wounded! — 

BUTLER. 

There  is  no  need  of  my  arm. 

GORDON. 

The  most  guilty 
Have  perish'd,  and  enough  is  given  to  justice. 

[The  Groom  of  the  Chamber  advances  from 
the  gallery  with  his  finger  on  his  mouth,  com- 
manding silence. 

GORDON. 

He  sleeps !  O  murder  not  the  holy  sleep ! 

butler. 
No !  he  shall  die  awake  [Is  going 

210 


THE  DEATH  OF  WALLENSTEL\. 


201 


GORDON. 

His  heart  still  cleaves 
To  earthly  things  :  he 's  not  prepared  to  step 
Into  the  presence  of  liis  God  ! 

BUTLER  (^oillg). 

God  's  merciful ! 
GORDON  (kolds  him): 
Grant  him  but  this  night's  respite. 

BUTLER  {hurrying  off). 

The  next  moment 
May  ruin  all. 

GORDON  {holds  him  still). 
One  hour ! 

BUTLER. 

Unhold  me !  What 
Can  that  short  respite  profit  him  ? 

GORDON. 

O— Time 
WofKs  miracles.    In  one  hour  many  thousands 
Of  grains  of  sand  run  out ;  and  quick  as  they, 
Thought  follows  thought  witliin  the  human  soul. 
Only  one  hour  I    Your  heart  may  change  its  purpose, 
His  heart  may  change  its  purpose — some  new  tidings 
May  come ;  some  fortunate  event,  decisive. 
May  fall  from  Heaven  and  rescue  him.    O  what 
Miiy  not  one  hour  acliieve ! 

BUTLER. 

You  but  remind  me, 
How  precious  every  minute  is  ! 

[He  stamps  on  the  floor. 


SCENE  V, 


To  these  enter  Macdonald,  and  Devereux,  with  Oie 

Halberdiers. 
GORDON  {throwing  himself  between  him  and  them). 
]Vo,  monster! 
First  over  my  dead  body  thou  shalt  tread. 
I  will  not  live  to  see  the  accursed  deed ! 

butler  {forcing  him  out  of  the  way). 
\Veak-hearted  dotard ! 

[Trumpets  are  heard  in  the  distance. 
devereux  and  macdonald. 

Hark  I  The  Swedish  trumpets ! 
The  Swedes  before  the  ramparts !  Let  us  hasten ! 

GORDON  (rushes  out). 
O,  God  of  Mercy ! 

BUTLER  {calling  after  him). 

Governor,  to  your  post ! 
GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBER  {hurries  in). 
Who  dares  make  larum  here  \  Hush  1  The  Duke  sleeps. 

DEVEREUX  {with  a  loud  harsh  voice). 
Friend,  it  is  time  now  to  make  larum. 

GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBER. 

Help! 
Murder ! 

BUTLER. 

Down  with  him ! 
GROOM  OF  THE  CHAMBER  {run  through  the  body  by 
Devereux, /aZZs  at  the  entrance  of  the  gallery). 
Jesus  Maria ! 

BUTLER. 

Burst  the  doors  open. 

[Tltey  rush  over  the  body  into  the  gallery — two 
doors  are  heard  to  crash  one  after  the  other — 
Voices  deadened  by  the  distance — Clash  of 
arms — then  all  at  once  a  profourui  silence. 


SCENE  VI. 

COUNTESS  TERT.SKY  (Vjith  a  light). 

Her  bed-chamber  is  empty ;  she  herself 

Is  nowhere  to  be  found  I  The  iVcuhrunn  too, 

Who  watch'd  by  her,  is  mi.ssing.    If  she  should 

Be  flown But  whither  down  ?  We  must  call  up 

Every  soul  in  the  house.    How  will  the  Duke 
Bear  up  against  these  worst  bad  tidings  ?  O 
If  that  my  husband  now  were  but  relurn'd 
Home  from  the  banquet! — Hark!  I  wonder  whether 
The  Duke  is  still  awake!  I  Ihouglil  I  heard 
Voices  and  tread  of  feet  here !  I  will  go 
And  listen  at  the  door.    Hark !  what  is  that  ? 
'Tis  hastening  up  the  steps! 


SCENE  VII. 
Countess,  Gordon. 


GORDON  {rushes  in  out  of  breath). 
'Tis  a  mistake ! 
'Tis  not  the  Swedes — Ye  nuist  proceed  no  further — 
Butler ! — 0  God !  where  is  he  ? 

GORDON  {observing  the  Countess). 

Countess !  Say —  - 

COUNTESS. 

You  are  come  then  from  the  castle?    Where's  my 

husband  ? 

GORDON  {in  an  agony  of  affright). 
Your  husband ! — Ask  not ! — To  the  Duke 

COUNTESS. 

Not  till 
You  have  discover'd  to  me 

GORDON. 

On  this  moment 
Does  the  world  hang.    For  God's  sake !  to  the  Duke. 

WTiile  we  are  speaking 

[Calling  loudly, 
Butler!  Butler!  God! 

COUNTESS. 

Why,  he  is  at  the  castle  v^ith  my  husband. 

[Butler  cmnesfrom  the  Gallery. 

GORDON. 

'Twas  a  mistake — 'Tis  not  the  Swedes — it  is 
The  Imperialist's  Lieutenant-General 
Has  sent  me  hither — will  be  here  himself 
Instantly. — You  must  not  proceed. 

BUTLER. 

He  comes 
Too  late.       [Gordon  dashes  himself  against  tJie  wall- 

GORDON. 

O  God  of  mercy ! 

COUNTESS. 

What  too  late  ? 
Who  will  be  here  himself?  Octavio 
In  Egra  ?  Trea.son !  Treason  !— Where 's  the  Duke  ? 
[Sfie  rushes  to  the  Gallery 


SCENE  VIII. 


{Servants  run  across  the  Stage  fidt  of  terror.  The  whole 
Scene  must  be  spohen  entirely  without  pauses' 

SEM  {from  the  Gallery). 
O  bloody  frightful  deed  ! 

211 


202 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


COUNTESS. 

What  is  it,  Seni  ? 
PAGE  {from  the  Gallery). 
O  piteous  sight ! 

{Olher  Servants  hasten  in  with  torches. 

COUNTESS. 

What  is  it  ?  For  God's  sake ! 

SENI. 

And  do  you  ask  ? 
Within  the  Duke  lies  murder' d — and  your  husband 
Assassinated  at  the  Castle. 

[TTie  Countess  slayids  motionless. 
FEMALE  SERVANT  {riisMng  across  the  stage). 
Help !  Help !  the  Duchess ! 

BURGOMASTER  {enters). 

What  mean  these  confused 
Loud  cries,  that  wake  the  sleepers  of  tliis  house  ? 

GORDON. 

Your  house  is  cursed  to  all  eternity. 
In  your  house  doth  the  Duke  lie  murder'd ! 
BURGOMASTER  (rushing  out). 

Heaven  forbid! 

FIRST  SERVANT. 

Fly !  fly !  they  murder  us  all ! 

SECOND  SERVANT  {carrying  silver  plate). 

That  way  !  the  lower 
Passages  are  block'd  up. 

VOICE  {from  behind  the  Scene). 
Make  room  for  the  Lieutenanl-General ! 

[At  these  words  the  Countess  starts  from  her  stupor, 
collects  herself,  and  retires  suddenly. 
VOICE  {from  behind  the  Scene). 
Keep  back  the  people !  Guard  the  door  1 


SCENE  IX. 


To  these  enters  Octavio  Piccolomini  with  all  his 
Train.  At  the  same  time  Devereux  and  Macdon- 
ALD  enter  from  the  Corridor  with  the  Halberdiers. 
— Walle.n'Stein's  dead  body  is  carried  over  the 
back  part  of  the  Stage,  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  crim- 
son tapestry. 

octavio  {entering  abruptly). 
It  must  not  be  !  It  is  not  possible  ! 
Butler !  Gordon ! 
I  '11  not  believe  it.    Say,  No ! 

[Gordon,  without  answering,  points  with  his  hand  to 
the  Body  of  Wallenstein  as  it  is  carried  over 
the  back  of  the  Stage.    Octavio  looks  that  way, 
and  stands  overpowered  with  horror. 
devereux  {to  Butler). 
Here  is  the  golden  fleece — the  Duke's  sword — 

macdonald. 
Is  it  your  order — 

butler  {pointing  to  Octavio). 

Here  stands  he  who  now 
.Hath  the  sole  power  to  issue  orders. 

[Devereux  and  Macdonald  retire  with  marks  of 
obeisance.     One  drops  away  after  the  other, 
till  oidy  Butler,  Octavio,  and  Gordon 
remain  on  the  Stage. 
octavio  {turning  to  Butler). 
Was  that  my  purpose,  Butler,  when  we  parted  ? 
O  God  of  Justice  I 

To  thee  I  lift  my  hand  I  I  am  not  guilty 
Oi  tliii  foui  deed. 


BUTLER. 

Your  hajui  is  pure.    You  have 
Avail'd  yourself  of  mine. 

octavio. 

Merciless  man ! 
Thus  to  abuse  the  orders  of  thy  Lord — 
And  stain  thy  Emperor's  holy  name  with  murder, 
With  bloody,  most  accursed  assassination  ! 

BUTLER  {calmly). 
I've  but  fulfiU'd  the  Emperor's  owTi  sentence. 

OCTAVIO. 

0  curse  of  kings, 

Infusing  a  dread  life  into  their  words. 
And  linking  to  the  sudden  transient  thought 
The  unchangeable  irrevocable  deed. 
Was  there  necessity  for  such  an  eager 
Dispatch  ?  Couldst  Ihou  not  grant  the  merciful 
A  time  for  mercy  ?  Time  is  man's  good  Angel. 
To  leave  no  interval  between  the  sentence, 
And  the  fulfilment  of  it,  dolh  beseem 
God  only,  the  immutable  I 

BUTLER. 

For  what 
Rail  you  against  me  ?  Wliat  is  my  offence  ? 
The  Empire  from  a  fearful  enemy 
Have  I  deliver'd,  and  expect  reward. 
The  single  difference  betwixt  you  and  me 
Is  this :  you  placed  the  arrow  in  the  bow ; 

1  pull'd  the  string.    You  sow'd  blood,  and  yet  stand 
Astonisli'd  that  blood  is  come  up.    I  always 
Knew  what  I  did,  and  therefore  no  result 

Hath  power  to  frighten  or  surprise  my  spirit. 

Have  you  aught  else  to  order  ?  for  this  instant 

I  make  my  best  speed  to  Vienna ;  place 

My  bleeding  sword  before  my  Emperor's  Throne, 

And  hope  to  gain  the  applause  which  undelaying 

And  punctual  obedience  may  demand 

From  a  just  judge,  [Exit  BuTL'ER 


SCENE  X. 


To  these  enter  the  Countess  Tertsky,  pale  and  dis 
ordered.  Her  utterance  is  slow  and  feeble,  and  un- 
impassioned. 

octavio  {meeting  her). 
O  Countess  Tertsky !  These  are  the  results 
Of  luckless  unblest  deeds. 

countess. 

They  are  the  fruits 
Of  your  contrivances.    The  duke  is  dead. 
My  husband  too  is  dead,  the  Duchess  struggles 
In  the  pangs  of  death,  my  niece  has  disappear'd. 
This  house  of  splendor,  and  of  princely  glory. 
Doth  now  stand  desolated  :  the  aflfrighted  servant 
Rush  forth  through  all  its  doors.    I  am  the  last 
Therein ;  I  shut  it  up,  and  here  deliver 
The  keys. 

octavio  {with  a  deep  anguish). 
O  Countess !  my  house  too  is  desolate 

countess. 
Who  next  is  to  be  murder'd  ?   Who  is  next 
To  be  maltreated  ?  Lo  !  the  Duke  is  dead. 
The  Emperor's  vengeance  may  be  pacified .' 
Spare  the  old  servants ;  let  not  their  fidelity 
Be  imputed  to  the  faithful  as  a  crime — 

212 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE. 


203 


The  evil  destiny  surprised  my  brolher 
Too  suddenly ;  he  could  not  think  on  them. 

OCTAVIO. 

Speak  not  of  vengeance !  Speak  not  of  maltreatment ! 

The  Emperor  is  appeased  ;  the  heavy  fault 

Hath  heavily  been  expiated — nothing 

Descended  from  the  father  to  the  daughter, 

Except  his  glory  and  his  services. 

The  Empress  honors  your  adversity, 

Takes  part  in  your  afflictions,  opens  to  you 

Her  motherly  arms  !   Therefore  no  iarther  fears  ; 

Yield  yourself  up  in  hope  and  confidence 

To  the  Imperial  Grace ! 

COUNTESS  {infh  her  ei/e  raised  to  heaven) 
To  the  grace  and  mercy  of  a  greater  Master 
Do  I  jaeld  up  myself    Where  shall  the  body 
Of  the  Duke  have  its  place  of  final  rest  ? 
In  the  Chartreuse,  which  he  himself  did  found 
At  Gitschin,  rest  the  C'ountess  Wallenstein ; 
And  by  her  side,  to  whom  he  was  indebted 
For  his  first  fortunes,  gratefully  he  wish'd 
He  might  sometime  repose  in  death  !  O  let  him 
Be  buried  there.  And  likewise,  for  my  husband's 
Remains,  I  ask  the  like  grace.    The  Emperor 
Is  now  proprietor  of  all  our  Castles. 
This  sure  may  well  be  granted  us — one  sepulchre 
Beside  the  sepulchres  of  our  forefathers ! 

OCTAVIO. 

Countess,  you  tremble,  you  turn  pale ! 
cou.NTESS  {reassembles  all  her  powers,  and  spcalis  with 
energy  and  dignity). 

You  think 


More  worthily  of  me,  than  to  believe 
I  would  survive  the  downfall  of  my  house. 
We  did  not  hold  ourselves  too  mean  to  grasp 
After  a  monarch's  crown — the  crown  did  Fate 
Deny,  but  not  the  feeling  and  the  spirit 
That  to  the  crown  belong !   We  deem  a 
Courageous  death  more  worthy  of  our  free  station 
Than  a  dishonor'd  life. — I  have  taken  poison. 

OCTAVIO. 

Help !  Help !  Support  her ! 

COUNTESS. 

Nay,  it  is  loo  late. 
In  a  few  moments  is  my  fate  accomplish 'd. 

[Exit  Countess 

GORDON. 

O  house  of  death  and  horrors ! 

[An  Officer  enters,  and  brings  a  letter  with  the 
great  seal. 
GORDON  (steps  forward  and  meets  him). 
What  is  this? 
It  is  the  Imperial  Seal. 

[He  reads  the  address,  and  delivers  the  letter  to 
OcTAVio  with  a  look  of  reproach,  and  with 
an  emphasis  on  the  word. 
To  the  Prince  Piccolomini. 

[OcTAVio,  wiih  his  whole  frame  expressive  of  sud- 
den anguish,  raises  his  eyes  to  heaven. 

{Tlie  Curtain  drops.) 


Kilt  iFall  of  iiiotiC!f)ij)icvre ; 

AN  HISTORIC  DRAMA. 


DEDICATION. 

TO  H.  MARTIN,  ESQ. 

OF  JESUS  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE. 

Dear  Sir, 
Accept,  as  a  small  testimony  of  my  grateful  attach- 
ment, the  following  Dramatic  Poem,  in  which  I  have 
endeavored  to  detail,  in  an  interesting  form,  the  fall 
of  a  man,  whose  great  bad  actions  have  cast  a  dis- 
astrous lustre  on  his  name.  In  the  execution  of  the 
work,  as  intricacy  of  plot  could  not  have  been  at- 
tempted without  a  gross  violation  of  recent  facts,  it 
has  been  my  sole  aim  to  imitate  the  impassioned  and 
highly  figurative  language  of  the  IVench  Orators, 
and  to  develop  the  characters  of  the  chief  actors  on 
a  vast  stage  of  horrors. 

Yours  fraternally, 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 

Jesus  College,  September  22,  1 794. 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE. 


ACT  L 

SCENE,  The  Tuilleries 

barrere. 

The  tempest  gathers — be  it  mine  to  seek 
A  friendly  shelter,  ere  it  bursts  upon  him. 
But  where  ?  and  how  ?  I  fear  the  Tyrant's  soul— 
Sudden  in  action,  fertile  in  resource. 
And  rising  awful  "mid  impending  ruins ; 
In  splendor  gloomy,  as  the  midnight  meteor, 
That  fearless  thwarts  the  elemental  war. 
When  last  in  secret  conference  we  met. 
He  scowl'd  upon  me  with  suspicious  rage. 
Making  his  eye  the  inmate  of  my  bosom. 
I  know  he  scorns  me — and  I  feel,  I  hate  him — 
Yet  «here  is  in  him  that  which  makes  me  tremble ! 

[Exit 
'28  213 


•204 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS, 


Enler  Tallien  and  Legendre. 

TALl.IEN. 

It  was  Barrere,  Legendre  I  didst  thou  mark  him  ? 

Abrupt  he  turn'd,  yet  Hnger'd  as  he  went, 

And  towards  us  cast  a  look  of  doubtful  meaning. 

LEGENDRE. 

1  mark'd  him  well.    I  mel  his  eye's  last  glance; 

It  menaced  not  so  proudly  as  of  yore. 

Methought  he  would  have  spoke — but  that  he  dared 

not — 
Such  agitation  darken'd  on  his  brow. 

TALJ.IEN. 

Twas  all-distrusting  guilt  that  kept  from  bursting 
Th'  imprison'd  secret  struggling  in  the  face  : 
B'en  as  the  sudden  breeze  upstarting  onwards 
Hurries  the  thunder-cloud,  that  poised  awhile 
Hung  in  mid  air,  red  with  its  mutinous  burthen. 

LEGENDRE. 

Perfidious  Traitor! — still  afraid  to  bask 
In  the  full  blaze  of  power,  the  rustling  serpent 
Lurks  in  the  thicket  of  the  Tyrant's  greatness. 
Ever  prepared  to  sting  who  shelters  him. 
Each  thought,  each  action  in  himself  converges  ; 
And  love  and  friendship  on  his  coward  heart 
Shine  like  the  powerless  sun  on  polar  ice : 
To  all  attach'd,  by  turns  deserting  all, 
Cunning  and  dark — a  necessary  villain! 

TALLIEX. 

Yet  much  depends  upon  him — well  you  know 
With  plausible  harangue  't  is  his  to  paint 
Defeat  like  victory — and  blind  the  mob 
With  truth-mix'd  falsehood.    They,  led  on  by  him. 
And  wild  of  head  to  work  their  own  destruction, 
Support  with  uproar  what  he  plans  in  darlmess. 

LEGENDRE. 

O  what  a  precious  name  is  Liberty 

To  scare  or  cheat  the  simple  into  slaves ! 

Yes — we  must  gain  him  over :  by  dark  hints 

We'll  show  enough  to  rouse  his  watchful  fears, 

Till  the  cold  coward  blaze  a  patriot. 

O  Danton !  murder'd  friend  !  assist  my  counsels — 

Hover  aroiuid  me  on  sad  memory's  wings. 

And  pour  thy  daring  vengeance  in  my  heart. 

Tallien !  if  but  to-morrow's  fateful  sun 

Beholds  the  Tyrant  living — we  are  dead ! 

TALLIEN. 

Yet  his  keen  eye  that  flashes  mighty  meanings — 

LEGENDRE. 

Fear  not — or  rather  fear  th'  alternative, 

And  seek  for  courage  e'en  in  cowardice. 

But  see — hither  he  comes — let  us  away  ! 

His  brother  with  him,  and  the  bloody  Couthon, 

And  high  of  haughty  spirit,  young  St-Just. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  Robespierre,  Coutiion,  St-Just,  and 
Robespierre  Junior. 

robespierre. 
What!  did  La  Fayette  fall  betbre  my  power? 
And  did  I  conquer  Roland's  spotless  virtues  ? 
The  fervent  eloquence  of  'V^ergniaud's  tongue? 
And  Brissot's  thoughtful  soul  unbribed  and  bold  ? 
Did  zealot  armies  haste  in  vain  to  save  them  ? 
What !  did  th'  assassin's  dagger  aim  its  point 
Vain,  as  a  dream  of  murder,  at  my  bosom  ? 


And  shall  I  dread  the  soft  luxurious  Tallien  ? 
Th' Adonis  Tallien?  banquet-hunting  Tallien? 
Him,  whose  heart  flutters  at  the  dice-box  ?  Him, 
Who  ever  on  the  harlots'  downy  pillow 
Resigns  his  head  impure  to  feverish  slumbers ! 

ST-JUST. 

I  cannot  fear  him — yet  we  must  not  scorn  him 
Was  it  not  Antony  that  conquer'd  Brutus, 
Th' Adonis,  banquet-hunting  Antony? 
The  state  is  not  yet  purified :  and  though 
The  stream  runs  clear,  yet  at  the  bottom  lies 
The  thick  black  sediment  of  all  the  factions — 
It  needs  no  magic  hand  to  stir  it  up ! 

COUTHON. 

O  we  did  wrong  to  spare  them — fatal  error ! 
Why  lived  Legendre,  when  that  Danton  died  ? 
And  Collot  d'Herbois  dangerous  in  crimes  ? 
I've  fear'd  him,  since  his  iron  heart  endured 
To  make  of  Lyons  one  vast  human  shambles. 
Compared  with  which  the  sun-scorch'd  wilderness 
Of  Zara  were  a  smiling  paradise. 

ST-JUST. 

Rightly  thou  judgest,  Couthon  !  He  is  one, 

Who  flies  from  silent  solitary  anguish. 

Seeking  forgetful  peace  amid  the  jar 

Of  elements.    The  howl  of  maniac  uproar 

Lulls  to  sad  sleep  the  memory  of  himself 

A  calm  is  fatal  to  him — then  he  feels 

The  dire  upboilings  of  the  storm  within  him. 

A  tiger  mad  with  inviard  wounds. T  dread 

The  fierce  and  restless  turbulence  of  guilt. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Is  not  the  commune  ours?    The  stern  tribunal? 
Dumas?  and  Vivier?    Fleuriot?  and  Louvet? 
And  Henriot  ?  We  '11  denounce  a  hundred,  nor 
Shall  they  behold  to-morrow's  sun  roll  westward. 

ROBESPIERRE  JUNIOR. 

Nay — I  am  sick  of  blood  ;  my  aching  heart 
Reviews  the  long,  long  train  of  hideous  horrors 
That  still  have  gloom'd  the  rise  of  the  republic. 
J  should  have  died  before  Toulon,  when  war 
Became  the  patriot! 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Most  unworthy  wish ! 
He,  whose  heart  sickens  at  the  blood  of  traitors, 
Would  be  himself  a  traitor,  were  he  not 
A  coward !  'T  is  congenial  souls  alone 
Shed  tears  of  sorrow  for  each  other's  fate. 
O  thou  art  brave,  my  brother !  and  thine  eye 
Full  firmly  shines  amid  the  groaning  battle — 
Yet  in  thine  heart  the  woman-form  of  pity 
Asserts  too  large  a  share,  an  ill-timed  guest! 
There  is  unsoundness  in  the  stale — To-morrow 
Shall  see  it  cleansed  by  wholesome  massacre! 

ROBESPIERRE  JUNIOR. 

Beware !  already  do  the  sections  murmur — 
"  O  the  great  glorious  patriot,  Robespierre — 
The  tyrant  guardian  of  the  country's  yVeetfoOT  '' 

COUTHON. 

Twere  folly  sure  to  work  great  deeds  by  halves 
Much  I  suspect  the  darlvsome  fickle  heart 
Of  cold  Barrere ! 

ROBESPIERRE. 

I  see  the  villain  in  him ! 

ROBESPIERRE  JUNIOR. 

If  he — if  all  forsake  thee— what  remains  ? 
214 


THE  FxVLL  OF  ROBESPIERRE. 


205 


ROBESPIERRE. 

JNIyself !  the  steel-strong  Rectitude  of  soul 
And  Poverty  sublime  'mid  circling  virtues ! 
The  giant  Victories,  my  counsels  form'd, 
Shall  stalk  around  me  with  sun-glittering  plumes, 
Bidding  the  darts  of  calumny  fall  pointless. 

[Exeunt  cceteri.  Manet  Couthon. 

COUTHON  (solus). 

So  We  deceive  ourselves  I   UTiat  goodly  virtues 
Bloom  on  the  poisonous  branches  of  ambition ! 
Still,  Robespierre  I  thou 'It  guard  lliy  country's  freedom 
To  despotize  in  all  the  patriot's  pomp. 
While  Conscience,  'mid  the  mob's  applauding  clamors, 
Sleeps  in  thine  ear,  nor  whispers — blood-stain'd  tyrant! 
Yet  what  is  Conscience  ?  Superstition's  dream. 
Making  such  deep  impression  on  our  sleep — 
That  long  th'  awaken'd  breast  retains  its  horrors ! 
But  he  returns — and  with  liim  comes  Barrere. 

[Exit  Couthon. 

Enter  Robespierre  mid  Barrere. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

There  is  no  danger  but  in  cowardice. — 
Barrere  !  we  7nake  the  danger,  when  we  fear  it. 
We  have  such  force  %\ithout,  as  will  suspend 
The  cold  and  trembling  treachery  of  these  members, 

BARRERE. 

'Twill  be  a  pause  of  terror. — 

ROBESPIERRE. 

But  to  whom? 
Rather  the  short-lived  slumber  of  the  tempest, 
Gathering  its  strength  anew.  The  dastard  traitors ! 
Moles,  that  would  undermine  the  rooted  oak ! 
A  pause  I — a  moment's  pause  ! — 'T  is  all  their  life. 

BARRERE, 

Ypt  much  they  talk — and  plausible  tlioir  speech. 
Couthon's  decree  has  given  such  jjowers,  that — 


ROBESPIERRE. 


BAEEJRE. 

The  freedom  of  de  Date- 


That  what  ? 


ROBESPIERRE. 

Transparent  mask 
They  wish  to  clog  the  wheels  of  government. 
Forcing  the  hand  that  guides  the  vast  machine 
To  bribe  them  to  their  duly — English  patriots ! 
Are  not  the  congregated  clouds  of  war 
Black  all  around  us  ?  In  our  very  vitals 
Works  not  the  king-bred  poison  of  rebellion  ? 
Say,  what  shall  counteract  the  selfish  ploltings 
Of  wretches,  cold  of  heart,  nor  awed  by  fears 
Of  him,  whose  power  directs  th'  eternal  justice  ? 
Terror  ?  or  secret-sapping  gold  ?  The  first 
Heavy,  but  transient  as  the  ills  that  cause  it ; 
And  to  the  virtuous  patriot  render'd  light 
By  the  necessities  that  gave  it  birth : 
The  other  fouls  the  fount  of  the  republic, 
Making  it  flow  polluted  to  all  ages ; 
Inoculates  the  state  with  a  slow  venom. 
That,  once  imbibed,  must  be  continued  ever. 
Myself  incorruptible,  I  ne'er  could  bribe  them — 
Therefore  they  hate  me. 

BARRERE. 

Are  the  sections  friendly  ? 
T2 


ROBESPIERRE. 

Tliere  are  who  wish  my  ruin — but  I  '11  make  them 
Blush  for  the  crime  in  blood ! 

BARRERE. 

Nay,  but  I  tell  theo 
Thou  art  too  fond  of  slaughter — and  the  right 
(If  right  it  be)  workest  by  most  foul  means  I 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Self-centering  Fear  !  how  well  thou  canst  ape  Mercy  ! 
Too  fond  of  slaughter ! — matchless  hypocrite  ! 
Thought  Barrere  so,  when  Brissot,  Danton  died  ? 
Thought  Barrere  so,  when  through  the  streaming 

streets 
Of  Paris  red-eyed  Massacre  o'er-wearied 
Reel'd  heavily,  intoxicate  with  blood  ? 
And  when  (O  heavens !)  in  Lyons'  death-red  square 
Sick  Fancy  groan'd  o'er  putrid  hills  of  slain, 
Didst  thou  not  fiercely  laugh,  and  bless  the  day  ? 
Why.  thou  hast  been  the  mouth-piece  of  all  horrors. 
And,  like  a  blood-hound,  crouch'd  for  murder !  Now 
Aloof  thou  standest  from  the  tottering  pillar. 
Or,  like  a  frighted  child  behind  its  mother, 
Hidest  thy  pale  face  in  the  skirts  of — Mercy  ! 

BARRERE. 

0  prodigality  of  eloquent  anger  ! 

Why  now  I  see  thou  'rt  weak — thy  case  is  desperate 
The  cool  ferocious  Robespierre  turn'd  scolder ! 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Who  from  a  bad  man's  bosom  wards  the  blow 
Reserves  the  whetted  dagger  for  his  own. 
Denounced  twice — and  twice  I  saved  liis  life !  [Exit 

BARRERE. 

The  sections  will  support  them — there's  the  point! 
No  !  he  can  never  weather  out  the  storm — 
Yet  he  is  sudden  in  revenge — No  more  I 

1  must  away  to  Tallien.  [FrL 


SCENE  changes  to  the  house  of  Adelaide. 
Adelaide  enters,  speaking  to  a  Servant. 

ADELAIDE. 

Didst  thou  present  the  letter  that  I  gave  thee  ? 
Did  TalUen  answer,  he  w  ould  soon  return  ? 

SERVANT. 

He  is  in  the  Tuilleries — with  him  Legendre — 
In  deep  discourse  they  seera'd  ;  as  I  approach'd. 
He  waved  his  hand  as  bidding  me  retire  .- 
I  did  not  interrupt  him.  [Returns  the  leUe> 

ADELAIDE. 

Thou  didst  rightly. 

[Exit  Servani 
O  this  new  freedom !  at  how  dear  a  price 
We've  bought  the  seeming  good !  The  peaceful  virtues 
And  every  blandishment  of  private  life. 
The  father's  cares,  the  mother's  fond  endearment. 
All  sacrificed  to  Liberty's  wild  riot. 
The  winged  hours,  that  scatter'd  roses  round  me, 
Languid  and  sad  drag  their  slow  course  along. 
And  shake  big  gall-drops  from  their  heavy  wings. 
But  I  will  steal  away  these  anxious  thoughts 
By  the  soft  languishment  of  warbled  airs. 
If  haply  melodies  may  lull  the  sense 
Of  sorrow  for  a  while. 

215 


206 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


{Soft  Music). 
Enter  Tallien. 


Music,  my  love  ?  O  breathe  again  that  air ! 

Soft  nurse  of  pain,  it  soothes  the  weary  soul 

Of  care,  sweet  as  the  whisper'd  breeze  of  evening 

That  plays  around  the  sick  man's  throbbing  temples. 


Tell  me,  on  what  holy  ground 
May  domestic  peace  be  found  ? 
Halcyon  daugiiter  of  the  skies, 
Far  on  learful  wing  she  flies. 
From  the  pomp  of  sceptred  state, 
From  tlie  rebel's  noisy  hate. 

In  a  cottaged  vale  she  dwells, 
Lisfning  to  the  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Still  around  her  steps  are  seen 
Spotless  Honor's  meeker  mien. 
Love,  the  lire  of  pleasing  fears, 
Sorrow  smiling  through  her  tears  ; 
And,  conscious  of  the  past  employ, 
Memory,  bosom-spring  of  joy. 

TALLIEN. 

I  thank  thee,  Adelaide !  't  was  swCet,  though  mournful. 
But  why  thy  brow  o'ercast,  thy  cheek  so  wan  ? 
Thou  look'st  as  a  lorn  maid  beside  some  stream 
That  sighs  away  the  soul  in  fond  despairing. 
While  Sorrow  sad,  like  the  dank  willow  near  her, 
Hangs  o'er  the  troubled  fountain  of  her  eye. 

ADELAIDE. 

Ah  !  rather  let  me  ask  what  mystery  lowers 

On  Tallien's  darken'd  brow.  Thou  dost  me  wrong — 

Thy  soul  distemper'd,  can  my  heart  be  tranquil  ? 

TALLIEN. 

Tell  me,  by  whom  thy  brother's  blood  was  spilt  ? 
Aslis  he  not  vengeance  on  these  patriot  murderers  ? 
It  has  been  borne  too  tamely.    Fears  and  curses 
Groan  on  our  midnight  beds,  and  e'en  our  dreams 
Threaten  the  assassin  hand  of  Robespierre. 
He  dies ! — nor  has  the  plot  escaped  his  fears. 

ADELAIDE. 

Yet — yet — be  cautious !  much  I  fear  the  Commune — 
The  tyrant's  creatures,  and  their  fate  with  his 
Fast  link'd  in  close  indissoluble  union. 
The  Pale  Convention — 

TALLIEN. 

Hate  him  as  they  fear  him, 
Impatient  of  the  chain,  resolved  and  ready. 

ADELAIDE. 

Th'  enthusiast  mob,  Confusion's  lawless  sons — 


They  are  aweary  of  his  stern  morality, 
The  fair-mask'd  ofllspring  of  ferocious  pride. 
The  sections  loo  support  the  delegates  : 
All — all  is  ours !  e'en  now  the  vital  air 
Of  Liberty,  condensed  awhile,  is  bursting 
(Force  irresistible  !)  from  its  compressure — 
To  shatter  the  arch-chemist  in  the  explosion ! 


Enter  Billaud  'V^aren.nes  ajid  Bourdon  l'Oise. 

[Adelaide  retires 
bourdon  l'oise. 
Tallien !  was  this  a  time  for  amorous  conference  ? 
Henriot,  the  tyrant's  most  devoted  creature. 
Marshals  the  force  of  Paris :  the  fierce  club, 
With  Vivier  at  their  head,  in  loud  acclaim 
Have  sworn  to  make  tlie  guillotine  in  blood 
Float  on  the  scaffold. — But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Barrere  abruptly. 

barrere. 
Say,  are  ye  friends  to  Freedom?   lam  her's! 
Let  us,  forgetful  of  all  common  feuds. 
Rally  around  her  shrine !  E'en  now  the  tyrant 
Concerts  a  plan  of  instant  massacre  ! 

billaud  varennes. 
Away  to  the  Convention  !  with  that  voice 
So  oft  the  herald  of  glad  victory. 
Rouse  their  fallen  spirits,  thunder  in  their  ears 
The  names  of  tyrant,  plimderer,  assassin ! 
The  violent  workings  of  my  soul  within 
Anticipate  the  monster's  blood  ? 

[Cry  from  the  street  of— "No  Tyrant!  Down  with 
the  Tyrant .'" 

TALLIEN. 

Hear  ye  that  outcry  ? — If  the  trembUng  members 
Even  for  a  moment  hold  his  fate  suspended, 
I  swear,  by  the  holy  poniard  that  stabb'd  Cffisar, 
This  dagger  probes  his  heart ! 

[Exeunt  omnes. 


ACT  II. 

SCEJVE.— TAe  Convention. 

ROBESPIERRE  {motints  the  Tribune). 
Once  more  befits  it  that  the  voice  of  Truth, 
Fearless  in  innocence,  though  leaguer'd  round 
By  Envy  and  her  hateful  brood  of  hell, 
Be  heard  amid  this  hall ;  once  more  befits 
The  patriot,  whose  prophetic  eye  so  oft 
Has  pierced  through  faction's  veil,  to  flash  on  crimes 
Of  deadliest  import.    Mouldering  in  the  grave 
Sleeps  Capet's  caitiff  corse  ;  my  daring  hand 
Levell'd  to  earth  his  blood-cemented  throne, 
My  voice  declared  his  guilt,  and  stirr'd  up  France 
To  call  for  vengeance.    I  too  dug  the  grave 
Where  sleep  the  Girondists,  detested  band  ! 
Long  with  tlie  show  of  freedom  they  abused 
Her  ardent  sons.    Long  time  the  vv'ell-turn'd  phrase 
The  high-fraught  sentence,  and  the  lofty  tone 
Of  declamation,  thundcr'd  in  this  hall. 
Till  reason  'midst  a  labyrinth  of  words 
Perplex'd,  in  silence  seem'd  to  yield  assent. 
I  durst  oppose.    Soul  of  my  honor'd  friend  ! 
Spirit  of  Marat,  upon  thee  I  call — 
Thou  know'st  me  faithful,  know'st  with  what  wa. 

zeal 
I  urged  the  cause  of  justice,  s'tripp'd  the  mask 
From  Faction's  deadly  visage,  and  destroy'd 
Her  traitor  brood.   Whose  patriot  arm  hurl'd  down 
Hebert  and  Rousin,  and  the  villain  friends 
Of  Danton,  foul  apostate  !  those,  who  long 
Mask'd  Treason's  form  in  Liberty's  fair  garb, 

216 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE. 


207 


Long  deluged  France  with  blood,  and  durst  defy 

Omniiwtence  I  but  I,  it  seems,  am  false ! 

1  am  a  traitor  too  !  I — Robespierre ! 

I — at  whose  name  the  dasiarii  despot  brood 

Look  pale  with  fear,  and  call  on  saints  to  help  them! 

Who  dares  accuse  me  ?  who  shall  dare  belie 

My  spotless  name  ?  Speak,  ye  accomplice  band, 

Of  what  am  I  accused  ?   of  what  strange  crime 

Is  Maximilian  Robespierre  accused. 

That  ihrougli  this  hall  the  buzz  of  discontent 

Should  murmur  ?  who  shall  speak  ? 

BILLAUD  VARENNES. 

O  patriot  tongue. 
Belying  the  foul  heart !  Who  was  it  urged. 
Friendly  to  tyrants,  that  accurst  decree 
Whose  influence,  brooding  o'er  this  hallow'd  hall. 
Has  chill'd  each  tongue  to  silence.    Who  destroy 'd 
The  freedom  of  debate,  and  carried  through 
The  fatal  law,  that  doom'd  the  delegates. 
Unheard  before  their  equals,  to  the  bar 
Where  cruelty  sat  throned,  and  murder  reign'd 
With  her  Dumas  coequal  I  Say — thou  man 
Of  mighty  eloquence,  whose  law  was  that  ? 

COUTHOX. 

That  law  was  mine.    I  urged  it — I  proposed — 
The  voice  of  France  a.ssembled  in  her  sons 
Assented,  thougli  the  tame  and  timid  voice 
Of  traitors  murmur'd.    I  advised  that  law — 
I  justify  it.    It  was  wise  and  good. 

BARRERE. 

Oh,  wondrous  wise,  and  most  convenient  too ! 
I  have  long  mark'd  thee,  Robespierre — and  now 
Proclaim  thee  traitor — tyrant ! 

[Loud  ap2)lauses. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

It  is  well. 
J  am  a  traitor !  oh,  that  I  had  fallen 
When  Regnault  lifted  high  the  murderous  knife  ; 
Regnault,  the  instrument  belike  of  those 
Who  now  themselves  would  fain  assassinate, 
And  legalize  their  murders.    I  stand  here 
An  isolated  patriot — hemm'd  around 
By  faction's  noisy  pack ;  beset  and  bay'd 
By  the  foul  hell-hounds  who  know  no  escape 
From  Justice'  outstretch'd  arm,  but  by  the  force 
That  pierces  through  her  breast. 

[Murmurs,  and  shouts  of — Down  with  the  tyrant ! 

ROBESPIERRE. 

IS'ay,  but  I  will  be  heard.  There  was  a  time. 
When  Robespierre  began,  the  loud  applauses 
Of  honest  patriots  drown'd  the  honest  sound. 
But  times  are  changed,  and  villany  prevails. 

COLLOT  d'hERBOIS. 

No — villany  shall  fall.  France  could  not  brook 
A  monarch's  sway — sounds  the  dictator's  name 
More  soothing  to  her  ear  ? 

BOURDON  l'OISE. 

Rattle  her  chains 
More  musically  now  than  when  the  hand 
Of  Brissot  forged  her  fetters,  or  the  crew 
Of  Herbert  thundered  out  theii  blasphemies, 
And  Danlon  lalk'd  of  virtue  I 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Oh,  that  Brissot 
Were  here  again  to  thunder  in  this  hall. 
That  Herbert  Uved,  and  Danton's  giant  form 


Scowl'd  once  again  defiance !  so  my  soul 
Might  cope  with  worthy  foes. 

People  of  France, 
Hear  me !  Beneath  the  vengeance  of  the  law. 
Traitors  have  perish'd  countless  ;  more  survive  : 
The  hydra-headed  faction  lifts  anew 
Her  daring  front,  and  fruitful  from  her  woimds, 
Cautious  from  past  defeats,  contrives  new  wiles 
Against  the  sons  of  Freedom. 

TALLIEN. 

Freedom  lives! 
Oppression  falls — for  France  lias  felt  her  chains. 
Has  burst  them  too.    Who  traitor-like  stept  forth 
Amid  the  hall  of  Jacobins  to  save 
Camille  Desmoulins,  and  the  venal  wretch 
D'Eglantine  ? 

ROBESPIERRE. 

I  did — for  I  thought  them  honest 
And  Heaven  forefend  that  vengeance  ere  should  stride 
Ere  justice  doom'd  the  blow. 

BARRERE. 

Traitor,  thou  didst. 
Yes,  the  accomplice  of  their  dark  designs, 
Awhile  didst  thou  defend  them,  when  the  storm 
Lower'd  at  safe  distance.    When  the  clouds  frown'd 

darker, 
Fear'd  for  yourself  and  left  them  to  their  fate. 
Oh,  I  have  mark'd  thee  long,  and  through  the  veil 
Seen  thy  foul  projects.    Yes,  ambitious  man, 
Self-wiird  dictator  o'er  the  realm  of  France, 
The  vengeance  thou  hast  plann'd  for  patriots 
Falls  on  thy  head.    Look  how  thy  brother's  deeds 
Dishonor  tliine  !  He  the  firm  patriot. 
Thou  the  foul  parricide  of  Liberty  I 

ROBESPIERRE  JUNIOR. 

Barrere — attempt  not  meanly  to  divide 
Me  from  my  brother.    I  partake  his  guilt, 
For  I  partake  his  virtue. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Brother,  by  my  soul 
More  dear  I  hold  thee  to  my  heart,  that  thus 
With  me  thou  darest  to  tread  the  dangerous  path 
Of  virtue,  than  that  Nature  twined  her  cords 
Of  kindred  round  us. 

BARRERE. 

Yes,  allied  in  guilt. 
Even  as  in  blood  ye  are.    Oh,  thou  worst  wretch. 
Thou  worse  than  Sylla !  hast  thou  not  proscribed. 
Yea,  in  most  foul  anticipation  slaughter'd, 
Each  patriot  representative  of  France  I 

BOURDON  l'oISE. 

Was  not  the  younger  CoBsar  too  to  reign 
O'er  all  our  valiant  armies  in  the  south. 
And  still  continue  there  his  merchant  wiles  ? 

ROBESPIERRE  JUNIOR. 

His  merchant  wiles!  Oh,  grant  me  patience.  Heaven' 
Was  it  by  merchant  wiles  I  gain'd  you  back 
Toulon,  when  proudly  on  her  captive  towers 
Waved  high  the  English  flag  ?  or  fought  I  then 
With  merchant  wiles,  when  sword  in  hand  I  led 
Your  troops  to  conquest  ?  Fought  I  merchant-hke. 
Or  barter'd  I  for  victory,  when  death 
Strode  o'er  the  reeking  streets  with  giant  stnde. 
And  shook  his  ebon  plumes,  and  sternly  smiled 
Amid  the  bloody  banquet  ?  when  appall'd, 
The  hireling  sons  of  England  spread  the  sail 
217 


208 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  safety,  fought  I  like  a  merchant  then  ? 
Oh,  patience  !  patience ! 

BOURDON  l'OISE. 

How  this  younger  tyrant 
Mouths  out  defiance  to  us !  even  so 
He  had  led  on  the  armies  of  the  south, 
Till  once  again  the  plains  of  France  were  drench'd 
With  her  best  blood. 

COLLOT  d'HERBOIS. 

Till,  once  again  display'd, 
Lyoas'  sad  tragedy  had  call'd  me  forth 
The  minister  of  wrath,  whilst  slaughter  by 
Had  bathed  in  human  blood. 

DUBOIS  CRANCE. 

No  wonder,  friend, 
Tliat  we  are  traitors — that  our  heads  must  fall 
Beneath  the  ax  of  death !   When  Caesar-like 
Reigns  Robespierre,  'tis  wisely  done  to  doom 
The  fall  of  Brutus.    Tell  me,  bloody  man. 
Hast  thou  not  parcell'd  out  deluded  France, 
As  it  had  been  some  province  won  in  fight, 
Between  your  curst  triumvirate  ?  You,  Couthon, 
Go  with  my  brother  to  the  southern  plains ; 
St-Just,  be  yours  the  army  of  the  north  ; 
Meantime  I  rule  at  Paris. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Matchless  knave ! 
What — not  one  blush  of  conscience  on  thy  cheek — 
Not  one  poor  blush  of  truth  !  Most  likely  tale  ! 
That  I  who  ruin'd  Brissot's  towering  hopes, 
I  who  discover'd  Hebert's  impious  wiles. 
And  sharp'd  for  Danton's  recreant  neck  the  ax. 
Should  now  be  traitor !  had  I  been  so  minded, 
Think  ye  I  had  destroy'd  the  very  men 
Whose  plots  resembled  mine  ?  Bring  forth  your  proofs 
Of  this  deep  treason.    Tell  me  in  whose  breast 
Found  ye  the  fatal  scroll  ?  or  tell  me  rather 
Who  forged  the  shameless  falsehood  ? 

COLLOT  d'hERBOIS. 

Ask  you  proofs  ? 
Robespierre,  what  proofs  were  ask'd  when  Brissoldied? 

LEGENDRE. 

What  proofs  adduced  you  when  the  Danton  died  ? 
When  at  the  imminent  peril  of  my  life 
I  rose,  and  fearless  of  thy  frowning  brow, 
Proclaim'd  him  guiltless  ? 

ROBESPIERRE. 

I  remember  well 
The  fatal  day.    I  do  repent  me  much 
That  I  kill'd  CoBsar  and  spared  Antony. 
But  I  have  been  too  lenient.    I  have  spared 
The  stream  of  blood,  and  now  my  own  must  flow 
To  fill  the  current. 

[Loud  applauses. 
Triumph  not  too  soon. 
Justice  may  yet  be  victor. 

Enter  St-Just,  and  mounts  the  Tribune. 

ST-JUST. 

I  come  from  the  committee — charged  to  speak 
Of  matters  of  high  import.     I  omit 
Their  orders.     Representatives  of  France, 
Boldly  in  his  own  person  speaks  St-Just 
What  his  own  heart  shall  dictate. 


Hear  ye  this, 


Insulted  delegates  of  France  ?  St-Just 

From  your  committee  comes — comes  charged  to  speak 

Of  matters  of  high  import — yet  omits 

Their  orders !  Representatives  of  France, 

That  bold  man  I  denounce,  who  disobeys 

The  nation's  orders. — I  denounce  St-Just. 

[Loud  applauses 

ST-JUST. 

Hear  me !  [  Violent  murmurs 

ROBESPIERRE. 

He  shall  be  heard ! 

BOURDON  L'OISE. 

Must  we  contaminate  this  sacred  hall 
With  the  foul  breath  of  treason  ? 


COLLOT  D  HERBOIS. 


Hence  with  him  to  the  bar. 


Drag  him  away ! 


COUTHON. 

Oh,  just  proceedings ! 
Robespierre  prevented  liberty  of  speech — 
And  Robespierre  is  a  tyrant !  Tallien  reigns. 
He  dreads  to  hear  the  voice  of  innocence — 
And  St-Just  must  be  silent ! 

LEGENDRE. 

Heed  we  well 
That  justice  guide  our  actions.    No  light  import 
Attends  this  day.    I  move  St-Just  be  heard. 

FRERON. 

Inviolate  be  the  sacred  right  of  man. 
The  freedom  of  debate. 

[Violent  applause 

ST-JUST. 

I  may  be  heard,  then!  much  the  times'are  changed 

When  St-Just  thanks  this  hall  for  hearing  him. 

Robespierre  is  call'd  a  tyrant.    Men  of  France, 

Judge  not  too  soon.    By  popular  discontent 

Was  Aristides  driven  into  exile. 

Was  Phocion  murder'd  ?  Ere  ye  dare  pronounce 

Robespierre  is  guilty,  it  befits  ye  well. 

Consider  who  accuse  him.    Tallien, 

Bourdon  of  Oise — the  very  men  denounced. 

For  their  dark  intrigues  distiirb'd  the  plan 

Of  government.    Legendre,  the  sworn  friend 

Of  Danton,  fall'n  apostate.    Dubois  Crance, 

He  who  at  Lyons  spared  the  royalists — 

Collot  d'Herbois — 

BOURDON  l'OISE. 

What — shall  the  traitor  rear 
His  head  amid  our  tribune — and  blaspheme 
Each  patriot  ?  shall  the  hireling  slave  of  faction— 

ST-JUST. 

I  am  of  no  faction.    I  contend 
Against  all  factions. 

tallien. 
I  espouse  the  cause 
Of  truth.    Robespierre  on  yester-morn  pronounced 
Upon  his  own  authority  a  report. 
To-day  St-Just  comes  down.    St-Just  neglects 
What  the  committee  orders,  and  harangues 
From  liis  own  will.    O  citizens  of  France, 
I  weep  for  you — I  weep  for  my  poor  country— 
I  tremble  for  the  cause  of  Liberty, 
When  individuals  shall  assume  tlie  sway, 
And  with  more  Insolence  than  kingly  pride 
Rule  the  republic. 

218 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE. 


209 


BILLAUD  VARENNES. 

Shudder,  ye  representatives  of  France, 
Shudder  with  horror.  Henriot  commands 
The  marshall'd  Icirce  of  Paris — Ilenriot, 
Foul  ]>arricide^tlie  sworn  ally  of  Ilebert, 
Denounced  by  all — upheld  by  Robespierre. 
Who  spared  La  \'allette  ?  who  promoted  him, 
Stain'd  with  the  deep  dye  of  nobility  ? 
Who  to  an  ex-peer  gave  tlie  high  command  ? 
Who  sereeu'd  from  justice  the  rapacious  thief? 
Wlio  cast  in  chains  the  friends  of  Liberty  ? 
Robespierre,  the  self-styled  patriot  Robespierre — 
Robes|)ierre,  allied  with  villain  Daubigne — 
Robespierre,  the  foul  arch-tyrant  Robespierre. 

BOURDON  L'oISE. 

He  talks  of  virtue— of  morality — 
Consistent  patriot !  he,  Daubigne 's  friend  ! 
Henriot's  supporter  virtuous !  Preach  of  virtue. 
Yet  league  with  villains,  for  with  Robespierre 
Villains  alone  ally.    Thou  art  a  tyrant ! 
I  style  thee  tyrant,  Robespierre  ! 

[Loud  applauses. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Take  back  the  name,  ye  citizens  of  France — 

[Violent  clamor.  Cries  of — Down  with  the  Tyrant: 


Oppression  falls.    The  traitor  stands  appall'd — 

Guilt's  iron  fangs  engrasp  his  shrinking  soul — 

He  hears  assembled  France  denounce  his  crimes  ! 

He  sees  the  mask  torn  from  his  secret  sins — 

He  trembles  on  the  precipice  of  fate. 

Fall'n  guilty  tyrant !  murder'd  by  ihy  rage. 

How  many  an  innocent  victim's  blood  has  stain'd 

Fair  Freedom's  altar  !  Sylla-like,  thy  hand 

Mark'd  down  the  virtues,  that,  thy  foes  removed. 

Perpetual  Dictator  thou  mightst  reign. 

And  tyrannize  o'er  France,  and  call  it  freedom ! 

Long  time  in  timid  guilt  the  traitor  plann'd 

His  fearful  wiles — success  emboldon'd  sin — 

And  his  stretch'd  arm  had  grasp'd  the  diadem 

Ere  now,  but  that  the  coward's  heart  recoil'd. 

Lest  France  awaked,  should  rouse  herfromherdreara. 

And  call  aloud  for  vengeance.    He,  like  Caesar, 

With  rapid  step  urged  on  his  bold  career. 

Even  to  the  summit  of  ambitious  power. 

And  deem'd  the  name  of  King  alone  wa.s  wanting. 

Was  it  for  this  we  hurl'd  proud  Capet  down  ? 

Is  it  for  this  we  wage  eternal  war 

Against  the  tyrant  horde  of  murderers, 

The  crovvn'd  cockatrices  whose  foul  venom 

Infects  all  Europe  ?  was  it  then  for  this 

We  swore  to  guard  our  liberty  with  life, 

That  Robespierre  should  reign?  the  spirit  of  freedom 

Is  not  yet  sunk  so  low.    The  glowing  flame 

That  animates  each  honest  Frenchman's  heart 

Not  yet  extinguish'd.    I  invoke  thy  shade, 

Immortal  Brutus  I  I  too  wear  a  dagger ; 

And  if  the  representatives  of  France, 

Through  fear  or  favor,  should  delay  tlie  sword 

Of  justice,  Tallien  emulates  thy  virtues  ; 

Tallien,  like  Brutus,  lifts  the  avenging  arm ; 

Tu!lien  shall  save  his  country. 

[  Violent  applauses. 

BILL^lUD  VARENNES. 

I  demand 
15 


The  arrest  of  the  traitors.    Memorable 
Will  be  this  day  for  France. 

ROBESPIERRE. 

Yes !  memorable 
This  day  will  be  for  France for  villains  triumph. 

LEBAS. 

I  will  not  share  in  this  day's  damning  guilt. 
Condemn  me  too. 

[Great  cry — Down  with  the  Tyrants! 

(T/ietooRoBESPIERRES,  C0UTII0N,ST-JuSTanrfLEBAS 

are  led  off). 


ACT  IIL 

Scene  continues. 

COLLOT    d'HERBOIS. 

CfBsar  is  fallen !  The  baneful  tree  of  Java, 
Whose  death-distilling  boughs  dropt  poisonous  dew, 
Is  rooted  from  its  base.    This  worse  than  Cromwell, 
The  austere,  the  self-denying  Robespierre, 
Even  in  this  hall,  where  once  with  terror  mute 
We  listen'd  to  the  hypocrite's  harangues, 
Has  heard  his  doom. 

BILLAUD   VARENNES. 

Yet  must  we  not  suppose 
The  tyrant  will  fall  lamely.    His  sworn  hireling 
Henriot,  the  daring  desperate  Henriot 
Coramands  the  force  of  Paris.    I  denounce  him. 

FRERON. 

I  denounce  Fleuriot  too,  the  mayor  of  Paris. 
Enter  Dubois  Crance. 

DUBOIS    CRANC£. 

Robespierre  is  rescued.    Henriot  at  the  head 
Of  the  arm'd  force  has  rescued  the  fierce  tj'rant. 

COLLOT    d'HERBOIS. 

Ring  the  tocsin — call  all  the  citizens 

To  save  their  country — never  yet  has  Paris 

Forsook  the  representatives  of  France. 

TALLIEN. 

It  is  the  hour  of  danger.    I  propose 
This  silting  be  made  permanent. 

[Loud  applauses. 

COLLOT    d'HERBOIS. 

The  National  Convention  shall  remain 
Firm  at  its  post. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

MESSENGER. 

Robespierre  has  reach'd  the  Commune.  They  espouse 
The  tyrant's  cause.    St-Just  is  up  in  arms ! 
St-Just — the  young  ambitious  bold  St-Just 
Harangues  the  mob.    The  sanguinary  Couthon 
Thirsts  for  your  blood. 

[Tocsin  -tngs. 

TALLIEN. 

These  tyrants  are  in  arms  against  the  law : 
Outlaw  the  rebels. 

Enter  Merlin  of  Douay. 

MERLIN. 

Health  to  the  representatives  of  France ! 
I  past  this  moment  through  the  armed  force — 
They  a-sk'd  my  name — and  when  they  heard  a  delegate. 
Swore  I  was  not  tiie  friend  of  France. 
219 


210 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


COLLOT    d'HERBOIS. 

The  tyrants  threaten  us,  as  when  they  tum'd 
The  cannon's  mouth  on  Brissot. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

SECOND  MESSENGER. 

Vivier  harangues  the  Jacobins — the  club 
Espouse  the  cause  of  Robespierre. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

THIRD  messenger. 

All 's  lost — the  tyrant  triumphs.    Henriot  leads 

The  soldiers  to  his  aid. Already  I  hear 

The  rattling  cannon  destined  to  surround 
This  sacred  hall. 

TALL  I  en. 
Why,  we  will  die  like  men  then ; 
The  representatives  of  France  dare  death, 
When  duty  steels  their  bosoms. 

[Loud  applauses. 

TALLIEN  (addressing  the  galleries). 
Citizens ! 
France  is  insulted  in  her  delegates — 
The  majesty  of  the  republic  is  insulted — 
Tyrants  are  up  in  arms.    An  armed  force 
Threats  the  Convention.    The  Convention  swears 
To  die,  or  save  the  country ! 

[  Violent  applauses  from  the  galleries. 

CITIZEN  {from  above). 

We  too  swear 
To  die,  or  save  the  country.    Follow  me. 

[All  the  men  quit  the  galleries. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 

FOURTH  MESSENGER- 

Henriot  is  taken ! — 

[Loitd  applauses. 
Henriot  is  taken.    Three  of  your  brave  soldiers 
Swore  they  would  seize  the  rebel  slave  of  tyrants, 
Or  perish  in  the  attempt.     As  he  patroU'd 
The  streets  of  Paris,  stirring  up  the  mob. 
They  seized  him. 

[Applauses. 

BILLAUD    VARENNES. 

Let  the  names  of  these  brave  men 
Live  to  the  future  day. 

Enter  Bourdon  l'Oise,  sword  in  hand. 

BOURDON  L'OISE. 

I  have  clear'd  the  Commune. 

[Apjjlauses. 
Through  the  throng  I  rush'd, 
BrandisTiing  my  good  sviord  to  drench  its  blade 
Deep  in  the  tyrant's  heart.    The  timid  rebels 
Gave  way.    I  met  the  soldiery — I  spake 
Of  the  dictator's  crimes — of  patriots  chain'd 
In  dark  deep  dungeons  by  his  lawless  rage — 
Of  knaves  secure  beneath  his  fostering  power. 
I  spake  of  Liberty.    Their  honest  hearts 
Caught  the  warm  flame.  The  general  shout  burst  forth, 
"  Live  the  Convention — Down  with  Robespierre  !" 

[Applauses. 
[Shouts  from  without — Down  with  the  Tyrant! 

TALLIEN. 

I  hear,  I  hear  the  soul-inspiring  sounds, 

France  shall  be  saved  !  her  generous  sons,  attached 


To  principles,  not  persons,  spurn  the  idol 

They  worshipp'd  once.    Yes,  Robespierre  shall  fall 

As  Capet  fell !    Oh !    never  let  us  deem 

That  France  shall  crouch  beneath  a  tyrant's  throne. 

That  the  almighty  people  who  have  broke 

On  their  oppressors'  heads  the  oppressive  chain. 

Will  court  again  their  fetters !  easier  were  it 

To  hurl  the  cloud-capt  mountain  from  its  base, 

Than  force  the  bonds  of  slavery  upon  men 

Determined  to  be  free ! 

[Applauses. 

Enter  Legendre,  a  pistol  in  one  hand,  keys  in  the 
other. 

legendre  {flinging  down  the  keys). 
So — let  the  mutinous  Jacobins  meet  now 
In  the  open  air. 

[Loud  applauses 
A  factious  turbulent  party 
Lording  it  o'er  the  state  since  Danton  died, 
And  with  him  the  Cordeliers. — A  hireling  band 
Of  loud-tongued  orators  controll'd  the  club. 
And  bade  them  bow  the  knee  to  Robespierre. 
Vivier  has  'scaped  me.    Curse  his  coward  heart — 
This  fate-fraught  tube  of  Justice  in  my  hand, 
I  rush'd  into  the  hall.    He  mark'd  mine  eye 
That  beam'd  its  patriot  anger,  and  flash'd  full 
With  deatli-denouncing  meaning.    'Mid  the  throng 
He  mingled.    I  pursued — but  staid  my  hand, 
Lest  haply  1  might  shed  the  innocent  blood. 

[Applauses, 

fr^ron. 
They  took  from  me  my  ticket  of  admission — 
Expell'd  me  from  their  sittings. — ?s^ow,  forsooth, 
Humbled  and  trembling  re-insert  my  name  ; 
But  Freron  enters  not  the  club  again 
Till  it  be  purged  of  guilt — till,  purified 
Of  tyrants  and  of  traitors,  honest  men 
May  breathe  the  air  in  safety. 

[Shouts  from  without. 

earrere. 
What  means  this  uproar  ?  if  the  tyrant  band 
Should  gain  the  people  once  again  to  rise — 
We  are  as  dead  ! 

TALLIEN. 

And  wherefore  fear  we  death  ? 
Did  Brutus  fear  it  ?  or  the  Grecian  friends 
Who  buried  in  Hipparchus'  breast  the  sword, 
And  died  triumphant?   Caesar  should  fear  death: 
Brutus  must  scorn  the  bugbear. 

Shouts  from  without.  Live  the  Convention — Down 
with  the  Tyrants! 

TALLIEN. 

Hark !  agair 
The  sounds  of  honest  Freedom ! 

Enter  Deputies  from  the  Sections. 

CITIZEN. 

Citizens  !  representatives  of  France  ! 
Hold  on  your  steady  course.    The  men  of  Paris 
Espouse  your  cause.    The  men  of  Paris  swear 
They  will  defend  the  delegates  of  Freedom. 

TALLIEN. 

Hear  ye  this.  Colleagues  ?  hear  ye  this,  my  brethren , 
And  does  no  thrill  of  joy  pervade  your  breasts  ? 
My  bosom  bounds  to  rapture.    I  have  seen 

220 


THE  FALL  OF  ROBESPIERRE, 


211 


The  sons  of  France  shake  off  the  tyrant  yoke  ; 
I  have,  as  much  as  hes  in  mine  own  arm, 
llurl'd  do«ni  the  usurper. — Come  death  when  it  will, 
I  have  lived  long  enough. 

[Shouts  wilhoul. 

BARRERE. 

Hark!  how  the  noise  increases!  ihrough  the  gloom 
Of  the  still  evening — harbinger  of  death, 
Rings  the  tocsin !  the  dreadful  generale 
Thunders  through  Paris — 

[Cry  without — Down  with  the  Tyrant ! 
Enter  Lecoi.ntke. 

LECOINTRE. 

So  may  eternal  justice  blast  the  foes 
Of  France !  so  perish  all  the  tyrant  brood, 
As  Robespierre  has  perish'd  I    Citizens, 
Ca3sar  is  taken. 

[Loud  and  repeated  applauses. 
I  marvel  not,  that  with  such  fearless  front, 
He  braved  our  vengeance,  and  with  angry  eye 
Scowl'd  round  the  hall  defiance.    He  relied 
On  Henriot's  aid — the  Commune's  villain  friendship, 
And  Henriot's  boughtcn  succors.    Ye  have  heard 
How  Henriot  rescued  him — how  with  open  arms 
The  Commune  welcomed  in  the  rebel  tyrant — 
How  Fleuriot  aided,  and  seditious  Vivier 
Stirr'd  up  the  Jacobins.    All  had  been  lost — 
The  representatives  of  France  had  perish'd — 
Freedom  had  sunk  beneath  the  tyrant  arm 
Of  this  foul  parricide,  but  that  her  spirit 
Inspired  the  men  of  Paris.    Henriot  call'd 
"To  arms"  in  vain,  whilst  Bourdon's  patriot  voice 
Breathed  eloquence,  and  o'er  the  Jacobins 
Legendre  frown'd  dismay.    The  tyrants  fled — 
They  reach'd  the  Hotel.     We  gather'd  round — we 

call'd 
For  vengeance  !    Long  lime,  obstinate  in  despair. 
With  knives  they  hack'd  around  them.  Till  foreboding 
The  sentence  of  the  law,  the  clamorous  cry 
Of  joyful  thousands  hailing  their  destruction. 
Each  sought  by  suicide  to  escape  the  dread 
Of  death.    Lebas  succeeded.    From  the  window 
Leapt  the  yoiuiger  Robespierre,  but  liis  fractured  limb 
Forbade  to  escape.    The  selfwill'd  dictator 
Plunged  often  the  keen  knife  in  his  dark  breast, 
Yet  impotent  to  die.    He  lives  all  mangled 
By  his  own  tremidous  hand  !    All  gasli'd  and  gored, 
He  lives  to  taste  the  bitterness  of  Death. 
Even  now  they  meet  their  doom.  The  bloody  Couthon, 
The  fierce  St-Just,  even  now  attend  their  tyrant 
To  fall  beneath  the  ax.    I  saw  the  torches 
Flash  on  their  visages  a  dreadful  light — 
I  saw  them  whilst  the  black  blood  roll'd  adown 
Each  stern  face,  even  then  with  dauntless  eye 
Scowl  round  contemptuous,  dying  as  they  lived, 
Fearless  of  fate  I 

[Loud  and  repeated  applauses. 


BARRERE  {mou7ils  tkc  Tribune). 
For  ever  liallow'd  be  this  glorious  day, 
Wlien  Freedom,  bursting  her  oppressive  chain, 
Tramples  on  the  opjircssor.    When  the  tyrant, 
Hurl'd  from  his  blood-cemented  throne  by  the  arm 
Oi'  the  almighty  people,  meets  the  death 
He  plann'd  for  thousands.    Oh !  my  sickening  heart 
Has  sunk  witliin  me,  when  the  various  woe.s 
Of  my  brave  country  crowded  o'er  my  brain 
In  ghastly  numbers — when  assembled  hordes, 
Dragg'd  from  their  hovels  by  despotic  power, 
Rush'd  o'er  her  frontiei-s,  plunder'd  her  fair  hamlets, 
And  sack'd  her  populous  towns,  and  drcnch'd  with 

blood 
The  reeldng  fields  of  Flanders. — When  within. 
Upon  her  vitals  prey'd  the  rankling  tooth 
Of  treason ;  and  oppression,  giant  form, 
Trampling  on  freedom,  left  the  alternative 
Of  slavery,  or  of  death.    Even  from  that  day, 
When,  on  the  guilty  Capet,  I  pronounced 
The  doom  of  injured  France,  has  Faction  rear'd 
Her  hated  head  amongst  us.    Roland  preach'd 
Of  mercy — the  uxorious  dotard  Roland. 
The  woman-govern'd  Roland  durst  aspire 
To  govern  France ;  and  Petion  talk'd  of  virtue. 
And  Vergniaud's  eloquence,  like  the  honey 'd  tongue 
Of  some  soft  Syren,  wooed  us  to  destruction. 
We  triumph'd  over  these.    On  the  same  scaflbld 
Where  the  last  Louis  poiir'd  his  guilty  blood, 
Fell  Brissol's  head,  the  womb  of  darksome  treasons, 
And  Orleans,  villain  kinsman  of  the  Capet, 
And  Hebert's  atheist  crew,  whose  maddening  hand 
Hurl'd  down  the  altars  of  the  living  God, 
With  all  the  infidel's  intolerance. 
The  last  worst  traitor  triumph'd — triumph'd  long. 
Secured  by  matchless  villany.    By  turns 
Defending  and  deserting  each  accomplice, 
As  interest  prompted.    In  the  goodly  soil 
Of  Freedom,  the  foul  tree  of  treason  struck 
Its  deep-fix'd  roots,  and  dropt  the  dews  of  death 
On  all  who  slumber'd  in  its  specious  shade. 
He  wove  the  web  of  treachery.    He  caught 
The  listening  crowd  by  his  wild  eloquence, 
His  cool  ferocity,  that  persuaded  murder, 
Even  whilst  it  spake  of  mercy! — Never,  never 
Shall  this  regenerated  country  wear 
The  despot  yoke.    Though  myriads  round  assail, 
And  with  worse  fury  urge  this  new  crusade 
Than  savages  have  known ;    tliough  the  leagued 

despots 
Depopulate  all  Europe,  so  to  pour 
The  accumulated  mass  upon  our  coasts, 
Sublime  amid  the  storm  shall  France  arise. 
And  like  the  rock  amid  surrounding  waves 
Repel  the  rushing  ocean. — She  shall  wield 
The  thunderbolt  of  vengeance — she  shall  blast 
The  despot's  pride,  and  liberate  the  world ! 

221 


29 


212 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


J^i.<jiceUanrou!5  ^oemi^* 


PROSE  IN  RHYME :  OR  EPIGRAMS,  MORALITIES,  AND  THINGS  WITHOUT  A  NAME 


"Epuf  aei  XaXijJpot  eraipos- 


In  many  ways  does  the  full  heart  reveal 

The  presence  of  the  love  it  would  conceal ; 

But  in  far  more  th'  estranged  heart  lets  know 

The  absence  of  the  love,  which  yet  it  fain  would  show. 


LOVE.* 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  lliat  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay 
Beside  the  ruin'd  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve  ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  I 

She  leant  against  the  armed  man. 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 
She  stood  and  listen'd  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope  !  my  joy  !  my  Genevieve  ! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  play'd  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace  ; 
For  well  she  loiew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand  ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  :  and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 


itja  piece  may  be  found,  as  originally  published,  under  aa- 
otber  title,  at  page  28. 


She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With  dov\'ncast  eyes,  and  modest  grace  , 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  cross'd  the  mountain-woods. 
Nor  rested  day  nor  niglit ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den. 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade;. 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, 

There  came  and  look'd  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight .' 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did. 
He  leap'd  amid  a  murderous  band. 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land! 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasp'd  his  knees ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brcwn. 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave ; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay. 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reach'd 
Tliat  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrill'd  my  guihless  Genevieve ; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope. 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued. 
Subdued  and  cherish'd  long ! 
222 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


213 


She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blush'J  with  love,  and  virgin  shame ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  slept  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stepp'd — 
Then  suddenly,  wnn  timorous  eye 
■She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  inclosed  me  with  her  arms. 
She  press'd  me  with  a  meek  embrace  ; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  look'd  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

■'Twas  partly  Love,  and  partly  Fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art. 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see, 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calm'd  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  brighi  and  beauteous  Bride. 


DUTY  SURVIVING  SELF-LOVE, 

THE  ONLY  SURE  FRIEND  OF  DECLINING  LIFE. 

A  SOLILOQCy. 

Unchanged  within  to  see  all  changed  without, 

Is  a  blank  lot  and  hard  to  bear,  no  doubt. 

Yet  why  at  others'  warnings  shouldst  thou  fret  ? 

Then  only  mightst  thou  feel  a  just  regret, 

Hadst  thou  withheld  thy  love  or  hid  thy  light 

In  selfish  forethought  of  neglect  and  slight. 

O  wiselier  then,  from  feeble  yearnings  freed, 

WJule,  and  on  whom,  thou  mayest — shine  on !  nor  lieed 

Whether  the  object  by  rellected  light 

Return  thy  radiance  or  absorb  it  quite  ; 

And  though  thou  notest  from  thy  safe  recess 

Old  Friends  burn  dim,  like  lamps  in  noisome  air. 

Love  them  for  what  they  are :  nor  love  them  less, 

Because  to  thee  they  are  not  what  they  were. 


PHANTOM  OR  FACT? 

A  DIALOGUE  IN  VERSE. 
AUTHOR. 

A  LOVELY  form  there  sale  beside  my  bed. 
And  such  a  feeding  calm  its  presence  shed, 
A  tender  love  so  pure  from  earthly  leaven 
That  I  unnethe  tlie  fancy  might  control, 
'T  was  my  own  spirit  newly  come  from  heaven 
Wooing  its  gentle  way  into  my  soul .' 
But  ah  I  the  cliange — It  liad  not  stirr'd,  and  yet- 
Alas!  tliat  cliange  how  fain  would  I  forget! 
That  shrinking  back,  like  one  that  had  mistook ! 
That  weary,  wandering,  disavowing  Look ! 
'Twas  all  another,  feature,  look,  and  frame. 
And  sail,  melhought,  I  knew  it  was  the  same ! 

friend. 
This  riddling  tale,  to  what  does  it  belong  ? 
Is't  history  ?  vision  ?  or  an  idle  song  ? 

U 


Or  rather  say  at  once,  within  what  space 

Of  time  this  wild  disastrous  change  took  place  ? 

AUTHOR. 

Call  it  a  momenCs  work  (and  such  it  seems), 
This  tale's  a  fragment  from  the  life  of  dreams; 
But  say,  that  years  matured  the  silent  strife. 
And  'tis  a  record  from  the  dream  of  Life. 


WORK  WITHOUT  HOPE. 

LINES  COMPOSED  2IST  FEBRUARY,   1827. 

All  Nature  seems  at  work.    Stags  leave  their  lair— 

The  bees  are  stirring — Birds  are  on  the  wing — 

And  Winter,  slumbering  in  the  open  air. 

Wears  on  his  smiling  face  a  dream  of  Spring ! 

And  I,  the  while,  the  sole  unbusy  tiling. 

Nor  honey  make,  nor  pair,  nor  build,  nor  sing. 

Yet  well  I  ken  the  banks  where  amaranths  blow, 
Have  traced  the  fount  whence  streams  of  nectar  flow. 
Bloom,  O  ye  amaranths !   bloom  for  whom  ye  may, 
For  me  ye  bloom  not !  Glide,  rich  streams,  away ! 
With  lips  unbrighten'd,  wreatliless  brow,  I  stroll : 
And  would  you  learn  the  spells  that  drowse  my  soul? 
Work  without  hope  draws  nectar  in  a  sieve, 
And  hope  without  an  object  cannot  live. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

Verse,  a  breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying. 
Where  Hope  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee — 
Both  were  mine!  Life  went  a-maying 
V^'ith  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 
When  I  was  young! 
When  I  was  j^oung  ? — Ah,  woful  ichen  .' 
Ah  for  the  change  'twixt  now  and  then! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  w  rong. 
O'er  airy  clifls  and  glittering  sands, 
How  liglitly  then  it  flash'd  along: — 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore. 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide. 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide  ! 
Nought  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather, 
When  Youth  and  I  lived  in't  togethei 

Flowers  are  lovely;  Love  is  flower-like  , 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree  ; 
O  the  joys,  that  came  down  shower-like. 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 

Ere  I  was  old  ! 
Ere  1  was  old  ?  Ah  woful  Ere, 
Which  tells  me,  Youth  's  no  longer  here ! 

0  Youth !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 
'Tis  known,  that  thou  and  I  were  one, 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 

It  cannot  be,  that  lliou  art  gone  ! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toH'd  :- 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold ! 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on. 
To  make  believe  that  thou  art  gone  ? 

1  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips. 
This  drooping  gait,  tliis  alter'd  size : 

223 


niA 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  springtide  blossoms  on  thy  lips, 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes ! 
Life  is  but  thought :  so  think  I  will 
That  youth  and  I  are  house-mates  still. 


A  DAY  DREAM. 

My  eyes  make  pictures,  when  they  are  shut : — 

I  see  a  fountain,  large  and  fair, 
A  willow  and  a  ruin'd  hut. 

And  thee,  and  me,  and  Mary  there. 

0  Mary !  make  thy  gentle  lap  our  pillow ! 

Bend  o'er  us,  like  a  bower,  my  beautiful  green  willow! 

A  wild-rose  roofs  the  ruin'd  shed. 

And  that  and  summer  well  agree : 
And  lo !  where  Marj^  leans  her  head. 
Two  dear  names  carved  upon  the  tree ! 
And  Mary's  tears,  ihey  are  not  tears  of  sorrow : 
Our  sister  and  our  friend  will  both  be  here  to-morrow. 

'T  was  day !  But  now  few,  large,  and  bright, 

The  stars  are  round  the  crescent  moon ! 
And  now  it  is  a  dark  warm  night, 
The  balmiest  of  the  month  of  June  ! 
A  glow-worm  fallen,  and  on  the  marge  remounting 
Shines,  and  its  shadow  shines,  fit  stars  for  our  sweet 
fountain. 

O  ever — ever  be  thou  blest ! 

For  dearly,  Asra !  love  I  thee  ! 
This  brooding  warmth  across  my  breast. 
This  depth  of  tranquil  bliss — ah  me ! 
Fount,  tree  and  shed  are  gone,  I  know  not  whither, 
But  in  one  quiet  room  we  three  are  still  together. 

The  shadows  dance  upon  the  wall. 

By  the  still  dancing  firo-flames  made; 
And  now  they  slumber,  moveless  all ! 
And  now  ihey  melt  lo  one  deep  shade ! 
But  not  from  me  shall  this  mild  darkness  steal  thee : 

1  dream  thee  with  mine  eyes,  and  at  my  heart  I  feel 

thee !  - 

Thine  eyelash  on  my  cheek  doth  play — 

'Tis  Maiy's  hand  upon  my  brow! 
But  let  me  chock  this  tender  lay, 

\\'hich  none  may  hear  but  she  and  thou ! 
Like  the  still  hive  at  quiet  midnight  humming, 
Murmur  it  to  yourselves,  ye  two  beloved  women ! 


TO  A  LADY, 

OFFENDED  BY  A  SPORTIVE  OBSERVATION  THAT  WOMEN 
HAVE  NO  SOULS. 

Nay,  dearest  Anna  !  why  so  grave? 

I  said,  you  had  no  soul,  'tis  true! 
For  what  you  are  you  cannot  ]tave: 

'Tis  I,  that  have  one  since  I  first  had  t/ou! 


I  have  heard  of  reasons  manifold 
Why  Love  must  needs  be  bHnd, 

But  this  the  best  of  all  I  hold — 
His  eyes  are  in  his  mind 


What  outward  form  and  feature  are 
He  guesseth  but  in  part ; 

But  what  within  is  good  and  fair 
He  seeth  with  the  heart 


LINES  SUGGESTED  BY  THE  LAST  WORDS 
OF  BERENGARIUS. 

OB.  ANNO  DOM.   1088. 

No  more  'twixt  conscience  staggering  and  the  Pope, 
Soon  shall  I  now  before  my  God  appear. 
By  him  to  be  acquitted,  as  I  hope  ; 
By  him  to  be  condemned,  as  I  fear, 

REFLEOTIO.XS  ON  THE  ABOVE. 

Lynx  amid  moles !  had  I  stood  by  thy  bed. 

Be  of  good  cheer,  meek  soul !  I  would  have  said . 

I  see  a  hope  spring  from  that  humble  fear. 

All  are  not  strong  alike  through  storms  to  steer 

Right  onward.    What  though  dread  of  threaten'd 

death 
And  dungeon  torture  made  thy  hand  and  breath 
Inconstant  to  the  truth  within  thy  heart  ? 
That  truth,  from  which,  through  fear,  thou  twice 

didst  start, 
Fear  haply  told  thee,  was  a  learned  strife. 
Or  not  so  vital  as  to  claim  thy  life  : 
And  myriads  had  reach'd  Heaven,  who  never  knev9 
Where  lay  the  difference  'twixt  the  false  and  true ! 

Ye  who,  secure  'mid  trophies  not  your  own, 
Judge  him  who  won  them  when  he  stood  alone, 
And  proudly  talk  of  recreant  Berengare — 
0  first  the  age,  and  then  the  man  compare ! 
That  age  how  dark  !  congenial  minds  how  rare! 
No  host  of  friends  with  kindred  zeal  did  burn ! 
No  throbbing  hearts  awaited  his  return  ! 
Prostrate  alike  when  prince  and  peasant  fell. 
He  only  disenchanted  from  the  spell, 
Like  the  weak  worm  that  gems  the  starless  night, 
Moved  in  the  scanty  circlet  of  his  light  : 
And  was  it  strange  if  he  withdrew  the  ray 
That  did  but  guide  the  night-birds  to  tlieir  prey  ? 

The  ascending  Day-star  with  a  bolder  eye 
Hath  lit  each  dew-drop  on  our  trimmer  lawn ! 
Yet  not  for  this,  if  wise,  will  we  decrj' 
The  spots  and  struggles  of  the  timid  Dawn  ! 
Lest  so  we  tempt  th'  approaching  Noon  to  scorn 
The  mists  and  painted  vapors  of  our  Morn. 


THE  DEVIL'S  THOUGHTS 

From  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 

A- walking  the  Devil  is  gone. 
To  visit  his  little  snug  farm  of  the  earth, 

And  see  how,  his  stock  went  on. 

Over  the  hill  and  over  the  dale, 

And  he  went  over  the  plain, 
And  backwards  and  forwards  he  swish'd  his  long  tail 

As  a  gentleman  swishes  his  cane. 

And  how  then  was  the  Devil  drest  ? 

Oh  !  he  was  in  his  Sunday's  best : 
His  jacket  was  red  and  his  breeches  were  blue. 

And  there  was  a  hole  where  the  tail  came  through 

224 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


215 


tie  siiw  a  Lawyer  killing  a  Viper 

On  a  (hmg-heap  beside  his  stable, 
^nd  the  Devil  smiled,  ior  it  put  him  in  mind 

Of  Cain  and  his  brother,  Abel. 

A  PoTHF.CAiiY  on  a  white  horse 

Rode  by  on  his  vocations, 
And  the  Devil  thought  of  his  old  Friend 

Death  in  the  Revelations. 

He  saw  a  cottage  with  a  double  coach-house, 

A  cottage  of  gentility ! 
And  the  Devil  did  grin,  for  his  darling  sin 

Is  pride  that  apes  humility. 

He  went  into  a  rich  bookseller's  shop. 
Quoth  he!  we  are  both  of  one  college; 

For  I  myself  sate  like  a  cormorant  once 
Fast  by  the  tree  of  luiowledge.* 

Down  the  river  there  plied  with  wind  and  tide, 

A  pig,  with  vast  celerity; 
And  the  Devil  look'd  wise  as  he  saw  how  the  while, 
it  cut  its  own  throat.    There  I  quoth  he,  with  a  smile, 

Goes  "  England's  commercial  prosperity." 

As  he  went  through  Cold-Balh  Fields,  he  saw 

A  solitary  cell. 
And  the  Devil  was  pleased,  for  it  gave  him  a  hint 

For  improving  his  prisons  in  Hell. 


General 's  burning  face 

He  saw  with  consternation. 
And  back  to  Hell  his  way  did  he  take. 
For  the  Devil  thought,  by  a  slight  mistake, 

It  was  general  conflagration. 


*  And  all  amid  them  stood  the  Tree  of  Life 
High  eminnnt,  blooming  amhrosial  fruit 
Of  vegetable  gold  (query  paper  monetj?);  and  next  to  Life 
Our  Death,  the  Tree  of  Knowledge,  grew  fast  by. — 


So  clomb  this  first  grand  thief 

Thence  up  he  flew,  and  on  the  tree  of  life 
Sat  like  a  cormorant. — Par.  Losl,  IV. 

The  allegory  here  is  so  npt,  that  in  a  catalogue  of  various 
rrndings  obtained  from  collating  the  MPS.  one  might  expect  to 
find  it  noted,  that  for  "  Ai/e"  Cad.  Quid  habent,  "  Trade." 
Thcmgh  indeed  the  trade,  i.  e.  the  bibliopolic,  so  called, 
(Car'  c^6)(^n'',  may  be  regarded  as  f.ife  sansu  eminentiori :  a. 
suggestion,  which  I  owe  to  a  young  retailer  in  the  hosiery  line, 
who  on  hearing  a  description  of  the  net  profits,  dinner  parties, 
country  houses,  etc.  of  the  trade,  exclaimed,  "Ay!  that's 
what  1  call  I.ife  now!"— This  '•Life,  irwr  Death,"  is  tjius 
happily  contrasted  wirii  the  fruits  of  Authorship.— Sic  nos  non 
nobis  nieljificanlus  Apes. 

Of  this  poem,  with  which  the  Fire,  Famine  and  Slaughter 
first  apprn.-ed  in  the  Morning  Post,  the  threefirst  stanzas,  which 
are  worth  all  the  rest,  and  ihe  ninth,  were  dictated  by  Mr. 
Souihey.  Between  the  ninth  and  the  concluding  stanza,  two  or 
three  are  omitted  iis  grounded  on  subjects  that  have  lost  their 
interest — and  for  better  reasons. 

If  any  one  should  n.slc,  who  General meant,  the  Author 

hegs  leave  to  inform  him,  thai  he  did  once  see  a  red-faced  per- 
«on  in  a  dream  whom  by  the  dress  he  look  for  a  General ;  but 


CONSTANCY  TO  AN  IDEAL  OBJECT. 

Since  all,  that  beat  about  in  Nature's  range, 
Or  veer  or  vanish,  why  shoiildst  thou  remain 
The  only  constant  in  a  world  of  change — 

0  yearning  thought,  that  livest  but  in  the  brain? 
Call  to  the  hours,  that  in  the  distance  play, 

The  fairy  people  of  the  future  day 

Fond  thought!  not  one  of  all  that  shining  swarm 
Will  breathe  on  fhcc  with  life-enkindling  breath, 
Till  when,  like  strangers  shelt'ring  from  a  storm, 
Hope  and  Despair-  meef  in  the  porch  of  Death ! 
Yet  stiil  thou  haunt'st  me ;  and  though  well  I  see, 
She  is  not  tliou,  and  only  thou  art  she. 
Still,  still  as  though  some  dear  embodied  good, 
Some  Uvijig  love  before  my  eyes  tTiere  stood. 
With  answering  look  a  ready  ear  to  lend, 

1  mourn  to  thee  and  say — "  Ah !  loveliest  friend ! 
That  this  tlie  meed  of  all  my  toils  might  be, 

To  have  a  home,  an  English  home  and  thee ! 
Vain  repetition !    Home  and  thou  art  one. 
The  peacefull'st  cot  the  moon  shall  shine  upon, 
LuH'd  by  the  thrush  and  waken'd  by  the  lark, 
Without  thee  were  but  a  becalmed  Bark, 
Whose  helmsman  on  an  ocean  waste  and  wide 
Sits  mute  and  pale  his  mouldering  helm  beside. 

And  art  thou  nothing  ?    Such  thou  art,  as  when 
The  woodman  winding  westward  up  the  glen 
At»  wintry  dawn,  where  o'er  the  sheep-track's  maze 
The  viewless  snow-mist  weaves  a  glist'ning  haze. 
Sees  full  before  him,  gliding  without  tread, 
An  imaget  with  a  glory  round  its  head  ; 
The  enamour'd  rustic  worships  its  fair  hues. 
Nor  knows,  he  makes  the  shadow  he  pursues ! 


THE  SUICIDE'S  ARGUMENT. 

Ere  the  birth  of  my  life,  if  I  wish'd  it  or  no 
No  question  was  ask'd  me — it  could  not  be  so ! 
If  the  life  was  the  question,  a  thing  sent  to  try, 
And  to  live  on  be  Yes  ;  what  can  No  be  I  to  die. 

nature's  answer. 
Is't  return'd  as  'twas  sent?  Is't  no  worse  for  the  wear! 
Think  first,  what  you  are!    Call  to  mind  what  you 

were  ! 
I  gave  you  innocence,  I  gave  you  hope, 
Gave  health,  and  genius,  and  an  ample  scope. 
Return  you  me  guilt,  lethargy,  despair  ? 
Make  out  the  Invent'rj' ;  inspect,  compare  ! 
Then  die — if  die  you  dare  ! 


ho  might  have  been  mistaken,  and  most  certainly  he  did  not 
hear  any  names  mentioned.  In  simple  verity,  the  Authornever 
meant  any  one,  or  indeed  any  thing  but  to  put  a  concluding 
stanza  to  his  doggerel. 

t  This  phenomenon,  which  the  Author  has  himself  expe- 
rienced, and  of  which  the  reader  may  finil  a  description  in  one 
of  the  earlier  volumes  of  the  Manchester  Philosophical  Trans- 
actions, is  applied  figuratively  in  the  following  passage  of  the 
Aidato  Reflection: 

"  Pindar's  fine  remark  respecting  the  diffcR'nt  efTccts  of  music 
on  different  characters,  holds  equally  true  of  Genius:  as  many 
as  are  not  delighted  by  it  are  disturbed,  perplexed,  irritated. 
The  beholder  either  recognizes  it  as  a  projected  form  of  his  own 
Being,  that  moves  before  him  with  a  Glorv  round  its  head,  or 
recoils  from  it  as  a  snectre." — .Hids  to  Reflection,  p.  2iX). 
225 


216 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE  BLOSSOMING  OF  THE  SOLITARY 
DATE-TREE. 


A  LAMENT. 


I  seem  to  have  an  indistinct  recollection  of  having  read  either 
in  one  of  the  ponderous  tomes  of  George  of  Venice,  or  in  some 
other  compilation  from  the  uninspired  Hebrew  Writers,  an 
Apologue  or  Rabbinical  Tradition  to  the  following  purpose: 

While  our  first  parents  stood  before  their  otTended  Maker, 
and  the  last  words  of  the  sentence  were  yet  sounding  in  Adam's 
ear,  the  guileful  false  serpent,  a  counterfeit  and  a  usurper  from 
the  beginning,  presumptuously  took  on  himself  the  character 
of  advocate  or  mediator,  and  pretending  to  intercede  for  Adam, 
exclaimed:  "Nay,  Lord,  in  thy  justice,  not  so!  for  the  Man 
was  the  least  in  fault.  Rather  let  the  Woman  return  at  once 
to  the  dust,  and  let  Adam  remain  in  this  thy  Paradise."  And 
the  word  of  the  Most  High  answered  Satan:  "  The  tender 
mercies  of  the  wicked  are  cruel.  Treacherous  Fiend  !  if  with 
guilt  like  thine,  it  had  been  possible  for  thee  to  have  the  heart 
of  a  Man,  and  to  feel  the  yearning  of  a  human  soul  for  its 
counterpart,  the  sentence,  which  thou  now  counsellest,  should 
have  been  inflicted  on  thyself." 


[The  title  of  the  following  poem  was  suggested  by  a  fact  men- 
tioned by  LinncBus,  of  a  Date  tree  in  a  nobleman's  garden, 
which  year  afler  year  had  put  forth  a  full  show  of  blossoms, 
but  never  produced  fruit,  till  a  branch  from  a  Date-tree  had 
been  conveyed  from  a  distance  of  some  hundred  leagues. 
The  first  leaf  of  the  MS.  from  which, the  poem  has  been 
transcribed,  and  which  contained  the  two  or  three  introduc- 
tory stanzas,  is  wanting  :  and  the  author  has  in  vain  taxed 
his  memory  to  repair  the  loss.  But  a  rude  draught  of  the 
poem  contains  the  substance  of  the  stanzas,  and  the  reader 
is  requested  to  receive  it  as  the  subsiitute.  It  is  not  impossi- 
ble, that  some  congenial  spirit,  whose  years  do  not  exceed 
those  of  the  author  at  the  time  the  poem  was  written,  may 
find  a  pleasure  in  restoring  the  Lament  to  its  original  integ- 
rity by  a  reduction  of  the  thoughts  to  the  requisite  Metre. — 

S.  T.C, 


Beneath  the  blaze  of  a  tropical  sun  the  moun- 
tain peaks  are  the  Thrones  of  Frost,  through  the 
absence  of  objects  to  reflect  the  rays.  "  What  no 
one  with  us  sliares,  seems  scarce  our  own."  The 
presence  of  a  one, 

The  best  beloved,  who  lovetli  me  the  best, 
is  for  the  heart,  what  the  supporting  air  from  witliin 
is  for  the  hollow  globe  with  its  suspended  car.  De- 
prive it  of  this,  and  all  without,  that  would  have 
buoyed  it  aloft  even  to  the  seat  of  the  gods,  becomes 
a  burthen,  and  crushes  it  into  flatness. 
2 

The  finer  the  sense  for  the  beautiful  and  the  lovely, 
and  the  fairer  and  lovelier  the  object  presented  to  the 
sense;  the  more  exquisite  the  individual's  capacity 
of  joy,  and  the  more  ample  his  means  and  opportu- 
nities of  enjoyment,  the  more  heavily  will  he  feel 
the  ache  of  solitariness,  the  more  unsubstantial  be- 
comes the  feast  spread  around  him.  What  matters 
it,  whether  in  fact  the  viands  and  the  ministering 
graces  are  shadou-y  or  real,  to  him  who  has  not 
hand  to  grasp  nor  arms  to  embrace  them  ? 

3. 
Imagination  ;  honorable  Aims  ; 
Free  Commune  with  the  choir  that  cannot  die ; 
Science  and  Song;  Delight  in  little  things. 
The  buoyant  child  surviving  in  the  man ; 
Fields,  forests,  ancient  mountains,  ocean,  sky, 
With  all  their  voices — O  dare  I  accuse 
My  earthly  lot  as  guilty  of  my  spleen, 


Or  call  my  destiny  niggard  ?  O  no !  no  I 
It  is  her  largeness,  and  her  overflow. 
Which  being  incomplete,  disquieteth  me  so ' 

4. 
For  never  touch  of  gladness  stirs  my  heart. 
But  tim'rously  beginning  to  rejoice 
Like  a  blind  Arab,  that  from  sleep  doth  start 
In  lonesome  tent,  I  listen  for  thy  voice. 
Beloved!  'tis  not  thine;  thou  art  not  there! 
Then  melts  the  bubble  into  idle  air. 
And  wishing  without  hope  I  restlessly  despair. 

5. 
The  tnother  with  anticipated  glee 
Smiles  o'er  the  child,  that  standing  by  her  chair. 
And  flatt'ning  its  round  cheek  upon  her  laiee. 
Looks  up,  and  doth  its  rosy  lips  prepare 
To  mock  the  coming  sounds.    At  that  sweet  sight 
She  hears  her  own  voice  with  a  new  delight ; 
And  if  the   babe  perchance  should  lisp  the  notes 
aright, 

.     6. 
Then  is  ghe  tenfold  gladder  than  before ! 
But  should  disease  or  chance  the  darling  take. 
What  then  avail  those  songs,  which  sweet  of  yore 
Were  only  sweet  for  their  sweet  echo's  sake  ? 
Dear  maid !  no  prattler  at  a  mother's  knee 
Was  e'er  so  dearly  prized  as  I  prize  lh.ee: 
Wliy  was  I  made  for  love,  and  love  denied  to  me  ? 


FANCY  IN  NUBIBUS, 

OR   THE    POET    IN    THE    CLOUDS. 

O!  IT  is  pleasant,  with  a  heart  at  ease, 

Just  after  sunset,  or  by  moonlight  skies. 
To  make  the  shifting  clouds  be  what  you  please, 

Or  let  the  easily  persuaded  eyes 
Own  each  quaint  likeness  issuing  from  the  mould 

Of  a  friend's  fancy ;  or  with  head  bent  low 
And  cheek  aslant,  see  rivers  flow  of  gold 

'Twixt  crimson  banks ;  and  then,  a  traveller,  go 
From    mount  to  mount   through  Cloudland,   gor 
geous  land! 

Or  list'ning  to  the  tide,  with  closed  sight. 
Be  that  blind  bard,  who  on  the  Chian  strand 

By  those  deep  sounds  possess'd,  with  inward  light 
Beheld  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey 

Rise  to  the  swelling  of  the  voiceful  sea. 


THE  TWO  FOUNTS. 

STANZAS  addressed  TO  A  LADY  ON  HER  RECOVERY 
WITH  UNBLEMISHED  LOOKS,  FROM  A  SEVERE  AT- 
TACK OF  PAIN. 

'T  WAS  my  last  waking  thought,  how  it  could  be 
That  thou,  sweet  friend,  such  anguish  shouldst  endure 
When  straight  from  Dreamland  came  a  Dwarf,  and  he 
Could  tell  the  cause,  forsooth,  and  knew  the  cure. 

Methought  he  fronted  me,  with  peering  look 
Fix'd  on  my  heart ;  and  read  aloud  in  game 
The  loves  and  griefs  therein,  as  from  a  book  : 
And  utter'd  praise  like  one  who  wish'd  to  blame. 
226 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


217 


In  every  heart  (quoth  he)  since  Adam's  sin, 
Two  Founts  there  are,  of  suffering  and  of  cheer  ! 
That  to  let  forth,  and  thin  to  keep  uithiii ! 
But  she,  whose  aspect  1  lliid  imaged  here, 

Of  Pleasure  only  will  to  all  dispense, 
That  Fount  alone  unlock'd,  by  no  distress 
Choked  or  turn'd  inward,  but  still  issue  thence 
Uuconquer'd  cheer,  persistent  loveliness. 

As  on  the  driving  cloud  the  shiny  Bow, 
Tiiat  gracious  tiling  made  up  of  tears  and  light, 
'Mid  the  wild  rack  and  rain  that  slants  below 
Stands  smiling  forth,  unmoved  and  freshly  bright : 

As  though  the  spirits  of  all  lovely  flowers. 
Inweaving  each  its  wreaih  and  dewy  crown. 
Or  ere  they  sank  to  earth  ui  vernal  showers. 
Had  built  a  bridge  to  tempt  the  angels  down. 

Even  so,  Eliza !  on  that  face  of  tliine, 

On  that  benignant  face,  whose  look  alone 

(I'he  soul's  Iranslucence  through  her  crystal  shrine  I) 

Has  power  to  soothe  all  anguish  but  thine  own. 

A.  beauty  hovers  still,  and  ne'er  takes  wing. 
But  with  a  silent  charm  compels  the  stem 
And  tort'ring  Genius  of  the  bitter  spring 
To  shrink  aback,  and  cower  upon  liis  urn. 

Who  then  needs  wonder,  if  (no  outlet  found 
In  passion,  spleen,  or  strile)  the  fount  of  pain 
O'ertlowing  beats  against  its  lovely  mound. 
And  in  wild  flashes  shoots  from  heart  to  brain  ? 

Sleep,  and  the  Dwarf  with  that  unsteady  gleam 
On  liis  raised  lip,  that  aped  a  critic  smile, 
Had  pass'd :  yet  I,  my  sad  thoughts  to  beguile, 
Lay  weaving  on  the  tissue  of  my  dream : 

Till  audibly  at  length  I  cried,  as  though 
Thou  hadst  indeed  been  present  to  my  eyes, 

0  sweet,  sweet  sufferer  I  if  the  case  be  so, 

1  pray  thee,  be  less  good,  less  sweet,  less  wise ! 

In  every  look  a  barbed  arrow  send, 
On  these  soft  hps  let  scorn  and  anger  live! 
Do  any  thing,  rather  than  thus,  sweet  friend  ! 
Hoard  for  thyself  the  pain  thou  w  ilt  not  give  I 


WHAT  IS  LIFE? 

Resemdles  life  what  once  was  held  of  light, 
Too  ample  in  itself  for  human  sight  ? 
An  absolute  self?  an  element  ungrounded  ? 
All  that  we  see,  all  colors  of  all  shade 

By  encroach  of  darkness  made  ? 
Is  Very  life  by  consciousness  unbounded  ? 
And  all  the  thoughts,  pains,  joys  of  mortal  breath, 
A  war-embrace  of  wresthng  Ufe  and  death  ? 


THE  EXCHANGE. 

We  pledged  our  hearts,  my  love  and  I, — 
I  in  my  arms  the  maiden  clasping ; 

I  could  not  tell  the  reason  why. 
But,  oh  I  I  trembled  like  an  aspen. 

U2 


Her  father's  love  she  bade  me  gain  ; 

I  went  and  shook  like  any  reed ! 
I  strove  to  act  the  man — in  vain ! 

We  had  exchanged  our  hearts  indeed. 


SONNET, 

COMPOSED  BY  THE  SEASIDE,  OCTOBER   1817. 

Oh  !  it  is  pleasant,  with  a  heart  at  ease. 

Just  after  sunset,  or  by  moonlight  skies," 

To  make  the  shifting  clouds  be  what  you  please ; 

Or  yield  the  easily  persuaded  eyes 

To  each  quaint  image  issuing  from  the  mould 
Of  a  friend's  fancy  ;  or  with  head  bent  low. 
And  cheek  aslant,  see  rivers  flow  of  gold 
'Twixt  crmison  banks  ;  and  then,  a  traveller,  go 

From  mount  to  mount,  through  Cloudland,  gorgeous 

land ! 
Or  listening  to  the  tide,  with  closed  sight. 
Be  that  blind  bard,  who  on  the  Chian  strand, 
By  those  deep  sounds  possess'd,  with  inward  light 
Beheld  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey 
Rise  to  the  swelling  of  the  voiceful  sea ! 


EPIGRAMS. 

I. 

I  ask'd  my  fair,  one  happy  day, 

Wliat  I  should  call  her  in  my  lay. 

By  what  sweet  name  from  Rome,  or  Greece, 

Keaera,  Laura,  Daphne,  Chloris, 

Carina,  Lalage,  or  Doris, 

Dorimene,  or  Lucrece  ? 

II. 

"  Ah,"  rephcd  my  gentle  fair  ; 

"  Dear  one,  what  are  names  but  air? — 

Choose  thou  whatever  suits  the  line ; 

Call  me  Laura,  call  me  Chloris, 

Call  me  Lalage,  or  Doris, 

Only — only — call  me  thine  '.'' 


Sly  Belzebub  took  all  occasions 

To  try  Job's  constancy,  and  patience. 

He  took  his  honor,  took  his  health  ; 

He  took  his  children,  took  his  wealth. 

His  servants,  oxen,  horees,  cows, — 

But  cunning  Satan  did  not  take  his  spouse. 

But  Heaven,  that  brings  out  good  from  evil, 

And  loves  to  disappoint  the  devil, 

Had  predetermined  to  restore 

Twffold  all  he  hud  before  ; 

Ilis  servants,  horses,  oxen,  cows — 

Short-sighted  devil,  not  to  take  his  spouse ! 


Hoarse  Maevius  reads  his  hobbling  verse 
To  all,  and  at  all  times ; 
And  finds  them  both  divinely  smooth. 
His  voice  as  well  as  rhymes. 

227 


218 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  folks  say  Maevius  is  no  ass ; 
But  Maevius  makes  it  clear 
Tliat  he 's  a  monster  of  an  ass — 
An  ass  without  an  ear ! 


There  comes  from  old  Avaro's  grave 
A  deadly  stench — why,  sure,  they  have 
Immured  his  soul  within  his  Grave  ! 


Last  Monday  all  the  papers  said. 

That  Mr. was  dead  ; 

Why,  then,  what  said  the  city  ? 
The  tenth  part  sadly  shook  their  head, 
And  shaking  sigli'd,  and  sighing  said, 
"  Pity,  indeed,  'tis  pity  !" 

But  when  the  said  report  was  found 
A  rumor  wholly  without  ground, 
Why,  then,  what  said  the  city  ? 
The  other  nine  parts  shook  their  head, 
Repeating  what  the  tenth  had  said, 
"  Pity,  indeed,  't  is  pity  ! " 


Your  poem  must  eternal  be, 
Dear  Sir! — it  cannot  fail — 
For  'tis  incomprehensible, 
And  wants  both  head  and  tail. 


Swans  sing  before  they  die — 'twere  no  bad  thing 
Did  certain  persons  die  before  they  sing. 


the  "Fortunate  Isles"  of  the  Muses:  and  then  other  and  mors 
momentous  interests  prompted  a  different  voyaee,  to  firmer  an- 
chorage and  a  securer  port.  I  have  in  vain  tried  to  recover  the 
hnes  from  the  Pahmpsest  tablet  of  my  memory  :  and  I  can  only 
offer  the  introductory  stanza,  which  had  been  committed  to 
writing  for  the  purpose  of  procuring  a  friend's  judgment  oa 
the  metre,  as  a  specimen. 

Encinctured  with  a  twine  of  leaves, 

That  leafy  twine  his  only  dress  ! 

A  lovely  Boy  was  plucking  fruits. 

By  moonlight,  in  a  wilderness. 

The  moon  was  bright,  the  air  was  free, 

And  fruits  and  flowers  together  grew 

On  many  a  shrub  and  many  a  tree : 

And  all  put  on  a  gentle  hue, 

Hanging  in  the  shadowy  air 

Like  a  picture  rich  and  rare. 

It  was  a  climate  where,  they  say. 

The  night  is  more  beloved  than  day. 

But  who  that  beauteous  Boy  beguiled. 

That  beauteous  Boy,  to  linger  here  1 

Alone,  by  night,  a  little  child. 

In  place  so  silent  and  so  wild — 

Has  he  no  friend,  no  loving  Mother  near  ? 

I  have  here  given  the  birth,  parentage,  and  premature  decease 
of  the  "Wanderings  of  Cain,  a  poem," — eutreating,  however, 
my  Readers  not  to  think  so  meanly  of  my  judgment,  as  to  sup- 
pose that  I  either  regard  or  offer  it  as  any  excuse  for  the  pub- 
lication of  the  following  fragment  (and  I  may  add,  of  one  or 
two  others  in  its  neighborhood),  or  its  primitive  crudity.  But 
1  should  find  still  greater  difticulty  in  forgiving  myself,  were  I 
to  record  pro  twdio  publico  a  set  of  petty  mishaps  and  annoy- 
ances which  I  myself  wish  to  forget.  Imustbe  content  therefore 
with  assuring  the  friendly  Reader,  that  the  less  he  attributes  its 
appearance  to  tlie  Author's  will,  choice,  or  judgment,  the 
nearer  to  the  truth  he  will  be.  S.  T.  C. 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN. 


PREFATORY    NOTE. 


A  prose  composition,  one  not  in  metre  at  least,  seems  prima 
facie  to  require  e.xplanation  or  apology.  It  was  written  in  the 
year  1798,  near  Nether  Stowey  in  Somersetshire,  at  which  place 
{sanctum  et  amabile  vovicn  '■  rich  by  so  many  associations  and 
recollections)  the  Author  had  taken  up  his  residence  in  order 
to  enjoy  the  society  and  close  neighborhood  of  a  dear  and  hon- 
ored friend,  T.  Poole.  Esq.  The  work  was  to  have  been  wiitlen 
in  concert  with  another,  whose  name  is  too  venerable  within 
the  precincts  of  genius  to  be  unnecessarily  brouaht  into  connex- 
ion with  such  a  trifle,  and  who  was  then  residing  at  a  small 
distance  from  Nether  Stowey.  The  title  and  subject  were  sug- 
gested by  myself,  who  likewise  drew  out  the  scheme  and  the 
contents  for  each  of  the  three  books  or  cantoes,  of  which  the 
work  was  to  consist,  and  which,  the  reader  is  to  be  informed 
was  to  have  been  finished  in  one  night!  My  partner  undertook 
the  first  canto :  I  the  second  :  and  whichever  had  dune,  first,  was 
to  set  about  the  third.  Almost  thirty  years  have  passed  by,  yet 
at  this  moment  I  cannot  without  something  more  than  a  smile 
moot  the  question  which  of  the  two  things  was  the  more  im 
practicable,  for  a  mind  so  eminently  original  to  compose  another 
man's  thoughts  and  fancies,  or  for  a  taste  so  austerely  pure  and 
simple  to  imitate  the  Death  of  Abel  ?  Methinl^s  I  see  his  grand 
and  noble  countenance  as  at  the  moment  when  having  dispatch- 
ed my  own  portion  of  the  task  at  full  finger-speed,  I  hastened 
to  him  with  my  manuscript — that  look  of  humorous  despond- 
ency fixed  on  his  almost  blank  sheet  of  paper,  and  then  its 
silent  mock-piteous  admission  of  fiilure  struggling  with  the 
sunse  of  the  exceeding  ridiculousness  of  the  whole  scheme — 
which  broke  up  in  a  laugh  :  and  the  Ancient  Mariner  was  writ- 
ten instead. 

Years  afterward,  however,  the  draft  of  the  Plan  and  propo 
sed  Incidents,  and  the  portion  executed,  obtained  favor  in  the 
eyes  of  more  than  one  person,  whose  judgment  on  a  poetic 
work  could  not  but  have  weighed  with  me,  even  though  no  pa- 
rental partiality  had  been  thrown  into  the  same  scale,  as  a 
make-weight:  and  1  determined  on  commencing  anew,  and 
composing  the  whole  in  stanzas,  and  made  some  progress  in 
realizing  this  intention,  when  adverse  gales  drove  my  bark  offi 


"  A  LITTLE  further,  O  my  father,  j'et  a  little  further, 
and  we  shall  come  inio  the  open  moonlight."  Their 
road  was  through  a  forest  of  fir-trees ;  at  its  entrance 
the  trees  stood  at  distances  from  each  other,  and  the 
path  was  broad,  and  the  moonlight,  and  the  moonlight 
shadows  reposed  upon  it,  and  appeared  quietly  to  in- 
habit that  solitude.  But  soon  the  path  winded  and 
became  narrow ;  the  sun  at  high  noon  somerimes 
speckled,  but  never  illumined  it,  and  now  it  was 
dark  as  a  cavern. 

"It  is  dark,  O  my  father!"  said  Enos ;  "but  the 
path  under  our  feet  is  smooth  and  soft,  and  we  shall 
soon  come  out  into  the  open  moonlight." 

"  Lead  on,  my  child  !"  said  Cain :  "  guide  me. 
little  child!"  And  the  innocent  little  child  clasped  a 
finger  of  the  hand  which  had  murdered  the  righteous 
Abel,  and  he  guided  his  father.  "  The  fir  branches 
drip  upon  thee,  my  son."  "  Yea,  pleasantly,  father 
for  I  ran  fast  and  eagerly  to  bring  thee  the  pitcher 
and  the  cake,  and  my  body  is  nit  yet  cool.  How 
happy  the  squirrels  are  that  feed  on  these  fir-trees ! 
they  leap  from  bough  to  bough,  uwl  the  old  squirrels 
play  round  their  young  ones  in  'he  nest.  I  clomb  a  tree 
yesterday  at  noon,  O  my  father,  that  I  might  play 
with  them  ;  but  they  leapt  away  from  the  branches, 
even  to  the  slender  twigs  did  they  leap,  and  in  a 
moment  I  beheld  them  on  another  tree.  Why,  O  my 
father,  would  they  not  play  with  me  ?  I  would  b 
good  to  them  as  thou  art  good  to  me :  and  I  groaned 
to  them  even  as  thou  groanest  when  thou  givest  me 
to  eat,  and  when  thou  coverst  me  at  evening,  and  as 
often  as  I  stand  at  thy  knee  and  thine  eyes  look  at 
me."  Then  Cain  stopped,  and  stiding  his  groans  he 
sank  to  the  earth,  and  the  child  Enos  stood  in  the 
darlmess  beside  him. 

228 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


219 


And  Cain  lifted  up  his  voice  and  cried  bitterly, 
and  said,  "  The  Mighty  One  that  persccutoth  me  is 
on  this  side  and  on  thai ;  he  pmsuclli  my  soul  like 
the  wind,  like  the  sand-blast  ho  passeth  through  me ; 
he  is  around  me  even  as  the  air!  O  that  1  might  be 
utterly  no  more !  I  desire  to  die — ^^yea,  the  things 
that  never  had  life,  neither  move  they  upon  the 
earth — behold !  they  seem  precious  to  mine  eyes.  O 
that  a  man  might  live  witliout  the  brcaili  of  his  nos- 
trils! So  I  might  abide  in  darkness,  and  blackness, 
and  an  emi)iy  space  !  Yea,  I  would  lie  down,  I  would 
not  rise,  neither  would  I  slir  my  limbs  till  I  became 
as  the  rock  in  the  den  of  (he  lion,  on  which  the 
young  lion  restetli  his  head  \\hilst  he  sleepeth.  For 
the  torrent  that  roarcih  far  off  haih  a  voice,  and  the 
clouds  in  heaven  look  terribly  on  me  ;  the  Mighty 
One  who  is  against  me  spcakelh  in  the  wind  of  the 
cedar  grove;  and  in  silence  am  I  dried  up."  Then 
Enos  spake  to  his  fiiher:  "  Arise,  my  lather,  arise, 
we  are  but  a  little  way  from  the  place  where  I  found 
the  cake  and  the  pitcher."  And  Cain  said,  "  How 
knowest  thou?"  and  the  child  answered — "Behold, 
the  bare  roclvs  are  a  few  of  thy  strides  distant  from 
the  forest;  and  while  even  now  thou  wert  lifting  up 
thy  voice,  I  heard  the  echo."  Then  the  cliild  took 
hold  of  his  father,  as  if  he  would  raise  him :  and 
Cain  being  faint  and  feeble,  rose  slowly  on  his  knees 
and  pressed  himself  against  the  trunk  of  a  fir,  and 
stood  upright,  and  followed  tlie  child. 

The  path  was  dark  till  within  three  strides'  length 
of  its  termination,  when  it  turned  suddenly ;  the 
thick  black  trees  formed  a  low  arch,  and  the  moon- 
light appeared  for  a  moment  like  a  dazzling  portal. 
Enos  ran  before  and  slood  in  the  open  air ;  and  when 
Cain,  his  father^  emerged  from  the  darkness,  the 
child  was  affrighted.  For  the  mighty  limbs  of  Cain 
were  wasted  as  by  fire ;  his  hair  was  as  the  matted 
curls  on  the  Bison's  foreliead,  and  so  glared  his  fierce 
and  sullen  eye  beneath :  and  the  black  abundant 
locks  on  either  side,  a  rank  and  tangled  mass,  were 
stained  and  scorched,  as  though  the  grasp  of  a 
burning  iron  hand  had  stri\  en  to  rend  them ;  and  his 
countenance  told  in  a  strange  and  terrible  language 
of  agonies  that  had  been,  and  were,  and  were  still 
to  continue  to  be. 

The  scene  around  was  desolate ;  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach  it  was  desolate :  the  bare  rocks  faced 
each  other,  and  left  a  long  and  wide  interval  of  thin 
white  sand.  You  might  wander  on  and  look  round 
and  round,  and  peep  into  the  crevices  of  tlie  rocks, 
and  discover  nothing  that  acknowledged  the  inilu- 
ence  of  the  seasons.  There  was  no  spring,  no  sum- 
mer, no  autumn  :  and  the  winter's  snow,  that  would 
have  been  lovely,  fell  not  on  these  hot  rocks  and 
scorching  sands.  Never  morning  lark  had  poised 
liimself  over  this  desert ;  but  the  huge  serpent  often 
hissed  there  beneath  the  lalons  of  the  vulture,  and 
the  vulture  screamed,  his  wings  imprisoned  within 
the  coils  of  the  serjjent.  The  pointed  and  shattered 
summits  of  the  riilges  of  the  rocks  made  a  rude 
mimicry  of  human  concerns,  and  seemed  to  proph- 
esy mutely  of  things  that  then  were  not;  steeples, 
,.  and  battlements,  and  ships  with  naked  masts.  As  fur 
from  the  wood  as  a  boy  might  sling  a  pebble  of  the 
brooL  there  was  one  rock  by  itself  at  a  small  dis- 
tance from  the  main  ndge.  It  had  been  precipitated 
there  perliaps  by  the  groan  which  the  Earth  uttered 
when  our  first  father  fell.  Before  you  ajjproached,  it 
appeared  to  lie  Hat  on  the  ground,  but  its  base  slant- 


ed from  its  point,  and  between  its  point  and  the 
s;mds  a  tall  man  might  stand  upright.  It  was  here 
that  Enos  had  found  the  pitcher  and  cake,  and  to 
this  place  he  led  his  father.  But  ere  they  had  reach- 
ed the  rock  they  beheld  a  human  shape :  his  back 
was  towards  them,  and  they  were  advancing  unper- 
ceived,  when  they  heard  him  smile  his  breast  and 
cry  aloud,  "Woe  is  me!  woe  is  me!  I  must  never  die 
again,  and  yet  I  am  perishing  with  thirst  and  hun- 
ger." 

Pallid,  as  the  reflection  of  the  sheeted  lightning  on 
the  heavy-sailing  night-cloud,  became  the  lace  of 
Cain ;  but  the  child  Enos  took  hold  of  the  shaggy 
sldn,  his  father's  robe,  and  raised  his  eyes  to  his 
faliier,  and  listening  whispered,  "  F.re  yet  I  could 
speak,  1  am  sure,  O  my  father !  that  I  heard  that 
voice.  Have  not  I  often  said  that  1  remembered  a 
sweet  voice?  O  my  father!  this  is  it:"  and  Cain 
trembled  exceedingly.  The  voice  was  sweet  indeed, 
but  it  was  thin  and  querulous  like  that  of  a  feeble 
slave  in  misery,  who  despairs  altogether,  yet  cannot 
refrain  himself  from  weeping  and  lamentation.  And, 
behold  !  Enos  glided  forward,  and  creeping  softly 
round  the  base  of  the  rock,  stood  before  the  stranger, 
and  looked  up  into  his  face.  And  the  Shape  shriek- 
ed, and  turned  round,  and  Cain  beheld  him,  that  his 
limbs  and  his  face  were  those  of  his  brother  Abel 
whom  he  had  killed !  And  Cain  stood  like  one  who 
struggles  in  his  sleep  because  of  the  e.xceeding  ler- 
ribleness  of  a  dream. 

Thus  as  he  stood  in  silence  and  darkness  of  soul, 
the  Shape  fell  at  his  feet,  and  embraced  his  knees, 
and  cried  out  with  a  bitter  outcry,  "  Thou  eldest- 
bom  of  Adam,  whom  Eve,  my  mother,  brought  forth, 
cease  to  torment  me !  I  was  feeding  my  flocks  in 
green  pastures  by  the  side  of  quiet  rivers,  and  thou 
killedst  me ;  and  now  I  am  in  misery."  Then  Cain 
closed  his  eyes,  and  hid  them  willi  his  hands  ;  and 
again  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  around  him, 
and  .said  to  Enos,  "  What  beholdest  thou  ?  Didst  thou 
hear  a  voice,  my  soji  >."  "  Yes,  my  father,  I  beheld 
a  man  in  unclean  garments,  and  he  uttered  a  sweet 
voice,  full  of  lamentation."  Then  Cain  raised  up 
the  Shape  that  was  like  Abel,  and  said  : — "  The 
Creator  of  our  father,  who  had  respect  unto  thee, 
and  unto  thy  offering,  wherefore  hath  he  forsaken 
thee  ?"  Then  the  Shape  shrieked  a  second  time,  and 
rent  his  garment,  and  his  naked  skin  was  like  the 
white  sands  beneath  their  feet ;  and  he  shrieked  yet 
a  third  time,  and  threw  himself  on  his  face  upon  the 
sand  that  was  black  with  the  shadow  of  the  rock, 
and  Cain  and  Enos  sate  beside  him;  the  child  by  his 
right  hand,  and  Cain  by  his  left.  They  were  all 
three  under  the  rock,  and  within  the  sliadow.  The 
Shape  that  was  like  Abel  raised  himself  up,  and 
spake  to  the  child :  "  1  luiow  where  the  cold  waters 
are,  but  I  may  not  drink;  wherefore  didsl  ihou  then 
take  away  my  pitcher?"  But  Cain  said,  "Didst  thou 
not  find  favor  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord  thy  Cod  >." 
The  Sliape  answered,  "The  Lord  is  God  of  the 
living  only,  the  dead  have  another  God."  Then 
the  child  Enos  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  prayed  ;  but 
Cain  rejoiced  secretly  in  his  heart.  "  Wretched  shall 
they  be  all  the  days  of  their  mortal  life,"  exclaimed 
the  Shape,  "  who  sacrifice  worthy  and  acceptable 
sacrifices  to  the  God  of  the  ilead  ;  but  after  death 
their  toil  ceaseth.  Woe  is  me,  for  I  was  well  beloved 
by  the  God  of  the  living,  and  cruel  wert  thou,  O 
my  brother,  who  didst  snatch  me  away  from  his 
30  229 


220 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


power  and  his  dominion."  Having  uttered  these 
words,  he  rose  suddenly,  and  fled  over  the  sands; I 
and  Cain  said  in  liis  heart,  "  The  curse  of  the  Lord 
is  on  me ;  but  who  is  the  God  of  the  dead  ?"  and  he 
ran  after  the  Shape,  and  the  Shape  fled  shrieking 
over  the  sands,  and  the  sands  rose  like  white  mists 
behind  the  slops  of  Cain,  but  the  feet  of  him  that 
was  like  Abel  disturbed  not  the  sands.  He  greatly 
outran  Cain,  and  turning  short,  he  wheeled  round, 
and  came  again  to  the  rock  where  they  had  been 
sitting,  and  where  Enos  still  stood ;  and  the  child 
caught  hold  of  his  garment  as  he  passed  by,  and  he 
fell  upon  the  ground.  And  Cain  stopped,  and  be- 
holding him  not,  said,  "  he  has  passed  into  the  dark 
woods,"  and  he  walked  slowly  back  to  the  rocks ; 
and  when  he  reached  it  the  child  told  him  that  he 
had  caught  hold  of  his  garment  as  he  passed  by,  and 
that  the  man  had  fallen  upon  the  ground :  and  Cain 
once  more  sate  beside  him,  and  said,  "  Abel,  my  bro- 
ther, I  would  lament  for  thee,  but  that  the  spirit 
within  me  is  withered,  and  burnt  up  with  extreme 
agony.  Now,  I  pray  thee,  by  thy  flocks,  and  by  thy 
pastures,  and  by  the  quiet  rivers  which  thou  lovedst, 
that  thou  tell  me  all  that  thou  knovvest.  Who  is  the 
God  of  the  dead  ?  where  doth  he  make  his  dwelling  ? 
what  sacrifices  are  acceptable  inito  him  ?  for  I  have 
offered,  but  have  not  been  received  ;  I  have  praj'ed, 
and  have  not  been  heard ;  and  how  can  I  be  afflicted 
more  than  I  already  am  ? "  The  Shape  arose  and 
answered,  "  O  that  thou  hadst  had  pity  on  me  as  I 
will  have  pity  on  thee.  Follow  me,  Son  of  Adam! 
fvUd  bring  thy  child  with  thee  !" 

And  they  three  passed  over  the  white  sands  be- 
tween the  rocks,  silent  as  the  shadows. 


ALLEGORIC  VISION. 

A  FEELING  of  sadness,  a  peculiar  melancholy,  is 
wont  to  take  possession  of  me  alike  in  Spring  and  in 
Autumn.  But  in  Spring  it  is  the  melancholy  of 
Hope :  in  Autumn  it  is  the  melancholy  of  Resigna- 
tion. As  I  was  journeying  on  foot  through  the  Apen- 
nine,  I  fell  in  with  a  pilgrim  in  whom  the  Spring  and 
the  Autumn  and  the  Melancholy  of  both  seemed  to 
have  combined.  In  his  discourse  there  were  the 
freshness  and  the  colors  of  April: 

dual  ramicd  a  ramo, 

Tal  da  pensier  pensiero 

In  lui  germogliava. 

But  as  I  gazed  on  his  whole  form  and  figure,  I  be- 
thought me  of  the  not  unlovely  decays,  both  of  age 
and  of  the  late  season,  in  the  stately  elm,  after  the 
clusters  have  been  plucked  from  its  entwining  vines 
and  the  vines  are  as  bands  of  dried  withies  around 
its  trunk  and  branches.  Even  so  there  was  a  memo 
ry  on  his  smooth  and  ample  forehead,  which  blended 
with  the  dedication  of  his  steady  eyes,  that  still 
looked — I  know  not,  whether  upward,  or  far  onward 
or  rather  to  the  line  of  meeting  where  the  sky  rests 
upon  the  distance.  But  how  may  I  express  that 
dimness  of  abstraction  which  lay  on  tlie  lustre  of  the 
pilgrim's  eyes,  like  the  flitting  tarnish  from  the  breath 
of  a  sigh  on  a  silver  mirror!  and  which  accorded 
with  their  slow  and  reluctant  movement,  whenever 
he  turned  them  to  any  object  on  the  right  hand  or  on 
the  left?  It  seemed,  melhought,  as  if  there  lay  upon 
the  brightness  a  shadowy  presence  of  disappointments 


now  unfelt,  but  never  forgotten.    It  was  at  once  the 
melancholy  of  hope  and  of  resignation. 

We  had  not  long  been  fellow-travellers,  ere  a  sud- 
den tempest  of  wind  and  rain  forced  us  to  seek  pro- 
tection in  the  vaulted  door-way  of  a  lone  chapelry  : 
and  we  sate  face  to  face  each  on  the  stone  bench 
along-side  the  low,  weather-stained  wall,  and  as  close 
as  possible  to  the  massy  door. 

After  a  pause  of  silence  :  Even  thus,  said  he,  like 
two  strangers  that  have  fled  to  the  same  shelter  from 
the  same  storm,  not  seldom  do  Despair  and  Hope 
meet  for  the  first  time  in  the  porch  of  Death !  All 
extremes  meet,  I  answered ;  but  yours  was  a  strange 
and  visionary  thought.  The  better  then  doth  it  be- 
seem both  the  place  and  me,  he  replied.  From  a 
Visionary  wilt  thou  hear  a  Vision  ?  Mark  that  vivid 
flash  through  this  torrent  of  rain !  Fire  and  water. 
Even  here  thy  adage  holds  true,  and  its  truth  is  the 
moral  of  my  Vision.  I  entreated  him  to  proceed. 
Sloping  his  face  towards  the  arch  and  yet  averting 
his  eye  from  it,  he  seemed  to  seek  and  prepare  his 
words :  till  listening  to  the  wind  that  echoed  within 
the  hollow  edifice,  and  to  the  rain  without. 

Which  stole  on  his  thoughts  with  its  two-fuld  sound. 
The  clash  hard  by  and  the  murmur  all  round, 
he  gradually  sunk  away,  alike  from  me  and  from  his 
own  purpose,  and  amid  the  gloom  of  the  storm,  and 
in  the  duskiness  of  that  place,  he  sate  like  an  em- 
blem on  a  rich  man's  sepulchre,  or  like  a  mourner 
on  the  sodded  grave  of  an  only  one — an  aged  mourner, 
who  is  watching  the  waned  moon  and  sorroweth  not. 
Starting  at  length  from  his  brief  trance  of  abstrac- 
tion, with  courtesy  and  an  atoning  smile  he  renewed 
his  discourse,  and  commenced  liis  parable. 

During  one  of  those  short  furloughs  from  the  service 
of  the  Body,  which  the  Soul  may  sometimes  obtain 
even  in  this,  its  militant  state,  I  found  myself  in  a 
vast  plain,  which  I  immediately  knew  to  be  the  Val- 
ley of  Life.  It  possessed  an  astonishing  diversity  of 
soils :  and  here  was  a  suntiy  spot,  and  there  a  dark 
one,  forming  just  such  a  mixture  of  sunshine  and 
shade,  as  we  may  have  observed  on  the  mountains' 
side  in  an  April  day,  when  the  thin  broken  clouds 
are  scattered  over  heaven.  Almost  in  the  very  en- 
trance of  the  valley  stood  a  large  and  gloomy  pile, 
into  which  I  seemed  constrained  to  enter.  Every 
part  of  the  building  was  crowded  with  tawdry  orna- 
ments and  fantastic  deformity.  On  every  window 
was  portrayed,  in  glaring  and  inelegant  colors,  some 
horrible  tale,  or  preternatural  incident,  so  that  not  a 
ray  of  light  could  enter,  untinged  by  the  medium 
through  which  it  passed.  The  body  of  the  building 
was  full  of  people,  some  of  them  dancing,  in  and 
out,  in  unintelhgible  figures,  with  strange  ceremonies 
and  antic  merriment,  while  others  seemed  convulsed 
with  horror,  or  pining  in  mad  melancholy.  Inter- 
mingled with  these,  I  observed  a  number  of  men, 
clothed  in  ceremonial  robes,  who  appeared,  now  to 
marshal  the  various  groups  and  to  direct  their  move- 
ments, and  now,  with  menacing  countenances,  to 
drag  some  reluctant  victim  to  a  vast  idol,  framed  of 
iron  bars  intercrossed,  which  formed  at  the  same 
time  an  immense  cage,  and  the  shape  of  a  human 
Colossus. 

I  stood  for  a  while  lost  in  wonder  what  these  things 
might  mean;  when  lol  one  of  the  directors  came  up 
to  me,  and  with  a  stern  and  reproachful  look  bade 
me  uncover  my  head,  for  that  the  place  into  which  I 
had  entered  was  the  temple  of  the  only  true  Reli- 
230 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


221 


gion,  in  the  holier  recess  of  which  the  great  Goddess 
personally  resided.  Himself  too  he  bade  me  reverence, 
as  the  consecrated  minister  of  her  rites.  Awe-struck 
by  the  name  of  Religion,  I  bowed  before  the  priest, 
and  humbly  and  earnestly  entreated  him  to  conduct 
me  into  her  presence.  He  assented.  Ollerings  he  took 
from  me,  with  mystic  sprinklings  of  water  and  with 
salt  he  puriiied,  and  with  strange  sufllations  he  ex- 
orcised me ;  and  then  led  me  through  many  a  dark 
and  winding  alley,  the  dew-damps  of  which  chilled 
mv  flesh,  and  the  hollow  echoes  under  my  feet, 
mingled,  methought,  with  moanings,  affrighted  me. 
At  length  we  entered  a  large  hall,  without  window, 
or  spiracle,  or  lamp.  The  asylum  and  dormitory  it 
seemed  of  perennial  night — only  that  the  walls  were 
brought  to  the  e)-e  by  a  number  of  selfluminous 
inscriptions  in  letters  of  a  pale  pulchral  light,  that 
held  strange  neutralit}'  with  the  darkness,  on  the 
verge  of  which  it  kept  its  rayless  vigil.  I  could  read 
them,  methought ;  but  though  each  one  of  the  words 
taken  separately  I  seemed  to  understand,  yet  when  I 
took  them  in  sentences,  they  were  riddles  and  in- 
comprehensible. As  I  stood  meditating  on  these  hard 
sayings,  my  guide  thus  addressed  me — Read  and  be- 
lieve :  these  are  mysteries! — At  the  extremity  of  the 
vast  hall  the  Goddess  was  placed.  Her  features,  blend- 
ed with  darkness,  rose  out  to  my  view,  terrible,  yet 
vacant.  I  prostrated  myself  before  her,  and  then 
retired  with  my  guide,  soul-withered,  and  wondering, 
and  dissatisfied. 

As  I  re-entered  the  body  of  the  temple,  I  heard  a 
deep  buzz  as  of  discontent.  A  few  whose  eyes  were 
bright,  and  either  piercing  or  steady,  and  whose 
ample  foreheads,  with  the  weighty  bar,  ridge-like, 
above  the  eyebrows,  bespoke  observation  followed 
by  meditative  thought ;  and  a  much  larger  number, 
who  were  enraged  by  the  severity  and  insolence  of 
tlie  priests  in  exacting  their  offerings,  had  collected 
in  one  tumultuous  group,  and  with  a  confused  outcry 
of  "  this  is  the  Temple  of  Superstition  I"  after  much 
contumely,  and  turmoil,  and  cruel  maltreatment  on 
all  sides,  rushed  out  of  the  pile:  and  1,  methought, 
joined  them. 

We  speeded  from  the  Temple  with  hasty  steps, 
and  had  now  nearly  gone  round  half  the  valley, 
when  we  were  addressed  by  a  woman,  tall  beyond 
the  stature  of  mortals,  and  with  a  something  more 
than  human  in  her  countenance  and  mien,  which  yet 
could  by  mortals  be  only  felt,  not  conveyed  by  words 
or  intelligibly  distinguished.  Deep  reflection,  ani- 
mated by  ardent  feelings,  was  displayed  in  them : 
and  hope,  without  its  uncertainly,  and  a  something 
more  than  all  these,  which  I  understood  not,  but 
which  yet  seemed  to  blend  all  these  into  a  divine 
unity  of  expression.  Her  garments  were  white  and 
matronly,  and  of  the  simplest  texture.  VVe  inquired 
her  name.  My  name,  she  replied,  is  Religion. 

The  more  numerous  part  of  our  company,  affright- 
ed by  the  very  sound,  and  sore  from  recent  impostures 
or  sorceries,  hurried  onwards  and  examined  no  far- 
ther. A  few  of  us,  struck  by  the  manifest  opposition 
of  her  form  and  manners  to  those  of  the  living 
^di\,  whom  we  had  so  recently  abjured,  agreed  to 
follow  her,  though  with  cautious  circumspection. 
She  led  us  to  an  eminence  in  the  midst  of  the  valley, 
from  the  top  of  which  we  could  command  the  whole 
plain,  and  observe  the  relation  of  the  different  parts 
of  each  to  the  other,  and  of  each  to  the  whole,  and 
of  all  to  each.  She  then  gave  us  an  optic  glass  which 


assisted  without  contradicting  our  natural  vision,  and 
enabled  us  to  see  far  beyond  the  limits  of  the  Valley 
of  Life:  though  our  eye  even  thus  assisted  permitted 
us  only  to  behold  a  ligiit  and  a  glorj',  bat  what  we 
could  not  descry,  save  only  that  it  tvas,  and  that  it 
was  most  glorious. 

And  now,  with  the  rapid  transition  of  a  dream,  I 
had  overtaken  and  rejoined  the  more  numerous  parly 
who  had  abruptly  left  us,  indignant  at  the  very  name 
of  religion.  They  journeyed  on,  goading  each  other 
with  remembrances  of  past  oppressions,  and  never 
looking  back,  till  in  the  eagerness  to  recede  from  the 
Temple  of  Superstition,  they  had  rounded  the  whole 
circle  of  the  valley.  And  lo!  there  faced  us  the 
mouth  of  a  vast  cavern,  at  the  base  of  a  lofty  and 
almost  perpendicular  rock,  the  interior  side  of  which, 
unknown  to  them,  and  unsuspected,  formed  the  ex- 
treme and  backward  wall  of  the  Temple.  An  im- 
patient crowd,  we  entered  the  vast  and  dusky  cave 
which  was  the  only  perforation  of  the  precipice. 
At  the  moutli  of  the  cave  sate  two  figures ;  the  first, 
by  her  dress  and  gestures,  I  knew  to  be  Sensdality; 
the  second  form,  from  the  fierceness  of  his  demeanor, 
and  the  brutal  scornfulness  of  his  loolcs,  declared 
himself  to  be  the  monster  Blasphemy.  He  uttered 
big  words,  and  yet  ever  and  anon  I  observed  that  he 
turned  pale  at  his  own  courage.  We  entered.  Some 
remained  in  the  opening  of  the  cave,  with  the  one  or 
the  other  of  its  guardians.  The  rest,  and  I  among 
them,  pressed  on,  till  v^'e  reached  an  ample  chamber, 
that  seemed  the  centre  of  the  rock.  The  climate  of 
the  place  was  unnaturally  cold. 

In  the  furthest  distance  of  the  chamber  sate  an 
old  dim-eyed  man,  poring  with  a  microscope  over 
the  Torso  of  a  statue  which  had  neither,  basis,  nor 
feet,  nor  head  ;  but  on  its  breast  was  carved  Nature! 
To  this  he  continually  applied  his  glass,  and  seemed 
enraptured  with  the  various  inequalities  which  it 
rendered  visible  on  the  seemingly  polished  surface 
of  the  marble. — Yet  evermore  was  this  delight  and 
triumph  followed  by  expressions  of  hatred,  and  ve- 
hement railings  against  a  Being,  who  yet,  he  assured 
us,  had  no  existence.  This  mystery  suddenly  recalled 
to  me  what  I  had  read  in  the  Holiest  Recess  of  the 
temple  of  Siipersli/ion.  The  old  man  spoke  in  divers 
tongues,  and  continued  to  utter  other  and  most  strange 
mysteries.  Among  the  rest  he  talked  much  and  ve- 
hemently concerning  an  infinite  series  of  causes  and 
effects,  which  he  explained  lo  be — a  string  of  blind 
men,  the  last  of  whom  caught  hold  of  the  skirt 
of  the  one  before  him,  he  of  the  next,  and  so  on  till 
they  were  all  out  of  sight:  and  that  they  all  walked 
infallibly  straight,  without  making  one  false  step, 
though  all  were  alike  blind.  Methought  I  borrowed 
courage  from  surprise,  and  asked  him, — Who  then  is 
at  the  head  to  guide  them  ?  He  looked  at  me  with 
ineffable  contempt,  not  unmixed  with  an  angry  sus- 
picion, and  then  replied,  "  No  one.  The  siring  of 
blind  men  went  on  for  ever  williout  any  beginning, 
for  although  one  blind  man  could  not  move  without 
stumbling,  yet  infinite  blindness  supplied  the  want  of 
sight."  I  buret  into  laughter,  which  instantly  turned  to 
terror — for  as  he  started  forward  in  rage,  I  caught 
a  glance  of  him  from  behind  ;  and  lo !  I  beheld  a 
monster  biform  and  Janus-headed,  in  the  hinder  face 
and  shape  of  which  I  instantly  recognized  the  dread 
countenance  of  Superstition — and  in  the  terror  I 
awoke. 

231 


222 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE  IMPROVISATORS; 

OR  "JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  JO,  JOHN." 

Scene  : — A  spacious  drawiiig-room,  with  music-room 
adjoining. 

CATHERINE. 

AVliat  are  the  words  ? 

ELIZA. 

Ask  our  friend,  the  Improvisatore  ;  here  he  comes : 
Kate  has  a  favor  to  ask  of  you,  Sir ;  it  is  that  you 
will  repeat  the  ballad  that  Mr. sung  so  sweetly. 

FRIEND. 

It  is  in  Moore's  Irisli  Melodies ;  but  I  do  not  re- 
collect the  words  distinctly.  The  moral  of  them, 
however,  I  take  to  be  this  — 

Love  would  remain  the  same  if  true, 
When  we  were  neither  youns  nor  new : 
Yea,  and  in  all  within  the  will  that  came. 
By  the  same  proofs  would  show  itself  the  same. 

ELIZA. 

What  are  the  lines  you  repeated  from  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  which  my  brother  admired  so  much? 
It  begins  with  something  about  two  vines  so  close 
that  their  tendrils  intermingle. 

FRIEND. 

You  mean  Charles'  speech  to  Angelina,  in  "  the 
Elder  Brother." 

We'll  live  together,  like  our  two  neighbor  vines. 
Circling  our  souls  and  loves  in  one  another! 
We'll  spring  together,  and  we'll  bear  one  fruit; 
One  joy  shall  make  us  smile,  and  one  grief  mourn  ! 
One  age  go  with  us,  and  one  hour  of  death 
Shall  close  our  eyes,  and  one  grave  make  us  happy. 

CATHERINE. 

A  precious  boon,  that  would  go  far  to  reconcile 
one  to  old  age — this  love,  if  true  I  But  is  there  any 
such  true  love  ? 

FRIEND. 

I  hope  so. 

CATHERINE. 

But  do  you  believe  it  ? 

ELIZA  (eagerly), 
I  am  sure  he  does. 

FRIEND. 

From  a  man  turned  of  fifty,  Catherine,  I  imagine, 
expects  a  less  confident  answer. 

CATHERINE. 

A  more  sincere  one,  perhaps. 

FRIEND. 

Even  though  he  should  have  obtained  the  nick- 
name of  Improvisatore,  by  perpetrating  charades  and 
extempore  verses  at  Christmas  times  ? 

ELIZA. 

Nay,  but  be  serious. 

FRIEND. 

Serious  ?  Doubtless.  A  grave  personage  of  my 
years  giving  a  love-lecture  to  two  young  ladies,  can- 
not well  be  otherwise.  Tlie  difficulty,  I  suspect, 
Avould  be  for  them  to  remain  so.  It  will  be  asked 
whether  I  am  not  the  "  elderly  gentleman"  who  sate 
"  despairing  beside  a  clear  stream,"  with  a  willow 
for  his  wig-block. 

ELIZA. 

Say  another  word,  and  we  will  call  it  downright 
aiTcctation. 


CATHERINE. 

No !  we  will  be  affronted,  drop  a  courtesy,  and  ask 

pardon  for  our  presumption  in  expecting  that  Mr. 

would  waste  his  sense  on  two  insignificant  girls. 

FRIEND. 

Well,  well,  I  will  be  serious.  Hem!  Now  then 
commences  the  discourse ;  Mr.  Moore's  song  being 
the  text.  Love,  as  distinguished  from  Friendship,  on 
the  one  hand,  and  from  the  passion  that  too  often 
usurps  its  name,  on  the  other — 

LUCIUS. 

{Eliza's  brother,  who  had  just  joined  the  trio,  171  a 
whisper  to  the  Friend).  But  is  not  Love  the  union  of 
both?  '  ' 

FRIEND  [aside  to  Lucius). 

He  never  loved  who  thinks  so. 

ELIZA. 

Brother,  we  don't  want  you.  There  !  Mre.  H.  can- 
not arrange  the  ilovver-vase  without  you.  Thank  you, 
Mrs.  Hariman. 

■LUCIUS. 

1  '11  have  my  revenge !  I  know  what  I  will  say ! 

ELIZA. 

Off!  off!  Now  dear  sir, — Love,  you  were  saying— 

FRIEND. 

Hush!  Preaching,  you  mean,  Eliza 

ELiza  {impatiently). 
Pshaw ! 

FRIEND. 

Well  then,  I  was  saying  that  Love,  truly  such,  is 
itself  not  the  most  common  thing  in  the  world  :  and 
mutual  love  slill  less  so.  But  that  enduring  personal 
attachment,  so  beaulifally  delineated  by  Erin's  sweet 
melodist,  and  still  more  touchingly,  perhaps,  in  the 
well-known  ballad,  "  John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John," 
in  addition  to  a  deplh  and  constancy  of  character  of 
no  every-day  occurrence,  supposes  a  pecuhar  sensi- 
bility and  tenderness  of  nature  ;  a  constitutional  com- 
municativeness and  ullerancy  of  heart  and  soul ;  a 
delight  in  the  detail  of  sympathy,  in  the  outward  and 
visible  signs  of  the  sacrament  within — to  count,  as  it 
were,  the  pulses  of  the  life  of  love.  But  above  all,  it 
supposes  a  soul  which,  even  in  the  pride  and  sum- 
mer-tide of  life — even  in  the  lustihood  of  health  and 
strength,  had  felt  oflenest  and  prized  highest  that 
which  age  cannot  take  away,  and  which  in  all  our 
lovings,  is  the  Love ; 

ELIZA. 

There  is  something  here  {pointing  to  her  heart)  that 
seems  to  understand  you,  but  wants  the  word  that 
would  make  it  understand  itself 

CATHERINE. 

I,  too,  seem  to  feel  what  you  mean.  Interpret  the 
feeling  for  us. 

FRIEND. 

1  mean  that  willing  sense  of  the  insufficin^ 

ness  of  the  self  for  itself  which  predisposes  a  gener- 
ous nature  to  see,  in  the  total  being  of  another,  the 
supplement  and  completion  of  its  own — that  quiet 
perpetual  seeking  which  the  presence  of  the  beloved 
object  modulates,  not  suspends,  where  the  heart  mo- 
mently finds,  and,  finding,  again  seeks  on — lastly 
when  "  life's  changeful  orb  has  pass'd  the  full,"  a 
confirmed  faith  in  the  nobleness  of  humanity,  thus 
brought  home  and  pressed,  as  it  were,  to  the  very 
bosom  of  hourly  experience :  it  supposes,  I  say,  u 
heart-felt  reverence  for  worth,  not  tlie  less  deep  be- 
cause divested  of  its  solemnity  by  habit,  by  famihar- 
232 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


223 


ity,  by  mutual  infirmities,  and  even  by  a  feeling  of 
modesty  whitli  will  arise  in  delicate  minds,  when 
they  are  tonscious  of  possessing  the  same  or  the 
correspondent  excellence  in  their  own  characters. 
In  short,  there  must  be  a  mind,  which,  while  it  feels 
the  beautiful  and  the  excellent  in  the  beloved  as  its 
own,  and  by  right  of  love  appropriates  it,  can  call 
Goodness  its  Playfellow,  and  dares  make  sport  of 
time  and  infirmity,  while,  in  the  person  of  a  thou- 
sand-foldly  endeared  partner,  we  feel  foraged  Virtue 
the  caressing  fondness  that  belongs  to  the  Innocence 
of  childhood,  and  repeat  the  same  attentions  and 
tender  courtesies  as  had  been  dictated  by  the  same 
affection  to  the  same  object  when  attired  in  feminine 
loveliness  or  in  manly  beauty. 


What  a  soothing- 


ELIZA. 

-what  an  elevating 


idea! 


CATHERINE. 

If  it  be  not  only  an  idea. 

FRIEND. 

At  all  events,  these  qualities  which  I  have  enumer- 
ated, are  rarely  found  united  in  a  single  individual. 
How  much  more  rare  must  it  be,  that  two  such  in- 
dividuals should  meet  together  in  this  wide  world 
under  circumstances  that  admit  of  tlieir  union  as 
Husband  and  Wife!  A  person  may  be  highly  estima- 
ble on  the  whole,  nay,  amiable  as  neighbor,  friend) 
liousemate — in  short,  in  all  the  concentric  circles  of 
attachment,  save  only  the  last  and  inmost ;  and  yet 
from  ho\v  many  causes  be  estranged  from  the  highest 
perfection  in  this !  Pride,  coldness  or  fastidiousness 
of  nature,  worldly  cares,  an  anxious  or  ambitious  dis- 
position, a  passion  for  display,  a  sidlen  temper — one 
or  the  other — too  often  proves  "  the  dead  fly  in  the 
f;ompost  of  spices,"  and  any  one  is  enough  to  unfit  it 
for  the  precious  balm  of  unction.  For  some  mighty 
good  sort  of  people,  too,  there  is  not  seldom  a  sort  of 
solemn  satin-nine,  or,  if  you  will,  ural/ie  vanity,  that 
keep.«  itself  alive  by  sucking  the  paws  of  it-s  own  self- 
importance.  And  as  this  high  sense,  or  rather  sensa- 
tion of  their  own  value  is,  for  the  most  part,  ground- 
ed on  negative  qualities,  so  they  have  no  better  means 
of  preserving  the  same  but  by  negaliies — that  is,  by 
not  doing  or  saying  any  thing,  that  might  be  put  down 
lor  fond,  silly,  or  nonsensical, — or  (to  use  tlieir  own 
phrase)  by  never  forgeiliiig  themselves,  which  some  of 
their  acquaintance  are  uncharitable  enough  to  think 
the  most  worthless  object  they  could  be  employed  in 
remembering. 

ELIZA  {in  answer  to  a  whisper  from  Catherine). 
To  a  hair !  He  must  have  sate  for  it  himself.  Save 
me  from  such  follis !  But  they  are  out  of  the  question. 

FRIEND. 

True  !  but  the  same  effect  is  produced  in  thousands 
by  the  too  general  insensibility  to  a  very  important 
truth  ;  this,  namely,  that  the  mi.sery  of  human  life  is 
made  up  of  large  masses,  each  separated  from  the 
other  by  certain  intervals.  One  year,  the  death  of  a 
child  ;  years  after,  a  failure  in  trade ;  after  another 
longer  or  shorter  interval,  a  daughter  may  have 
married  unhappily ; — in  all  but  the  singularly  un- 
fortunate, the  integral  parts  that  compose  the  sum 
total  of  the  unhappiness  of  a  man's  life,  are  easily 
counted,  and  distinctly  remembered.  The  happiness 
of  life,  on  the  contrary,  is  made  up  of  minute  frac- 
tions— the  little,  soon-lbrgotten  charities  of  a  kiss,  a 
smile,  a  kind  look,  a  heartfelt  compliment  in  the  dis- 


guise of  playful  raillery,  and  the  countless  other 
infinitesimals  of  pleasurable  thought  and  genial 
feeling. 

CATHERINE. 

Well,  Sir  ;  you  have  said  quite  enough  to  make  mn 
despair  of  fmding  a  "  John  Anderson,  my  jo,  Jolui," 
to  totter  down  the  hill  of  life  with. 

friend. 
Not  so !  Good  men  are  not,  I  trust,  so  much  scarcer 
than  good  women,  but  that  what  another  would  find 
in  yon,  you  may  hope  to  find  in  another.  But  well, 
however,  may  that  boon  be  rare,  the  possession  of 
which  would  be  more  than  an  adequate  reward  for 
the  rarest  virtue. 

ELIZA. 

Surely,  he  who  has  described  it  so  beautifully, 
must  have  possessed  it  ? 

FRIEND. 

If  he  were  worthy  to  have  possessed  it,  and  had 
believingly  anticipated  and  not  found  it,  how  bitter 

the  disappointment ! 

{Then,  after  a  pause  of  a  few  minutes). 

Answer  {ex  improviso). 
Yes,  yes  !  that  boon,  life's  richest  treat. 
He  had,  or  fancied  that  he  had  ; 
Say,  't  was  but  in  his  own  conceit — 

The  fancy  made  him  glad  ! 
Crown  of  his  cup,  and  garnish  of  his  dish ! 
The  boon,  prefigured  in  his. earliest  wish! 
The  fair  fulfilment  of  his  poesy. 
When  his  young  heart  first  yearn'd  for  sympathy . 

But  e'en  the  meteor  offspring  of  the  brain 

Unnourish'd  wane  I 
Faith  asks  her  daily  bread. 
And  Fancy  must  be  fed  ! 
Now  so  it  chanced — from  wet  or  dry, 
It  boots  not  how — I  know  not  why — 
She  iniss'd  her  wonted  food :  and  quickljr 
Poor  Fancy  stagger'd  and  grew  sickly. 
Then  came  a  restless  state,  't  wixt  yea  a'  '  \  <»,* 
His  faith  was  fix'd,  his  heart  all  ebb  and  M  \v  , 
Or  like  a  bark,  in  some  half-shelter'd  ba] 
Above  its  anchor  driving  to  and  fro. 


Tliat  boon,  which  but  to  have  possess'd 
In  a  helirf  gave  life  a  zest — 
Uncertain  both  what  it  had  been. 
And  if  by  error  lost,  or  luck ; 
And  what  it  uas : — an  evergreen 
Which  some  insidious  blight  had  struck, 
Or  annual  flower,  which  past  its  blow 
No  vernal  spell  shall  e'er  revive ; 
llncertain,  and  afraid  to  know. 
Doubts  toss'd  him  to  and  fro ; 
Hope  keeping  Lo\e,  Love  Hope  alive. 
Like  babes  bevvilder'd  in  a  snow. 
That  cling  and  huddle  from  the  cold 
In  hollow  tree  or  ruin'd  fold. 

Tliose  sparkling  colors,  once  his  boast, 
Fading,  one  by  one  away. 

Thin  and  hueless  as  a  ghost. 

Poor  Fancy  on  her  sick-bed  lay , 

111  at  distance,  worse  when  near, 

Telling  her  dreams  to  jealous  Fear ! 
233 


2U 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Wliere  was  it  then,  the  sociable  sprite 
That  croun'd  the  Poet's  cup  and  deck'd  his  dish ! 
Poor  shadow  cast  from  an  unsteady  wish, 
Itself  a  substance  by  no  other  right 
But  that  it  intercepted  Reason's  light  ; 
It  dimm'd  his  eye,  it  darken'd  on  his  brow, 
A  peevish  mood,  a  tedious  time,  I  trow ! 
Thank  Heaven !  't  is  not  so  now. 


O  bliss  of  blissful  hours ! 
The  boon  of  Heaven's  decreeing, 
While  yet  in  Eden's  bowers 
Dwelt  the  First  Husband  and  his  sinless  Mate ! 
The  one  sweet  plant  which,  piteous  Heaven  agreeing, 
They  bore  with  them  through  Eden's  closing  gate ! 
Of  life's  gay  summer-tide  the  sovran  Rose ! 
Late  autumn's  Amaranth,  that  more  fragrant  blows 
When  Passion's  flowers  all  fall  or  fade  ; 
If  this  were  ever  his,  in  outward  being, 
Or  but  his  own  true  love's  projected  shade. 
Now,  that  at  length  by  certain  proof  he  knows, 
That  whether  real  or  magic  show, 
Whate'er  it  was,  it  is  no  longer  so ; 
Though  heart  be  lonesome,  Hope  laid  low. 
Yet,  Lady !  deem  him  not  unblest : 
The  certainly  that  struck  Hope  dead, 
Ilath  left  Contentment  in  her  stead  : 
And  that  is  next  to  best ! 


THE  GARDEN  OF  BOCCACCIO. 

Of  late,  in  one  of  those  most  weary  hours. 
When  life  seems  emptied  of  all  genial  powers, 
A  dreary  mood,  which  he  who  ne'er  has  known 
May  bless  his  happy  lot,  I  sate  alone ; 
And,  from  the  numbing  spell  to  win  relief, 
Call'd  on  the  past  for  thought  of  glee  or  grief. 
In  vain !  bereft  alike  of  grief  and  glee, 
I  sate  and  cower'd  o'er  my  own  vacancy! 
And  as  I  watch'd  the  dull  continuous  ache. 
Which,  all  else  slumb'ring,  seem'd  alone  to  wake ; 

0  Friend  !  long  wont  to  notice  yet  conceal. 
And  soothe  by  silence  wliat  words  cannot  heal, 

1  but  half  saw  that  quiet  hand  of  thine 
Place  on  my  desk  this  exquisite  design, 
Boccaccio's  Garden  and  its  faery, 

The  love,  the  joyaunce,  and  the  gallantry! 
An  Idyll,  with  Boccaccio's  spirit  warm, 
Framed  in  the  silent  poesy  of  form. 
Like  Hocks  adown  a  newly-bained  steep 

Emerging  from  a  mist :  or  like  a  stream 
Of  music  soft  that  not  dispels  the  sleep. 

But  casts  in  happier  moulds  the  slumberer's  dream, 
Gazed  by  an  idle  eye  with  silent  might 
The  picture  stole  upon  my  inward  sight. 
A  tremulous  warmth  crept  gradual  o'er  my  chest, 
As  though  an  infant's  linger  touch'd  my  breast. 
And  one  by  one  (I  know  not  whence)  were  brought 
All  spirits  of  power  that  most  had  slirr'd  my  thought. 
In  selfless  boyhood,  on  a  new  world  tost 
Of  wonder,  and  in  its  own  fincies  lost  ; 
Or  charm'd  my  youth,  that  kindled  from  above, 
Loved  ere  it  loved,  and  sought  a  form  for  love ; 


Or  lent  a  lustre  to  the  earnest  scan 

Of  manhood,  musing  what  and  whence  is  man 

Wild  strain  of  Scalds,  that  in  the  sea-worn  caves 

Rehearsed  their  war-spell  to  the  winds  and  waves 

Or  fateful  hymn  of  those  prophetic  maids. 

That  call'd  on  Hertha  in  deep  forest  glades ; 

Or  minstrel  lay,  that  cheer'd  the  baron's  feast ; 

Or  rh3ane  of  city  pomp,  of  monk  and  priest, 

Judge,  mayor,  and  many  a  guild  in  long  array. 

To  high-church  pacing  on  the  great  saint's  day. 

And  many  a  verse  which  to  myself  I  sang. 

That  woke  the  tear,  yet  stole  away  the  pang, 

Of  hopes  which  in  lamenting  I  renew'd. 

And  last,  a  matron  now,  of  sober  mien, 

Yet  radiant  still  and  with  no  earthly  sheen. 

Whom  as  a  faery  child  ray  childhood  woo'd 

Even  in  my  dawn  of  thought — Philosophy. 

Though  then  unconscious  of  herself,  pardie, 

She  bore  no  other  name  than  Poesy ; 

And,  like  a  gift  from  heaven,  in  lifeful  glee. 

That  had  but  newly  left  a  mother's  knee. 

Prattled  and  play'd  with  bird  and  flower,  and  stone. 

As  if  with  ellin  playfellows  well  known. 

And  life  reveal'd  to  innocence  alone. 


Thanks,  gentle  artist !  now  I  can  descry 
Chy  fair  creation  with  a  mastering  eye. 
And  oil  awake !    And  now  in  fix'd  gaze  stand, 
Now  wander  through  the  Eden  of  thy  hand ; 
Praise  the  green  arches,  on  the  fountain  clear 
See  fragment  shadows  of  the  crossing  deer. 
And  with  that  serviceable  nymph  I  stoop. 
The  crystal  from  its  restless  pool  to  scoop. 
I  see  no  longer !  I  myself  am  there. 
Sit  on  the  ground-sward,  and  the  banquet  share. 
'Tis  I,  that  sweep  ihat  lute's  love-echoing  strings. 
And  gaze  upon  the  maid  who  gazing  sings: 
Or  pause  and  listen  to  the  tinkling  bells 
From  the  high  tower,  and  think  that  there  she  dwells 
With  old  Boccaccio's  soul  I  stand  possest, 
And  breathe  an  air  like  life,  that  swells  my  chest. 


TTie  brightness  of  the  world,  O  thou  once  free, 
And  always  fair,  rare  land  of  courtesy ! 
O,  Florence  !  with  the  Tuscan  fields  and  hills ! 
And  famous  Amo  fed  with  all  their  rills  ; 
Thou  brightest  star  of  star-bright  Italy ! 
Rich,  ornate,  populous,  all  treasures  thine, 
The  golden  corn,  the  olive,  and  the  vine. 
Fair  cities,  gallant  mansions,  castles  old. 
And  forests,  where  beside  his  leafy  hold 
The  sullen  boar  hath  heard  the  distant  horn. 
And  whets  his  tusks  against  the  gnarled  thorn  , 
Palladian  palace  with  its  storied  halls; 
Fountains,  where  Love  lies  listening  to  their  falls 
Gardens,  where  flings  the  bridge  its  airy  span, 
And  Nature  makes  her  happy  home  with  man ; 
Where  many  a  gorgeous  flower  is  duly  fed 
With  its  own  rill,  on  its  owir  spangled  bed. 
And  wreathes  the  marble  urn,  or  leans  its  head, 
A  mimic  mourner,  that  wilh  veil  withdrawn 
Weeps  liquid  gems,  the  presents  of  the  dawn. 
Thine  all  delights,  and  every  muse  is  thine  : 
And  more  than  all,  the  embrace  and  intertwine 
Of  all  with  all  in  gay  and  twinkling  dance ' 
'Mid  gods  of  Greece  and  warriors  of  romance 

234 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


225 


See  !  Boccace  sits,  unfolding  on  his  knees 
The  new-found  roll  of  old  Maeonides;* 
But  from  his  mantle's  fold,  and  near  the  heart, 
Peers  Ovid's  Holy  Book  of  Love's  sweet  smart !t 

O  all-enjoying  and  all-blending  sage. 
Long  be  it  mine  to  con  thy  mazy  pnge, 
Where,  half  conceal'd,  the  eye  of  fancy  views 
Fauns,  nymphs,  and  winged  saints,  all  gracious  to  thy 
muse ! 

Still  in  thy  garden  let  me  watch  their  pranks, 
And  see  in  Dian's  vest  between  the  ranks 
Of  the  trim  vines,  some  maid  that  half  believes 
The  vestal  fires,  of  which  her  lover  grieves, 
With  that  sly  satyr  peering  through  the  leaves! 


MY  BAPTISMAL  BIRTH-DAY. 

IJNES  COMPOSED  ON  A  SICK  BED,  UNDER  SEVERE 
BODILY  SUFFERING,  OJI  WY  SPIRITUAL  BIRTH-DAY, 
OCTOBER  28th. 

Bow  unto  God  in  Christ—  in  Christ,  my  All! 
What,  that  Earth  boasts,  were  not  lost  cheaply,  rather 
Than  forfeit  that  blest  Name,  by  which  we  call 
The  Holy  One,  the  Almighty  God,  Oqr  Father? 
Father  I  in  Christ  we  live    and  Christ  in  Thee  : 
Eternal  Thou,  and  everlasting  VV^e ! 

The  Heir  of  Heaven,  henceforth  I  dread  not  Death, 
In  Christ  1  live,  in  Christ  I  draw  the  breath 
Of  the  true  Life.     Let  Sea,  and  Earth,  and  Sky 
Wage  war  against  me :  on  my  front  I  show 
Their  mighty  Master's  seal !    In  vain  (heij  try 
To  end  my  Life,  who  can  but  end  its  Woe. 

Is  that  a  Death-bed,  where  the  Christian  lies  ? 
Yes! — But  not  his:  'Tis  Death  itself  there  dies. 


FRAGMENTS 
FROM  THE  WRECK  OF  MEMORY: 

OR 
portions  of  poems   composed  in   early  MANHOOD. 

{Note. — It  may  not  be  without  use  or  interest  to 
youthful,  and  especially  to  intelligent  female  readers 

•Boccaccio  claimed  for  himself  the  glory  of  having  first  in- 
troduced the  works  of  Homer  to  his  countrymen. 

1 1  know  few  more  striking  or  more  interesline  proofs  of  the 
overwhelming  influence  which  the  study  of  the  Greek  and  Ro- 
man classics  exercised  on  the  judgments,  feelings,  and  imagi- 
nations of  the  literati  of  Europe  al  the  cnmmencemont  of  the 
restoration  of  literature,  than  the  passtise  in  the  Filocopo^f 
Boccaccio;  whure  the  sage  instructor,  Racheo.  as  soon  as  the 
young  prince  and  the  beautiful  girl  Biancaliore  had  learned 
their  letiers,  seta  them  to  study  Iho  Holi/  Bool;.  Onid'sArt  of 
Love.  Incomincio  Racheo  a  nieltero  il  suo  officio  in  essocu- 
lione  con  inlera  sollecitudine.  E  loro,  in  breve  tempo,  ineeg- 
nalo  aconoscerle  \rM(.ie.fccclcgereilsanlo  libra  iV  Ovvidio, 
net  quale  tl  sommo  poeta  inostra,  come  i  savti  fuochi  di  Vcr 
ncre  si  dcbbano  ne  frcddi  cuori  occcndere.'" 

16 


j  of  poetry,  to  observe,  that  in  the  attempt  to  adapt  the 

Greek  metres  to  the  English  language,  we  must  begin 

•  by  substituting  (piality  of  sound  for  quantity  —  that  is, 

!  accentuated  or  comparatively  emphasized  syllables, 

I  for  what,  in  the  Greek  and  Latin  verse,  are  named 

long,  and  of  which  the  pnjsodial  mark  is  "  ;  and  vice 

versa,  unaccentuated  syllables  for  short,  marked  ". 

Now  the  hexameter  verse  consists  of  two  sorts  of  feet, 

the  spondee,  composed  of  two  long  syllables,  and  the 

dactyl,  composed  of  one  long  syllable  followed  by  two 

short.    The  tbilowing  verse  from  the  Psalms,  is  a  rare 

instance  of  a  perftct  hexameter  (('.  e.  line  of  si,x  feet) 

in  the  English  language  :  — 

God   came  |  iip  with  a  |  shout  :   oiir  |  Lord  with 
the  I  soiind  Of  a  |  triimpet. 

But  so  few  are  the  truly  spondaic  words  in  our  lan- 
guage, such  as  Egypt,  OprOar,  tQrmOil,  &c.,  that  we 
are  compelled  to  substitute,  in  most  instances,  the 
trochee,  or  "  a,  i.  e.  such  words  as  merry,  lightly,  &c. 
for  the  proper  spondee.  It  need  only  be  added,  that 
in  the  hexameter  the  fifth  foot  must  be  a  dactyl,  and 
the  sixth  a  spondee,  or  trochee.  I  will  end  this  note 
with  two  hexameter  lines,  likewise  from  the  Psalms. 
There  is  S,  ]  river  the  |  flowing  where  |  Of  shall  | 
gladden  the  city. 

Halle  I  liijah  the  |  city  of  |  Gud  JehOvah !  hath  | 
blest  her.] 


I.  HYMN  TO  THE  EARTH. 

Earth  !  thou  mother  of  numberless  children,  the  nurse 

and  the  mother. 
Hail!  O  Goddess,  thrice  hail!    Blest  be  thou!  and, 

blessing,  I  hymn  thee  ! 
Forth,  ye  sweet  sounds  !  from  my  harp,  and  my  voice 

shall  float  on  your  surges  — 
Soar  thou  aloft,  O  my  soul !  and  bear  up  my  song  on 

thy  pinions. 

Travelling  the  vale  with  mine  eyes — green  meadows, 

and  lake  with  green  island. 
Dark  in  its  basin  of  rock,  and  the  bare  stream  flowing 

in  brightness. 
Thrilled  with  thy  beauty  and  love,  in  the  wooded  slope 

of  the  mountain. 
Here,  Great  Mother,  I  lie,  thy  child  with  its  head  on 

thy  bosom ! 
Playful  the  spirits  of  noon,  that  creep  or  rush  through 

thy  tresses  : 
Green-haired  Goddess !  refresh  me ;  and  hark !  as  they 

hurry  or  linger. 
Fill  the  pause  of  my  harp,  or  sustain  it  witn  musical 

murmurs. 
Into  my  being  thou  murmurest  joy;  and  tenderest 

sadness 
Shed'st  thou,  like  dew,  on  my  heart,  till  the  joy  anil 

the  heavenly  gladness 
Pour  themselves  fiirth  from  my  heart  in  tears,  and  the 

hymns  of  thanksgiving. 
Earth  !  thou  mother  of  numberless  children,  the  nurse 

and  the  mother. 
Sister  thou  of  the  Stars,  and  beloved  by  the  sun.  the 

rejoicer ! 

235 


226 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Guardian  and  friend  of  the  Moon,  O  Earth,  whom 
the  Comels  forget  not, 

Yea,  in  the  measureless  distance  wheel  round,  and 
again  they  behold  thee ! 

Fadeless  and  young  (and  what  if  the  latest  birth  of 
Creation  ?) 

Bride  and  consort  of  Heaven,  that  looks  down  upon 
thee  enamored  ! 

Say,  mysterious  Earth  !  O  say,  great  Mother  and  God- 
dess! 

Was  it  not  well  with  thee  then,  when  first  thy  lap 
was  ungirdled, 

Thy  lap  to  the  genial  Heaven,  the  day  that  he  wooed 
thee  and  v^on  thee  I 

Fair  was  thy  blush,  the  fairest  and  first  of  the  blushes 
of  morning ! 

Deep  was  the  shudder,  O  Earth!  the  throe  of  thy 
self-retention  : 

July  thou  strovest  to  flee,  and  didst  seek  thyself  at 
thy  centre ! 

Mightier  far  was  the  joy  of  thy  sudden  resilience ; 
and  forthwith 

Myriad  myriads  of  lives  teemed  forth  from  the  mighty 
embracement, 

Thousand-fold  tribes  of  dwellers,  impelled  by  thou- 
sand-fold instincts. 

Filled,  as  a  dream,  the  wide  waters :  the  rivers  sang 
on  their  channels  ; 

Laughed  on  their  shores  the  hoarse  seas  :  the  yearn- 
ing ocean  swelled  upward : 

Young  life  lowed  through  the  meadows,  the  woods, 
and  the  echoing  mountains, 

Wandered  bleating  in  valleys,  and  warbled  in  blos- 
soming branches. 


IV.  THE  OVIDIAN  ELEGIAC  METRE  DESCRIBED 
AND  EXEMPLIFIED. 

In  the  hexameter  rises  the  fountain's  silvery  column ; 
In  the  pentameter  aye  falling  in  melody  back. 


IL  ENGLISH  HEXAMETERS,  WRITTEN  DURING 
A  TEMPORARY  BLINDNESS,  IN  1799. 

O,  WHAT  a  life  is  the  Eve's  !  what  a  strange  and 

inscrutable  essence ! 
Him,  that  is  utterly  blind,  nor  glimpses  the  fire  that 

warms  him ; 
Him,  that  never  beheld  the  swelling  breast  of  his 

mother ; 
Him,  that  smiled  in  his  gladness,  as  a  babe  that  smiles 

in  its  slumber  ; 
Even  for  Him  it  exists!    It  moves  and  stirs  in  its 

prison ! 
Lives  with  a  separate  life;  and "Is  it  a  Spirit?" 

he  murmurs : 
"  Sure,  it  has  thoughts  of  its  own,  and  to  see  is  only 

a  language!" 


in.    THE    HOMERIC    HEXAMETER    DESCRIBED 
AND  EXEMPLIFIED. 

Strongly  it  bears  us  along  in  swelling  and  limitless 

billows. 
Nothing  before  and  nothing  behind  but  the  sky  and 

the  ocean. 


V.    A  VERSIFIED  REFLECTION. 

[A  Force  is  the  provincial  term  in  Cumberland  for 
any  narrow  fall  of  water  from  the  summit  of  a  moun- 
tain precipice.  —  The  following  stanza  (it  may  not 
arrogate  the  name  of  poem)  or  versified  reflection, 
was  composed  while  the  author  was  gazing  on  three 
parallel  Forces,  on  a  moonlight  night,  at  the  foot  of 
the  Saddleback  Fell.— S.  T.  C] 

On  stern  Blencauthur's  perilous  height 
The  wind  is  tyrannous  and  strong: 
And  flashing  forth  unsteady  light 
From  stern  Blencarthur's  skiey  height 
As  loud  the  torrents  throng! 

Beneath  the  moon  in  gentle  weather 
They  bind  the  earth  and  sky  together : 
But  oh !  the  Sky,  and  all  its  forms,  how  quiet! 
The  things  that  seek  the  Earth,  how  full  of  noLse 
and  riot! 


LOVE'S  GHOST  AND  RE-EVANITION. 

AN   ALLEGORIC   ROMANCE. 

Like  a  lone  Arab,  old  and  blind. 
Some  caravan  had  left  behind  ; 
Who  sits  beside  a  ruin'd  well. 
Where  the  shy  Dipsads*  bask  and  swell! 
And  now  he  cowers  with  low-hung  head  aslant, 
And  listens  for  some  human  sound  in  vain  : 
And  now  the  aid,  which  Heaven  alone  can  grant. 
Upturns  his  eyeless  face  from  Heaven  to  gain 
Even  thus,  in  languid  mood  and  vacant  hour, 
Resting  my  eye  upon  a  drooping  plant. 
With  brow  low-bent,  within  my  garden  bower, 
I  sate  upon  its  couch  of  Camomile : 
And  lo! — or  was  it  a  brief  sleep,  the  while 
I  watch'd  the  sickly  calm  and  aimless  scope 
Of  my  own  heart  ? — I  saw  ilie  inmate,  Hope, 

Tha:t  once  had  made  that  heart  so  warm, 

Lie  lifeless  at  my  feet ! 
And  Love  stole  in,  in  maiden  form, 

Toward  my  arbor-seat! 
She  bent  and  kissed  her  sister's  lips, 

As  she  was  wont  to  do  : 
Alas!  'twas  but  a  chilling  breath, 
That  woke  enough  of  life  in  death 
To  make  Hope  die  anew. 


*The  Aspg  of  the  sand-deserts,  anciently  named  Dipsada. 

236 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


227 


LIGHT-HEARTEDNESS  IN  RHYME. 


"  I  expect  no  sense,  worth  listening  to,  from  the  man  who 
never  dares  talk  nonsense." — Inon. 


1.  THE  REPROOF  AND  REPLY: 
OR,  THE  flower-thief's   APOLOGY,   FOR  A    ROBBERY 

CO.MMITTED    L\    MR.  AND    MRS.  's    GARDEN,   OS 

SUNDAY   MORNLNG,  25tH    OF    MAY,    1833,   BETWEEN 
THE  HOURS  OF  ELEVEN  AND  TWELVHL 

"  FiE,  Mr.  Coleridge !  —  and  can  this  be  you  ? 
Break  two  commandments  ? — and  in  church-time  too  ? 
Have  you  not  heard,  or  have  you  heard  in  vain, 
The  birlh-and-parentage-recording  strain  ?  — 
Confessions  shrill,  that  shrill  cried  maek'rel  drown  — 
Fresh  from  the  drop — the  youth  not  yet  cut  down  — 
Letter  to  sweet-heart — the  last  dying  speech  — 
And  did'nt  all  this  begin  in  Sabbath-breach  ? 
You,  that  knew  better !     In  broad  open  day 
Steal  in,  steal  out,  and  steal  our  flowers  away  ? 
What  could  possess  you  ?    Ah  I  sweet  youth,  I  fear, 
The  chap  with  horns  and  tail  was  at  your  ear !" 

St;ch  sounds,  of  late,  accusing  fancy  brought 

From  fair  C to  the  Poet's  thought. 

Now  hear  the  meek  Parnassian  youth's  reply : — 
A  bow — a  pleading  look — a  downcast  eye  — 
And  then : 

"  Fair  dame !  a  visionary  wight. 
Hard  by  j'our  hill-side  mansion  sparkling  white, 
His  thought  all  hovering  round  the  Muses'  home, 
Long  hath  it  been  your  Poet's  wont  to  roam. 
And  many  a  morn,  on  his  bed-charmed  sense. 
So  rich  a  stream  of  music  issued  thence, 
He  deem'd  himself,  as  it  flow'd  warbling  on. 
Beside  the  vocal  fount  of  Helicon! 
But  when,  as  if  to  settle  the  concern, 
A  nymph  too  he  beheld,  in  many  a  turn. 
Guiding  the  sweet  rill  from  its  fontal  urn ; 
Say,  can  you  blame  ? — No !  none,  that  saw  and  heard, 
Could  blame  a  bard,  that  he,  thus  inly  stirr'd, 
A  muse  beholding  in  each  fervent  trait. 

Took  Mary  H for  Polly  Ilymnia  ! 

Or,  haply  as  thou  stood  beside  the  maid 
One  loftier  form  in  sable  stole  arrayed. 
If  with  regretful  thought  he  hail'd  in  tJiee, 

C m,  his  long-lost  friend  Mol  Pomone  ? 

But  most  of  you,  soft  warblings,  I  complain! 

'T  was  ye,  that  from  the  bee-hive  of  my  brain 

Did  lure  the  fancies  forth,  a  freakish  rout. 

And  witched  the  air  with  dreams  turn'd  inside  out. 

Thus  all  conspired — each  power  of  eye  and  ear, 
And  this  gay  month,  th'  enchantress  of  the  year, 
To  cheat  poor  me  (no  conjurer,  God  wot  I) 

And  C m's  self  accomplice  in  the  plot. 

Can  you  then  wonder  if  I  went  astray? 

Not  bards  alone,  nor  lovers  mad  as  they  — 

All  Nature  dai/-dreams  in  the  month  of  May, 

And  if  I  pluck'd  '  each  flower  that  sweefest  blows' — 

Who  walks  in  sleep,  needs  follow  must  his  nose. 


Thus  long  accustomed  on  the  twy-fork'd  hill,* 
To  pluck  both  flower  and  floweret  at  my  will ; 
The  garden's  maze,  like  No-man's  land,  I  tread. 
Nor  common  law,  nor  statute  in  my  head  ; 
For  my  own  proper  smell,  sight,  fancy,  feeling, 
With  autocratic  hand  at  once  repealing 
Five  Acts  of  Parliament  'gainst  private  stealing ! 

But  yet  from  C m,  who  despairs  of  grace  ? 

There 's  no  spring-gun  nor  man-trap  in  that  face ! 
Let  Moses  then  look  black,  and  Aaron  blue. 
That  look  as  if  they  had  little  else  to  do  : 

For  C m  speaks.    "  Poor  youth  !  he's  but  a  waif  I 

The  spoons  all  right?  The  hen  and  chickens  safe? 

Well,  well,  he  shall  not  forfeit  our  regards  — 

The  Eighth  Commandment  was  not  made  for  Bards  !" 


II.    IN  ANSWER  TO  A  FRIENDS  QUESTION. 
Her  attachment  may  differ  from  yours  in  degree, 

Provided  they  are  both  of  one  hind  ; 
But  friendship,  how  tender  so  ever  it  be. 

Gives  no  accord  to  love,  however  refined. 

Love,   that  meets    not  with  love,  its  true  nature 
revealing. 

Grows  ashamed  of  itself,  and  demurs : 
If  you  cannot  lift  hers  up  to  your  state  of  feeling, 

You  must  lower  down  your  state  to  hers. 


III.    LINES  TO  A  COMIC  AUTHOR,  ON  AN  ABU. 
SIVE  REVIEW. 

What  though  the    chilly  wide-mouth'd  quacking 

chorus 
From  the  rank  swamps  of  murk  Review-land  croak: 
So  was  it,  neighbour,  in  the  times  before  us, 
When  Momus,  throwing  on  his  Attic  cloak. 
Romped  with  the  Graces  :  and  each  tickled  Muse 
(That  Turk,  Dan  Phoebus,  whom  bards  call  divine. 
Was  married  to  —at  least,  he  kepi  —  all  nine)  — 
They  fled  ;  but  with  reverted  faces  ran  ! 
Yet,  somewhat  the  broad  freedoms  to  excuse. 
They  had  allured  the  audacious  Greek  to  use. 
Swore  they  mistook  him  for  their  own  Good  Man. 
This  Momus  —  Aristophanes  on  earth 
Men  called  him  —  maugre  all  his  wit  and  worth. 
Was  croaked  and  gabbled  at.    I  low,  then,  should  you, 
Or  I,  Friend,  hope  to  'scape  the  skulking  crew  ? 
No:  laugh,  and  say  aloud,  in  tones  of  glee, 
"  I  hate  the  quacking  tribe,  and  they  hate  me !" 


IV.    AN  EXPECTORATION, 

OR  SPLENETIC  EXTEMPORE,  ON  MY  JOYFDL  DEPARTT7RE 
FROM  THE  CITY  OF  COLOGNE. 

As  I  am  Rh5'nier, 

And  now  at  least  a  merry  one, 
Mr.  MuM.'s  Rudesheimert 

And  the  church  of  St.  Geryon 

*  The  English  ParnasBUs  is  remarkable  for  its  two  sumnuts 
oF  uneqiiul  heishi,  tlie  lower  denominated  Hampstead,  the 
higher  Higligate. 

tThe  apjthcosis  of  Rhenish  wine. 

31  237 


228 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Are  the  two  things  alone 
That  deserve  to  be  known 
In  the  body-and-soul-stinking  town  of  Cologne. 


EXPECTORATION  THE  SECOND. 

In  Coln,  t  a  town  of  monks  and  bones,  X 

And  pavements  fang'd  with  murderous  stones  ; 

And  rags,  and  hags,  and  hideous  wenches ; 

I  counted  two-and-seventy  stenches, 

All  well-defined  and  several  stinks  ! 

Ye  nymphs  that  reign  o'er  sewers  and  sinks. 

The  river  Rhine,  it  is  well  known, 

Doth  wash  your  city  of  Cologne  ; 

But  tell  me,  nymphs!  what  power  divine 

Shall  henceforth  wash  the  river  Rhine  ?  $ 


SONG 

ex  improvisa  on  hearing  a  song  in  praise  of  a 

lady's  beauty. 

'T  IS  not  the  lily  brow  I  prize, 
Nor  roseate  cheeks,  nor  sunny  eyes. 
Enough  of  lilies  and  of  roses  ! 
A  thousand  fold  more  dear  to  me 
The  gentle  look  that  love  discloses. 
The  look  that  love  alone  can  see. 


THE  POET'S  ANSWER 

TO  A  lady's  question  RESPECTING  THE  ACCOMPLISH- 
MENTS MOST  DESIRABLE  IN  AN  INSTRUCTRESS  OF 
CHILDREN. 

O'er  wayward  childhood  would'st  tliou  hold  firm  rule. 
And  sun  thee  in  the  hght  of  happy  faces ; 
Love,  Hope,  and  Patience,  these  must  be  thy  Graces, 
And  in  thine  own  heart  let  them  first  keep  school. 
Tor  as  old  Atlas  on  his  broad  neck  places 
Heaven's  starry  globe,  and  there  sustains  it;  so 
m  these  upbear  the  little  world  below 
Of  Education,  Patience,  Love,  and  Hope. 
Methinks,  I  see  them  group'd  in  seemly  show, 
The  straiten'd  arms  upraised,  the  palms  aslope 
And  robes  that  touching,  as  adown  they  flow, 
Distinctly  blend,  like  snow  emboss 'd  in  snow. 

O  part  them  never!   If  Hope  prostrate  lie. 

Love  too  will  sink  and  die. 
But  Love  is  subtle,  and  will  proof  derive 
From  her  own  life  that  Hope  is  yet  alive. 
And  bending  o'er,  with  soul-transfusing  eyes, 
And  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  Mother  Dove, 
Wooes  back  the  fleeting  spirit,  and  half  supplies: 
Thus  Love  repays  to  Hope  what  Hope  first  gave  to 
Love. 

tThe  Gfirman  nnme  of  Colocne. 

t  Of  the  eleven  ihousaml  viririii  martyrs. 

^As  Noces?ily  is  the  mi>ltier  of  Invenlinn,  and  extremes 
beget  ench  other,  the  fact  above  recorded  may  explain  how  this 
avci^t  town  (which,  alas  !  as  sometimes  happens  with  veni- 
son, ^'i.''  been  kept  tun  lanir.)  crime  to  he  the  hirth-plrice  of  the 
iiost  fnigrant  of  splriiuoas  fluids,  the  Eau  dc  Cologne. 


Yet  haply  there  will  come  a  weary  day. 
When  over-task'd  at  length 
Both  Love  and  Hope  beneath  the  load  give  way. 
Then  with  a  statue's  smile,  a  statue's  strength. 
Stands  the  mute  sister.  Patience,  nothing  loth, 
And  both  supporting  does  the  work  of  both. 


JULIA. 


medio  de  fonle  leporum 

Surgit  amari  aliquid. — JLucrct. 


Julia  was  blest  with  beauty,  wit,  and  grace ; 
Small  poets  loved  to  sing  her  blooming  face. 
Before  her  altars,  lo  !  a  numerous  train 
Preferr'd  their  vows  ;  yet  all  preferr'd  in  vain : 
Till  charming  Florio,  born  to  conquer,  came. 
And  touch'd  the  fair  one  with  an  equal  flame. 
The  flame  she  felt,  and  ill  could  she  conceal 
What  every  look  and  action  would  reveal. 
With  boldness  then,  which  seldom  fails  to  move, 
He  pleads  the  cause  of  marriage  and  of  love  ; 
The  course  of  hymeneal  joj's  he  rounds, 
The  fair  one's  eyes  dance  pleasure  at  the  sounds. 
Nought    now    remain'd    but  "  Noes"  —  how  little 

meant  — 
And  the  sweet  coyness  that  endears  consent. 
The  youth  upon  his  knees  enraptured  fell :  — 
The  strange  misfortune,  oh  !  what  words  can  tell  ? 
Tell!  ye  neglected  sylphs!  who  lap-dogs  guard, 
Why  snatch'd  ye  not  away  your  precious  ward  ? 
Why  suflfer'd  ye  the  lover's  weight  to  fall 
On  the  ill-fated  neck  of  much-loved  Ball  ? 
The  favorite  on  his  mistress  casts  his  eyes. 
Gives  a  short  melancholy  howl,  and  —  dies  ! 
Sacred  his  ashes  lie,  and  long  his  rest! 
Anger  and  grief  divide  poor  Julia's  breast. 
Her  eyes  she  fix'd  on  guilty  Florio  first. 
On  him  the  storm  of  angry  grief  must  burst. 
That  storm  he  fled  :  —  he  wooes  a  kinder  fair, 
Whose  fond  afl^ections  no  dear  puppies  share. 
'T  were  vain  to  tell  how  Julia  pined  away  ;  — 
Unhappy  fair,  that  in  one  luckless  day 
(From  future  almanacs  the  day  be  cross'd  !) 
At  once  her  lover  and  her  lap-dog  lost ! 

1789. 


•  I  yet  remain 


To  mourn  the  hours  of  youth  (yet  mourn  in  vain) 
That  fled  neglected  ;  wiselv  thou  hast  trod 
The  better  path  —  and  that  high  meed  which  God 
Assign'd  to  virtue  tow'ring  from  the  dust. 
Shall  wait  thy  rising,  Spirit  pure  and  just ! 

O  God  !  how  sweet  it  were  to  think,  that  all 
Who  silent  motirn  around  this  gloomy  ball 
Misrht  hear  the  voice  oi'  joy  ;  —  but  't  is  the  will 
Of  man's  great  Author,  that  through  good  and  ill 
Calm  he  should  hold  his  course,  and  so  sustain 
His  varied  lot  of  pleasure,  toil,  and  pain. 

1793. 
238 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


229 


TO  THE  REV.  W.  I.  HORT 

Hush  !  ye  clamorous  cares,  be  mute ! 

Agaia  dear  harmonist,  again 
Through  the  hollow  of  thy  Hute 

Breathe  that  passion-warbled  strain  ,• 
Till  memory  back  each  form  shall  bring 

The  loveliest  of  her  shadowy  throng, 
And  hope,  that  soars  on  sky-lark's  wing, 

Shall  carol  forth  her  gladdest  song  ! 

O  skill'd  with  magic  spell  to  roll 

The  thrilling  tones  that  concentrate  the  soul ! 

Breathe  through  thy  flute  those  tender  notes  again, 

While  near  thee  sits  the  chaste-eyed  maiden  mild  ; 

And  bid  her  raise  the  poet's  kindred  strain 

In  soft  impassion'd  voice,  correctly  w  ild. 

In  freedom's  undivided  dell 
Where  toitand  health  with  mellow'd  love  shall  dwell : 

Far  from  folly,  far  from  men, 
■  In  the  rude  romantic  glen. 

Up  the  cliffl  and  through  the  glade, 

Wand'ring  with  the  dear  loved  maid, 

I  shall  listen  to  the  lay 

And  ponder  on  the  far  away;  — 
Still  as  she  bids  those  thrilling  notes  aspire, 
'Making  my  fond  attuned  heart  her  lyre), 
Thy  honor'd  form,  my  friend  !  shall  reappear. 
And  I  will  thank  thee  with  a  raptured  tear  ! 

1794. 


TO  CHARLES  LAMB. 

WITH     AN     UNFINISHED     POEM. 

Thus  far  my  scanty  brain  hath  built  the  rhyme 
Elaborate  and  swelling;  —  yet  the  heart 
Not  owns  it.     From  thy  spirit-breathing  powers 
1  ask  not  now,  my  friend  !  the  aiding  verse 
Tedious  to  thee,  and  from  thy  anxious  thought 
Of  dissonant  mood.     In  fancy  (well  I  know) 
From  business  wand'ring  far  and  local  cares 
Thou  creepesi  round  a  dear  loved  sister's  bed. 
With  noiseless  step,  and  watchest  the  faint  look, 
Soothing  each  pang  w^ith  fond  solicitudes 
And  tenderest  tones  medicinal  of  love. 
I,  too,  a  sister  had,  an  only  sister  — 
She  loved  mc  dearly,  and  I  doted  on  her ; 
To  her  I  pour'd  forlh  all  my  puny  sorrows ; 
(As  a  sick  patient  in  a  nurse's  arms) 
And  of  the  heart  those  hidden  maladies  — 
That  e'en  from  friendship's  eye  will  shrink  ashamed. 
O!  I  have  waked  at  midnight,  and  have  wept 
Because  she  was  not  I  —  Cheerilv,  dear  Charles ! 
Thou  thy  best  friend  shall  cherish  many  a  yearj 
Such  warm  presages  feel  I  of  high  hope  ! 
For  not  uninterested  the  dear  maid 
I've  view'd — her  soul  affectionate  yet  wise, 
Her  polish'd  vvit  as  mild  as  lambent  glories 
That  play  around  a  sainted  infant's  head. 
He  knows  (the  Spirit  that  in  secret  sees, 
Of  whose  omniscient  and  all-spreading  love 
Aught  to  implore  were  impotence  of  mind  1) 
V2 


That  my  mute  thoughts  are  sad  before  his  throne, — 

Prepared,  when  He  his  healing  ray  vouchsafes, 
Thanksgiving  to  pour  liirih  with  lifled  heart. 
And  praise  him  gracious  with  a  brother's  joy ! 

1794. 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Sister  of  lovelorn  poets,  Philomel ! 
How  many  bards  in  city  garrets  pent. 
While  at  their  window  they  with  downward  eye 
Mark  the  faint  lamp-beam  on  the  kennell'd  mud, 
And  listen  to  the  drowsy  cry  of  the  watchmen, 
(Those  hoarse  unfeather'd  nightingales  of  time!) 
How  many  wretched  bards  address  the  name, 
And  hers,  the  fuU-orb'd  queen,  that  shines  above. 
But  I  do  hear  thee,  and  the  high  Ixiugh  mark. 
Within  whose  mild  moon-mellow'd  foliage  hid. 
Thou  warblest  sad  thy  pity-pleading  strains. 
Oh,  I  have  listen'd,  till  my  working  soul. 
Waked  by  those  strains  to  thousand  phantasies, 
Absorb'd,  hath  ceased  to  listen  !  Therefore  oft 
I  hymn  thy  name  ;  and  with  a  proud  delight 
Oft  will  I  tell  thee,  minstrel  of  the  moon 
Most  musical,  most  melancholy  bird  I 
That  all  thy  soft  diversities  of  tone, 
Though  sweeter  far  than  the  delicious  airs 
That  vibrate  from  a  white-arm'd  lady's  harp. 
What  time  the  languishment  of  lonely  love 
Melts  in  her  eye,  and  heaves  her  breast  of  snow 
Are  not  so  sweet,  as  is  the  voice  of  her. 
My  Sara  —  best  beloved  of  human  kind  ! 
When  breathing  the  pure  soul  of  tenderness, 
She  thrills  me  with  the  husband's  promised  name  ! 

1794. 


TO  SARA. 

The  stream  with  languid  murmur  creeps 

In  Sumin's  flow'ry  vale  ; 
Beneath  the  dew  the  lily  weeps, 

Slow  waving  to  the  gale. 

"  Cease,  restless  gale,"  it  seems  to  say, 
"  Nor  wake  me  with  thy  sighing  : 

The  honours  of  my  vernal  day 
On  rapid  wings  are  flying. 

"To-morrow  shall  the  traveller  come, 
That  erst  beheld  me  blooming  ; 

His  searching  eye  shall  vainly  roam 
The  dreary  vale  of  Sumin." 

With  eager  gaze  and  wetted  cheek 

My  wanton  haunts  along. 
Thus,  lovely  maiden,  thou  shalt  seek 

The  youth  of  simplest  song. 

But  I  along  the  breeze  will  roll 

The  voice  of  feeble  power. 
And  dwell,  liie  moon-beam  of  thy  soul. 

In  slumber's  nightly  hour 


1791. 


239 


230 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS, 


CASrMIR. 

If  we  except  Lucretius  and  Statius,  I  know  no 
Lalin  poet,  ancient  or  modern,  wlio  has  equalled  Casi- 
mir  in  boldness  of  conception,  opulence  of  fancy,  or 
beauty  of  versification.  The  odes  of  this  illustrious 
Jesuit  were  translated  into  English  about  150  years 
ago,  b/  a  G.  Hila,  I  think.  I  never  saw  the  transla- 
tion. A  lew  of  the  odes  have  been  translated  in  a 
very  animated  manner  by  Watts.  I  have  subjoined 
the  third  ode  of  the  second  Book,  which,  with  the 
exception  of  the  first  line,  is  an  effusion  of  exquisite 
elegance.  In  the  imitation  attempted  I  am  sensible 
that  I  have  destroyed  the  effect  of  suddenness,  by 
translating  into  two  stanzas  what  is  one  in  the  original. 

1796. 
AD  LYRAM. 

SoNORA  buxi  filia  autilis, 
Pendebis  alta,  barbite  popiilo, 

Dum  ridet  aer,  et  supinas 

Solicitat  levis  aura  frondes. 

Te  sibiluntis  lenior  habitus 
Perflabit  Euri;  me  jiuet  intrim 

Coilum  reclinasse,  et  verenti 

Sic  temere  jacuisse  ripa. 

Eheu  !  serenum  qua?  nebula  tegunt 
Repente  ccElum :  quis  sonus  imbrium! 

Surgarnus  —  heu  semper  fugaci 

Gaudia  proeteritura  passu ! 

IMITATION. 

The  solemn  breathing  air  is  ended  — 
Cease,  oh  Lyre  !  thy  kindred  lay! 

From  the  poplar  branch  suspended, 
Glitter  to  the  eye  of  day  ! 

On  thy  wires,  hov'ring,  dying 

Softly  sighs  the  summer  wind  : 
I  will  slumber,  careless  lying 

By  yon  waterfall  reclined. 

In  the  forest  hollow-roaring 

Hark  !  I  hear  a  deep'ning  sound  — 

Clouds  rise  thick  with  heavy  low'ring! 
See !  th'  horizon  blackens  round  ! 

Parent  of  the  soothing  measure. 

Let  me  seize  thy  netted  string! 
Swiftly  flies  the  flatterer,  pleasure, 

Headlong,  ever  on  the  wing! 


DARWINIANA. 

THE  HOUR   WHEN  WE   SHALL  MEET   AGAIN. 

'^•'"iiposed  during  illness  and  in  absence.) 

VIM  Hour !  that  sleep'st  on  pillowing  clouds  afar, 
Oh,  rise  and  yoke  the  turtles  to  thy  car  I 
Bend  o'er  the  traces,  blame  each  lingering  dove, 
And  give  me  to  the  bosom  of  ray  love  ! 


My  gentle  love !  caressing  and  caress'd. 
With  heaving  heart  shall  cradle  me  to  rest; 
Shed  the  warm  tear-drop  from  her  smiling  eyes, 
Lull  the  fond  woe,  and  med'cine  me  with  sighs  ; 
While  finely-flushing  float  her  kisses  meek. 
Like  melted  rubies,  o'er  my  pallid  cheek. 
Chill'd  by  the  night,  the  drooping  rose  of  May 
Mourns  the  long  absence  of  the  lovely  day: 
Young  day  returning  at  the  promised  hour. 
Weeps  o'er  the  sorrows  of  the  fav'rite  flower, — 
Weeps  the  soft  dew,  the  balmy  gale  she  sighs. 
And  darts  a  trembling  lustre  from  her  eyes. 
New  life  and  joy  th'  expanding  flow'ret  feels: 
His  pitying  mistress  mourns,  and  mourning  heals ' 

1796. 

In  my  calmer  moments  I  have  the  firmest  faith  that 
all  things  work  together  for  good.  But,  alas!  it  seems 
a  long  and  a  dark  process : — 

The  early  year's  fast-flying  vapors  stray 
In  shadowing  train  across  the  orb  of  day; 
And  we  poor  insects  of  a  few  short  hours, 
Deem  it  a  world  of  gloom. 
Were  it  not  better  hope,  a  nobler  doom. 
Proud  to  believe,  that  with  more  active  powers 
On  rapid  many-colour'd  wing. 
We  thro'  one  bright  perpetual  spring 
Shall  hover  round  the  fruits  and  flowers, 
Scfeen'd   by  those  clouds,  and  cherish'd  by  those 
showers!  1796 


COUNT  RUMFORD'S  ESSAYS. 

These,  Virtue,  are  thy  triumph,  that  adorn 
Fitliest  our  nature,  and  bespeak  us  born 
For  loftiest  action  ; — not  to  gaze  and  run 
From  clime  to  clime ;  or  batten  in  the  sun, 
Dragging  a  drony  flight  from  flower  to  flower. 
Like  summer  insects  in  a  gaudy  hour  ; 
Nor  yet  o'er  lovesick  tales  with  fancy  range. 
And  cry,  '  'T  is  pitiful,  'tis  passing  strange-' ' 
But  on  life's  varied  views  to  look  around. 
And  raise  expiring  sorrow  from  the  ground  : — 
And  he — who  thus  hath  borne  his  part  assign'd 
In  the  sad  fellowship  of  human  kind. 
Or  for  a  moment  soothed  the  bitter  pain 
Of  a  poor  brother — has  not  lived  in  vain. 

1796. 


EPIGRAMS 


ON   A  LATE    MARRIAGE   BETWEEN   A.N   OLD  MAID  AND 
A   FRENCH   PETIT  SJAITRE. 

Tho'  Miss  — 


■'.s  match  is  a  subject  of  mirth, 
She  consider'd  the  matter  lull  well. 
And  wisely  preferr'd  leading  one  ape  on  earth 
To  perhaps  a  whole  dozen  in  hell.  17%. 

240 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


231 


ON  AN  AMOROUS  DOCTOR. 

From  Rufa's  eye  sly  Ciipid  shot  his  dart, 
And  left  it  sticking  in  Sengrado's  heart. 
No  quiet  from  that  inomenl  has  he  known, 
And  peaceful  sleep  has  from  his  eyelids  flown; 
And  opium's  force,  and  what  is  more,  alack  ! 
His  own  oration's,  cannot  bring  it  back: 
In  short  unless  she  pities  his  afflictions. 
Despair  will  make  him  take  his  own  prescriptions. 

1796. 


TO  A  PRIMROSE, 
(the  first  seen  in  the  season.) 


nitens,  et  roboris  cxpers 

Turget  et  insolida  est:  at  spe  delectat.— Ouiii. 


Thy  smiles  I  note,  sweet  early  flower, 
That  peeping  forth  thy  rustic  bower 
The  festive  news  of  earth  dost  bring, 
A  fragrant  messenger  of  spring ! 

But  tender  blossom,  why  so  pale  ? 
iDost  hear  stern  winter  in  the  gale  ? 
And  didst  thou  tempt  th'  ungentle  sky 
To  catch  one  vernal  glance  and  die  ? 

Such  the  wan  lustre  sickness  wears. 
When  health's  first  feeble  beam  appears ; 
So  languid  are  the  smiles  that  seek 
To  settle  on  thy  care-worn  cheek! 

When  timorous  hope  the  head  uprears. 
Still  drorjping  and  still  moist  with  tears, 
If,  through  dispersing  grief,  be  seen 
Of  bliss  the  heavenly  spark  serene. 

1796. 


EPIGRAM. 

Ho.^RSE  Maevius  reads  his  hobbling  verse 

To  all,  and  at  all  times; 
And  finds  them  both  divinely  smooth, 

His  voice,  as  well  as  rhymes. 

Yet  folks  say — "  Msvius  is  no  ass :" — 
But  Maevius  makes  it  clear. 

That  he  'a  a  monster  of  an  ass. 
An  ass  without  an  ear. 

1797. 


INSCRIPTION  BY  THE  REV.  W.  S.  BOWLES. 

IN   NETHER  STOWEY  CHURCH. 

Letcs  abi;  mundi  strepitu  curisque  reraotus, 
LaEtus  abi !  cfcli  qua  vocat  alma  quies. 

Ipsa  Fides  loquitur,  lacrymanque  iiicansat  inamen, 
Quae  cadit  in  restros,  care  pater,  cineres. 

Heu  I  tantum  liceat  moritos  hos  soliere  ritus 
£t  longum  treraula  dicere  voce,  vale! 
2F 


TRANSLATION. 

Depart  in  joy  from  this  world's  noise  and  strife 
To  the  deep  quiet  of  celestial  life  ! 
Depart! — Affection's  self  rejiroves  the  tear 
Which  falls,  O  honoiir'd  Parent!  on  thy  bier; — 
Yet  Nature  will  be  heard,  the  heart  will  swell. 
And  the  voice  tremble  with  a  last  Farewell! 


INTRODUCTION    TO  THE  TALE  OF  THE 
DARK  LADIE. 

The  following  poem  is  intended  as  the  introduction 
to  a  somewhat  longer  one.  The  use  of  the  old  ballad 
word  Ladie  for  Lady,  is  the  only  piece  of  obsoleteness 
in  it;  and  as  it  is  professedly  a  tale  of  ancient  times, 
I  trust  that  the  afTeetioriate  lovers  of  venerable  anti- 
quity, as  Camden  says,  will  grant  me  their  pardon, 
and  perhaps  may  be  induced  to  admit  a  force  and 
propriety  in  it.  A  heavier  objection  may  be  adduced 
against  the  author,  that  in  these  times  of  fear  and 
expectation,  when  novelties  explode  around  us  in  all 
directions,  he  should  presume  to  offer  to  the  public  a 
silly  tale  of  old-fashioned  love :  and  live  years  ago, 
I  own  I  should  have  allowed  and  felt  the  force  of  this 
objection.  But  alas !  explosion  after  explosion  has  suc- 
ceeded so  rapidly,  that  novelty  itself  ceases  to  appear 
new;  and  it  is  possible  that  now,  even  a  simple  »tory 
wholly  uninspired  with  politics  or  personality,  may  find 
some  attention  amid  the  hubbub  of  revolutions,  as  to 
those  who  have  remained  a  long  time  by  the  falls  of 
Niagara,  the  lowest  whispering  becomes  distinctly 
audible. 


1799 


O  LEAVE  the  lily  on  its  stem ; 

O  leave  the  rose  upon  the  spray; 
O  leave  the  elder  bloom,  fair  maids  ! 

And  listen  to  my  lay. 

A  cypress  and  a  myrtle-bough 

This  morn  around  my  harp  you  twined, 
Because  it  fashion'd  mournfully 

Its  murmurs  in  the  wind. 

And  now  a  tale  of  love  and  woe, 

A  woful  tale  of  love  I  sing ; 
Hark,  gentle  maidens,  hark :  it  sighs 

And  trembles  on  the  string. 

But  most,  my  own  dear  Genevieve, 
It  sighs  and  trembles  most  for  thee  ! 

O  come  and  hear  the  cruel  wrongs 
Befell  the  Dark  Ladie! 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  RASH  CONJUROR 

AN    UNCOMPOSED   POEM. 

We  ask  and  urge — (here  ends  the  story!) 

All  Christian  Papishes  to  pay 

That  this  unhappy  conjuror  may. 

Instead  of  Hell,  be  put  in  Purgatory, — 
For  then  there  's  hope  ; — 
Long  live  the  Pope!  1805. 

241 


232 


COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


PSYCHE. 

The  butterfly  the  ancient  Grecians  made 
The  soul's  lair  emblem,  and  its  only  name — 
But  the  soul  escaped  Ihe  slavish  trade 
Of  mortal  life  ! — For  in  liiis  earthly  Irarae 
Ours  is  the  reptile's  lot,  much  toil,  much  blame, 
Manifold  motions  making  little  speed. 
And  to  deform  and  kill  the  things  whereon  we  feed. 

1808. 


COMPLAINT. 

How  seldom.  Friend  !  a  good  great  man  inherits 
Honor  or  wealth,  with  all  his  worth  and  pains! 
It  sounds  like  stories  from  the  land  of  spirits, 
If  any  man  obtain  that  which  he  merits. 
Or  any  merit  that  which  he  obtains. 


REPROOF. 

For  shame,  dear  Friend  !  renounce  this  canting  strain! 
What  would'st  thou  have  a  good  man  to  obtain? 
Place — titles — salary — a  gilded  chain — 
Or  throne  of  corses  which  his  sword  hath  slain  ? — 
Greatness  and  goodness  are  not  means,  but  ends! 
Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends. 
The  great  good  man  ? — three  treasures,  love,  and  light. 
And  calm  thoughts,  regular  as  infiint's  breath  ; — 
And  three  firm  friends  more  sure  than  day  and  night — 
Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel  Death. 

1809. 


AN  ODE  TO  RAIN. 

COMPOSED  BEFORE  DAY-LIGHT,  ON  THE  MORNING 
APPOINTED  FOR  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  A  VERY  WOR- 
THY, BUT  NOT  VERY  PLEASANT  VISITOR,  WHOM  IT 
WAS   FEARED   THE    RAIN    MIGHT   DETAIN. 

I  KNOW  it  is  dark ;  and  though  I  have  lain 
Awake,  as  I  guess,  an  hour  or  twain, 
I  have  not  once  open'd  the  lids  of  my  eyes, 
But  lie  in  the  dark,  as  a  blind  man  lies. 

0  Rain !  that  I  lie  listening  to, 
You're  but  a  doleful  sound  at  best: 

1  owe  you  little  thanks,  'tis  true 

For  breaking  thus  my  needful  rest, 
Yet  if,  as  soon  as  it  is  light, 

0  Rain!  you  will  but  take  your  flight, 

1  'II  neither  rail,  nor  malice  keep. 
Though  sick  and  .sore  for  want  of  sleep. 
But  only  now  for  this  one  day, 

Do  go,  dear  Rain  !  do  go  away ! 

O  Rain!  with  your  dull  two-fold  sound. 

The  clash  hard  by,  and  the  murmur  all  round ! 

You  know,  if  you  know  aught,  that  we. 

Both  night  and  day,  but  ill  agree  : 

For  days,  and  months,  and  almost  years. 

Have  limp'd  on  through  this  vale  of  tears, 


Since  body  of  mine  and  rainy  weather, 
Have  lived  on  easy  terms  together 
Yet  if  as  soon  as  it  is  light, 

0  Rain!  you  will  but  take  your  flight, 
Though  you  should  come  again  to  morrow, 
And  bring  with  you  both  pain  and  sorrow ; 
Though  stomach  should  sicken,  and  knees  should 

swell — 

1  '11  nothing  speak  of  you  but  well. 
But  only  for  this  one  day. 

Do  go,  dear  Rain !  do  go  away ! 

Dear  Rain !  I  ne'er  refuse  to  say 
You  're  a  good  creature  in  your  way. 
Nay,  I  could  write  a  book  myself, 
Would  fit  a  parson's  lower  shelf, 
Showing  how  very  good  you  are. — 
What  then  ?  sometimes  it  must  be  fair. 
And  if  sometimes,  why  not  to-day  ? 
Do  go,  dear  Rain  !  do  go  away ! 

Dear  Rain !  if  I  've  been  cold  and  shy. 

Take  no  ofTence !  I  '11  tell  you  why. 

A  dear  old  Friend  e'en  now  is  here. 

And  with  him  came  my  sister  dear; 

After  long  absence  now  first  met. 

Long  months  by  pain  and  grief  beset 

With  three  dear  Friends!  in  truth,  we  groan 

Impatiently  to  be  alone. 

We  three  you  mark  !  and  not  one  more ! 

The  strong  wish  makes  my  spirit  sore. 

We  have  so  much  to  talk  about, 

So  many  sad  things  to  let  out  ; 

So  many  tears  in  our  eye-corners, 

Sitting  like  little  Jacky  Homers — 

In  short,  as  soon  as  it  is  day. 

Do  go,  dear  Rain !  do  go  away. 

And  this  I '11  swear  to  you,  dear  Rain! 

Whenever  you  shall  come  again, 

Be  you  as  dull  as  e'er  you  could; 

(And  by  the  bye  'tis  understood. 

You  're  not  so  pleasant,  as  you  're  good  ;) 

Yet,  knowing  well  your  worth  and  place, 

1  '11  welcome  you  with  cheerful  face; 

And  though  you  stay  a  week  or  more. 

Were  ten  times  duller  than  before  ; 

Yet  with  kind  heart,  and  right  good  will, 

I  '11  sit  and  listen  to  you  still ; 

Nor  should  you  go  away,  dear  Rain ! 

Uninvited  to  remain, 

But  only  now,  for  this  one  day. 

Do  go,  dear  Rain!  do  go  away.  1809. 


TRANSLATION 

OF  A  PASSAGE   IN   OTTFRIED'S  METRICAL  PARAPHRASE 
OF  THE  GOSPELS. 

"  This  Paraphrase,  written  about  the  time  of  Char- 
lemagne, is  by  no  means  deficient  in  occasional  pas- 
sages of  considerable  poetic  merit.    There  is  a  flow, 
and  a  tender  enthusiasm  in  the  following  lines  (at  the 
242 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


233 


conclusion  of  Chapter  V.).  which  even  in  the  trans- 
lation will  not,  I  flatter  myself",  fail  to  interest  the 
reader.  Ottfried  is  describing  the  circumstances  im- 
mediately following  the  birth  of  our  Lord."— jBiog. 
LiL  vol.  i.  p.  203. 

She  gave  with  joy  her  virgin  breast; 
She  hid  it  not,  she  bared  the  breast, 
Which  suckled  that  divinest  babe  ; 
Blessed,  blessed  were  the  breasts 
Which  the  Saviour  infant  kiss'd  : 
And  blessed,  blessed  was  the  mother 
Who  wrapp'd  his  limbs  in  swaddling  clothes, 
Singing  placed  him  on  her  lap. 
Hung  o'er  him  with  her  looks  of  love, 
And  soothed  him  with  a  lulling  motion. 
Blessed  !  for  she  shelter'd  him 
From  the  damp  and  chilling  air;  — 
Blessed,  blessed  !  for  she  lay 
With  such  a  babe  in  one  blest  bed. 
Close  as  babes  and  mothers  lie  I 
Blessed,  blessed  evermore. 
With  her  virgin  lips  she  kiss'd, 
With  her  arms,  and  to  her  breast. 
She  embraced  the  babe  divine. 
Her  babe  divine  the  virgin  mother ! 
There  lives  not  on  this  ring  of  earth 
A  mortal  that  can  sing  her  praise ! 
Mighty  mother,  virgin  pure. 
In  the  darkness  and  the  night 
For  us  she  bore  the  heavenly  Lord. 
18ia 

"  Most  interesting  is  it  to  consider  the  effect,  when 
the  feelings  are  wrought  above  the  natural  pitch  by 
the  belief  of  something  mysterious,  while  all  the 
images  are  purely  natural ;  then  it  is  that  religion  and 
poetry  strike  deepest." — Biog.  Lit.  vol.  i.  p.  204. 


ISRAEL'S  LAMENT, 

ON  THE  DEATH    OF    THE    PRINCESS     CHARLOTTE    OF 
WALES. 

[From  the  Hebrew  of  Hyman  Hurioite.I 

MotTRN,  Israel !  sons  of  Israel,  mourn ! 

Give  utterance  to  the  inward  throe. 
As  wails  of  her  first  love  forlorn 

The  virgin  clad  in  robes  of  woe ! 

Mourn  the  young  mother  snafch'd  away 

From  light  and  life's  ascending  sun  ! 
Mourn  for  her  babe,  death's  voiceless  prey 

Earn'd  by  long  pangs,  and  lost  ere  won ! 

Mourn  the  bright  rose  that  bloom'd  and  went, 

Ere  half  disclosed  its  vernal  hue ! 
Mourn  the  green  bud,  so  rudely  rent. 

It  brake  the  stem  on  which  it  grew ! 


Mourn  for  the  universal  woe, 

With  solemn  dirge  and  falt'ring  tongue, 
For  England's  Lady  laid  full  low, 

So  dear,  so  lovely,  and^o  young. 

The  blossoms  on  her  tree  of  life 

Shone  with  the  dews  of  recent  bliss;  — 

Translated  in  that  deadly  strife. 
She  plucks  its  fruit  in  Paradise. 

Mourn  for  the  prince,  who  rose  at  mom 
To  seek  and  bless  the  firstling  bud 

Of  his  own  rose,  and  found  the  thorn 
Its  point  bedew'd  with  tears  of  blood. 

Mourn  for  Britannia's  hopes  decay'd;  — 
Her  daughters  wail  their  deep  defence. 

Their  fair  example,  prostrate  laid, 
Chaste  love,  and  fervid  innocence ! 

O  Thou!  who  mark'st  the  monarch's  path, 
To  sad  Jeshurum's  sons  attend  ! 

Amid  the  lightnings  of  thy  wrath 
The  showers  of  consolation  send! 

Jehovah  frowns!  —  The  Islands  bow, 
The  prince  and  people  kiss  the  rod! 

Their  dread  chast'ning  judge  wert  thou — 
Be  thou  their  comforter,  oh  God  ! 

1817." 

SENTIMENTAL. 
The  rose  that  blushes  like  the  mora 

Bedecks  the  valleys  low  ; 
And  so  dost  thou,  sweet  infant  corn, 

My  Angelina's  toe 

But  on  the  rose  there  grows  a  thorn 

That  breeds  disastrous  woe  ; 
And  so  dost  thou,  remorseless  com, 

On  Angelina's  toe. 

1825. 


THE  ALTERNATIVE. 
This  way  or  that,  ye  Powers  above  me ! 

I  of  my  grief  w'ere  rid  — 
Did  Enna  either  really  love  me. 
Or  cease  to  think  she  did. 

1826. ' 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  TIME-PIECE. 
Now  !  It  is  gone.  —  Our  brief  hours  travel  post. 
Each  with  its  thought  or  deed,  its  Why  or  How  ; 
But  know,  each  parting  hour  gives  up  a  ghost, 
To  dwell  within  thee  —  an  eternal  Now  ! 

1830. 

EniTAcMON  AYTOrPAnTON. 
Quse  linguam,  aut  nihil,  aut  nihili,  aut  vix  sui 

mea; — cosordes 
Do  Morti;  —  reddo  catera,  Christe!  tibi. 


THE  END  OF  COLERIDGE'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


243 


THE 


^F(^m 


OF 


PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY. 


32 


eontentioit 


Page 
AIEMOIR  OF  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY       v 

THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM 1 

THE  CENCI ;  a  Tragedy,  in  Five  Acts 50 

PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND;  a  Lyrical  Drama, 

in  Four  Acts 77 

QUEEN  MAB 104 

Notes 123 

ALASTOR,  OR  THE  SPIRIT  OF  SOLITUDE  141 

ROSALIND  AND  HELEN;  a  Modem  Eclogue  148 

ADONAIS;  an  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  John  Keats  159 

EPIPSYCHIDION ;  Verses  addressed  to  the 
Noble  and  unfortunate  Lady  Emilia 
V 164 

HELLAS ;  a  Lyrical  Drama '. 170 

MSCELLANEOUS  POEMS  :— 

Julian  and  Maddalo;  a  Conversation  ....  182 

The  Witch  of  Alias 187 

The  Triumph  of  Life 193 

Lines  -written  among  the  Euganean  Hills.  198 

Letter  to  201 

The  Sensitive  Plant 204 

A  Vision  of  the  Sea 207 

Ode  to  Heaven 208 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 209 

An  Ode,  written  October  1819,  before  the 

Spaniards  had  recovered  their  Liberty  .  210 

Ode  to  Liberty ib. 

Ode  to  Naples 213 

The  Cloud 214 

To  a  Skylark 215 

An  Exhortation 216 

Hvmn  to  Intellectual  Beauty ih. 

Marianne's  Dream 217 

Mont  Blanc 218 

On  the  Medusa  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  in 

the  Florentine  Gallery 219 

Sonar.  "  Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou "  ....  220 

To  Constantia,  singing ih. 

The  F'ugitives 221 

A  Lament {},. 

The  Pine  Forest  of  the  Cascine,  near  Pisa  ih. 

To  Night 223 

Evening — Ponte  a  Mare,  Pisa ib. 

Areihusa ib. 

The  Question 224 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air ih. 

Stanzas,  written  in  dejection,  near  Naples  ih. 

Autumn ;  a  Dime 225 

Hymn  of  Apollo ib. 


Hymn  of  Pan 

The  Boat  on  the  Serehio 

The  Zucca 

Tlie  Two  Spirits  ;  an  Allegory . 

A  Fragment 

A  Bridal  Song 

The  Sunset 

Song.    On  a  Faded  Violet  .  .  .  . 

Lines  to  a  Critic 

Good  Night 

To-morrow 

Death 

A  Lament 

Love's  Philosophy 

To  E***  V*** 

To 


Lines 

To  William  Shelley 

An  Allegory 

Mutability 

From  the  Arabic ;  an  Imitation 
To 


Music 

November,  1815 

Death 

To 

Passage  of  the  Apennines 

To  Mary 

The  Past 

Song  of  a  Spirit 

Liberty 

To 

The  Isle 

To 


Time 

Lines 

A  Song  

The  World's  Wanderers 

A  Dirge 

Lines  

Superstition 

"  O !  there  are  spirits  of  the  air" 

Stanzas. — April,  1814 

Mutability 

On  Death 

A  Summer  Evening  Church-yard,  Lech- 
dale,  Gloucestersliire 

Lines,  written  on  hearing  the  News  of  the 
Death  of  Napoleon 

Summer  and  Winter 

The  Tower  of  Famine 

The  Aziola 

Dirge  for  the  Year 

239 


Page 

225 
226 

ib. 
227 
228 

ib. 

ib. 
229 

ib. 

ih. 

lb. 

ih. 

ib. 

ih. 
230 

ib. 

ib. 

ih. 

ib. 

ib. 
231 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
232 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
233 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
234 

ib. 

ih. 

ib. 
235 

t£. 

t6. 

ib. 
236 
ib. 
ib. 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


Patje 

Sonnet.  Ozymandias 237 

"  Ye  hasten  to  the  dead !   What 

seek  ye  there  1" ib. 

■               PoHtical  Greatness ib. 

"  Alas !    good  friend,  what   profit 

can  you  see  " ^  ib. 

'              "  Lift  not  the  painted  veil  which  ib. 

those  who  live " ib. 

• To  Wordsworth ib. 

Feelings  of  a  Republican  on  the 

Fall  of  Bonaparte ib. 

Dante  Alighieri  to  Guido  Cavalcanti  ib. 

Translated  from  the  Greek  of  Mos- 

chus 238 

Translations  : — 

Hymn  to  Mercury — translated  from  Homer  ib. 
The  Cyclops  ;  a  Satiric  Drama,  translated 

from  the  Greek  of  Euripides 245 


Page 
Scenes,  from  the  "  Magico  Prodigioso "  of 

Calderon 253 

Translation  from  Moschus 260 

Scenes   from   the   "Faust"   of  Goethe. — 

Prologue  in  Heaven 260 

May-Day  Night 261 

Fragments  : — 

Ginevra 265 

Charles  the  First 267 

From  an  unfinished  Drama 270 

Prince  Athanase ib. 

Mazenghi 273 

The  Woodman  and  the  Nightingale 274 

To  the  Moon 275 

Song  for  Tasso  , ib. 

Epitaph ib. 

The  Waning  Moon ib 


The  Publishers  of  the  present  edition  of  Mr.  Shel- 
ley's Poetical  Works  think  it  necessary  to  state,  that 
the  first  Poem  in  fhe  collection,  "  The  Revolt  of 
Islam,"  did  not  originally  bear  that  title :  it  appeared 
under  the  name  of  "  Laox  and  Cythna  ;  or  the  Revo- 
lution of  the  Golden  Cily  :  a  Vision  of  the  Nineteenth 
Century."  But,  with  the  exception  of  this  change  of 
name, — into  the  reasons  that  led  to  which  it  is  now 
unnecessary  to  inquire — some  inconsiderable  verbal 
corrections,  and  the  omission  of  the  following  para- 
graph and  note  in  the  preface,  the  poem  is  in  all 
respects  the  same  as  when  first  given  to  the  public. 

"  In  the  personal  conduct  of  my  hero  and  heroine, 
there  is  one  circumstance  which  was  intended  to 
startle  the  reader  from  the  trance  of  ordinary  life.  It 
was  my  object  to  break  through  the  crust  of  those 
outworn  opinions  on  which  established  institutions 
depend.     I  have  appealed,  therefore,  to   the  most 


universal  of  all  feelings,  and  have  endeavored  to 
strengthen  the  moral  sense,  by  forbidding  it  to  waste 
its  energies  in  seeking  to  avoid  actions  which  are 
only  crimes  of  convention.  It  is  because  there  Is  so 
great  a  multitude  of  artificial  vices,  that  tliere  are  so 
few  real  virtues.  Those  feelings  alone  which  are 
benevolent  or  malevolent  are  essentially  good  or  bad. 
The  circumstance  of  which  I  speak  was  introduced, 
however,  merely  to  accustom  men  to  that  charity  and 
toleration,  which  the  exhibition  of  a  practice  widely 
differing  from  their  own  has  a  tendency  to  promote.* 
Nothing,  indeed,  can  be  more  mischievous  than  many 
actions  innocent  in  themselves,  which  might  bring 
down  upon  individuals  the  bigoted  contempt  and  rage 
of  the  multitude." 


»  The  sentiments  connected  with  and  characteristic  of  thiB 
circumstance  have  no  persona,  reference  to  the  writer. 
240 


JHcmoiv  of  ^tvtn  ^n^t^ixt  SluUcs- 


Field-Place,  in  the  county  of  Sussex,  was  the  spot 
where  Percy  Bysshc  Shelley  first  saw  the  light. 
He  was  born  on  the  4th  of  August,  1792 ;  and 
was  tlie  eldest  son  of  Sir  Timothy  Shelley,  Bart, 
of  Castle-Goring.  His  family  is  an  ancient  one, 
and  a  branch  of  it  has  become  the  representative 
of  the  house  of  the  illustrious  Sir  Philip  Sidney 
•  of  Penshurst.  Despising  honors  which  only  rest 
upon  the  accidental  circumstances  of  birth,  Shel- 
ley was  proud  of  this  connexion  with  an  imnwrtal 
name.  At  the  customary  age,  about  thirteen,  he 
was  sent  to  Eton  School,  and  before  he  had  com- 
pleted his  fifteenth  year,  he  published  two  novels, 
the  Rosicrucian  and  Zasterozzi.  From  Eton  he 
removed  to  University  College,  Oxford,  to  mature 
his  studies,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  an  earlier  period 
tlian  is  usual.  At  Oxford  he  was,  according  to 
custom,  imbued  with  the  elements  of  logic ;  and 
he  ventured,  in  contempt  of  tlie  fiat  of  the  Univer- 
sity, to  apply  them  to  the  investigation  of  ques- 
tions which  it  is  orthodox  to  take  for  granted.  His 
original  and  uncompromising  spirit  of  inquiry 
could  not  reconcile  the  limited  use  of  logical  prin- 
ciples. He  boldly  tested,  or  attempted  to  test, 
propositions  which  he  imagined,  the  more  tliey 
were  obscure,  and  the  more  claim  they  had  upon 
his  credence,  the  greater  was  the  necessity  for  ex- 
amining them.  His  spirit  was  an  inquiring  one, 
and  lie  fearlessly  sought  after  what  he  believed  to 
be  truth,  before,  it  is  probable,  he  had  acquired  all 
the  information  necessary  to  guide  him,  from  col- 
lateral sources — a  common  error  of  headstrong 
youth.  This  is  the  more  likely  to  be  the  case,  as 
when  time  had  matured  his  knowledge,  he  differed 
much  on  points  upon  which,  in  callow  years  and 
witliout  an  instructor,  flmig  upon  the  world  to 
form  his  own  principles  of  action,  guileless,  and 
vehement,  he  was  wont  to  advocate  strongly.  Shel- 
ley possessed  the  bold  quality  of  inquiring  into 
the  reason  of  every  thing,  and  of  resisting  what  he 
could  not  reconcile  to  be  right  according  to  liis 
conscience.  In  some  persons  this  has  been  de- 
nominated a  virtue,  in  others  a  sin — just  as  it 
might  happen  to  chime  in  with  worldly  custom  or 
received  opinion.  At  school  he  formed  a  conspi- 
racy for  resistance  to  that  most  odious  and  de- 
testable custom  of  English  seminaries,  fagging, 
which  pedagogues  are  bold  enough  to  defend  open- 
ly at  the  present  hour. 

At  Oxford  he  imprudently  printed  a  dissertation 
on  the  being  of  a  God,  which  caused  his  expulsion 
2F 


in  his  second  term,  as  he  refused  to  retract  any  of 
his  opinions ;  and  thereby  incurred  the  market 
displeasure  of  his  father.  This  expulsion  arising 
as  he  believed  conscientiously,  from  his  avowal  of 
what  he  thought  to  be  true,  did  not  deeply  affect 
him.  His  mind  seems  to  have  been  wandering  in 
a  maze  of  doubt  at  times  between  trutli  and  error, 
ardently  desirous  of  finding  the  truth,  warm  in 
its  pursuit,  but  without  a  pole-star  to  guide  him 
in  steering  after  it.  In  this  state  of  things  he  met 
with  the  Political  Justice  of  Godwin,  and  read  it 
with  eagerness  and  delight.  What  he  had  wanted 
he  had  now  found ;  he  determined  that  justice 
should  be  his  sole  guide,  and  justice  alone.  He 
regarded  not  whether  what  he  did  was  after  the 
fashion  of  tlie  world ;  he  pursued  the  career  he 
had  marked  out  with  sincerity,  and  excited  cen- 
sure for  some  of  his  actions  and  praise  for  others, 
bordering  upon  wonder,  in  proportion  as  they  were 
singular,  or  as  their  motives  could  not  be  appre- 
ciated. His  notions  at  the  University  tended  to 
atheism ;  and  in  a  work  which  he  published  en 
titled  "  Queen  Mab,"  it  is  evident  that  this  doctrine 
had  at  one  time  a  hold  upon  his  mind.  This  was 
printed  for  private  circulation  only,  and  was  pi 
rated  by  a  knavish  bookseller  and  given  to  the 
public,  long  after  the  writer  had  altered  many  of 
the  opinions  expressed  in  it,  disclaimed  it,  and 
lamented  its  having  been  printed.  He  spoke  of 
the  commonly-received  notions  of  God  with  con- 
tempt ;  and  hence  the  idea  that  he  denied  the  be- 
ing of  any  superintending  first  cause.  He  was 
not  on  this  head  sufficiently  explicit.  He  seemed 
hopeless,  in  moments  of  low  spirits,  of  there  being 
such  a  ruling  power  as  he  wished,  yet  he  ever 
clung  to  the  idea  of  some  "  great  spirit  of  intel- 
lectual beauty"  being  throughout  all  things.  His 
life  was  inflexibly  moral  and  benevolent.  He  acted 
up  to  the  thcor}'  of  his  received  doctrine  of  jus- 
tice ;  and,  after  all  the  censures  that  were  cast 
upon  him,  who  shall  impugn  the  man  who  tlius 
acts  and  lives  ? 

Shelley  married  at  an  early  age  a  i\Iiss  Harriet 
Westbrookc,  a  very  beautiful  girl,  much  younger 
than  himself,  daughter  of  a  eoffee-liouse-keeper, 
retired  from  business.  By  this  marriage  he  so  ir- 
ritated his  father,  that  he  was  entirely  abandoned 
by  him  ;  but  the  lady's  father  allowed  them  2001. 
per  annum,  and  they  resided  some  time  in  Edin- 
burgh and  then  in  Ireland.  The  niatcli  was  a 
Gretna-grcen  one,  and  did  not  turn  out  happily, 
241 


VI 


MEMOIR  OF  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


By  this  connexion  he  liad  two  children,  the  young- 
est of  whom,  born  in  1815,  is  since  dead.  Con- 
sistent with  liis  own  views  of  marriage  and  its 
institution,  Shelley  paid  his  addresses  to  another 
lady.  Miss  Godwin,  with  whom,  in  July,  1814,  he 
fled,  accompanied  by  Miss  Jane  Claremont,  her 
sister-in-law,  to  Uri,  in  Switzerland,  from  whence, 
after  a  few  days'  residence,  they  suddenly  quitted, 
suspecting  they  were  watched  by  another  lodger  ; 
they  departed  for  Paris  on  foot,  and  there  found 
that  the  person  to  whom  they  had  confided  a  large 
trunk  of  clothes,  had  absconded  with  them :  this 
hastened  their  return  to  England.  A  child  was 
the  fruit  of  this  expedition.  Shortly  after  they 
again  quitted  England,  and  went  to  Geneva,  Como 
and  Venice.  In  a  few  months  they  revisited  Eng- 
land, and  took  up  their  abode  in  Bath,  from  whence 
Shelley  was  suddenly  called  by  the  miexpectcd 
suicide  of  his  wife,  who  destroyed  herself  on  the 
10th  November,  1816.  Her  fate  liung  heavy  on 
the  mind  of  her  husband,  who  felt  deep  self-re- 
proach that  lie  had  not  selected  a  female  of  a  higher 
order  of  intellect,  who  could  appreciate  better  the 
feelings  of  one  constituted  as  lie  was.  Both  were 
entitled  to  compassion,  and  both  were  sufferers  by 
this  unfortunate  alliance.  Shortly  after  the  death 
of  his  first  wife,  Shelley,  at  the  solicitation  of  her 
father,  married  Mary  Wolstonecraft  Godwin, 
daughter  of  the  celebrated  authoress  of  the  Rights 
of  Wo7nan ;  and  went  to  reside  at  Great  Mar  low 
in  Buckingliamshire.  That  this  second  hymen 
was  diametrically  opposed  to  his  own  sentiments 
will  be  apparent  from  the  follov/ing  letter,  address- 
ed to  Sir  James  Lawrence,  on  the  perusal  of  one 
of  that  gentleman's  works  : — 

"  Lyinouth,  Barnstaple,  Devon,  August  17,  1812. 

"  Sir, — I  feel  peculiar  satisfaction  in  seizing  the 
opportunity  which  your  politeness  places  in  my 
power,  of  expressing  to  you  personally  (as  I  may 
say)  a  high  acknowledgment  of  my  sense  of  your 
talents  and  principles,  whicli,  before  I  conceived 
it  possible  that  I  should  ever  know  you,  I  sincerely 
entertained.  Your  "  Empire  of  tiie  Nairs,"  whicli 
I  read  this  spring,  succeeded  in  making  me  a 
perfect  convert  to  its  doctrines.  I  then  retained 
no  doubts  of  the  evils  of  marriage  ;  Mrs.  Wolstone- 
craft reasons  too  well  for  that ;  but  I  had  been  dull 
enough  not  to  perceive  the  greatest  argument 
against  it,  until  developed  in  the  "  Nairs,"  viz. 
prostitution  both  legal  and  illegal. 

"  I  am  a  young  man,  not  of  age,  and  have  been 
married  a  year  to  a  woman  younger  than  myself 
Love  seems  inclined  to  stay  in  the  prison,  and  my 
only  reason  for  putting  him  in  chains,  whilst  con- 
vinced of  the  unholiness  of  the  act,  was  a  know- 
ledge, tliat  in  tlie  present  state  of  society,  if  love 
is  not  thus  villanously  treated,  she,  wlio  is  most 
l«jved,  will  be  treated  worse  by  a  misjudging  world. 


In  short,  seduction,  which  term  could  have  no 
meaning  in  a  rational  society,  has  now  a  most 
tremendous  one ;  the  fictitious  merit  attached  to 
chastity  has  made  that  a  forerunner  to  the  most 
terrible  ruins,  which  in  Malabar  would  be  a  pledge 
of  honor  and  homage.  If  there  is  any  enormous 
and  desolating  crime  of  which  I  should  shudder 
to  be  accused,  it.  is  seduction.  I  need  not  say  how 
I  admire  "  Love,"  and  little  as  a  British  public 
seems  to  appreciate  its  merit,  in  not  permitting  it 
to  emerge  from  a  first  edition,  it  is  with  satisfac- 
tion I  find,  that  justice  had  conceded  abroad  what 
bigotry  has  denied  at  home.  I  shall  take  the  lib- 
erty of  sending  you  any  little  publication  I  may 
give  to  the  world.  Mrs.  S.  joins  with  myself  in 
hoping,  if  we  come  to  London  this  winter,  wc  may 
be  favored  with  the  personal  friendship  of  one 
whose  writings  we  liave  learnt  to  esteem. 

"  Yours,  very  truly,  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley." 

A  circumstance  arose  out  of  his  first  marriage 
which  attracted  a  good  deal  of  notice  from  the 
public.  As  we  have  already  mentioned,  there  were 
two  children  left,  whom  the  Lord  Chancellor  El- 
don  took  away  from  their  father  by  one  of  his  own 
arbitrary  decrees,  because  the  religious  sentiments 
of  Shelley  were  avowedly  heterodox.  No  immor- 
ality of  life,  no  breach  of  parental  duty  was  at- 
tempted to  be  proved ;  it  was  sufficient  that  the 
father  did  not  give  credit  to  religion  as  established 
by  act  of  parliament,  to  cause  the  closest  ties  of 
nature  to  be  rent  asunder,  and  the  connexion  of 
father  and  child  to  be  for  ever  broken.  This  des- 
potism  of  a  law-officer  has  since  been  displayed  in 
another  case,  where  immorality  of  the  parent  was 
tiie  alleged  cause.  Had  the  same  law-officer,  un- 
happily for  England,  continued  to  preside,  no  doubt 
the  political  sentiments  of  the  parent  would  by 
and  by  furnish  an  excuse  for  such  a  monstrous 
tyranny  over  the  rights  of  nature. 

Shelley  for  ever  sought  to  make  mankind  and 
things  around  him  in  harmony  with  a  better  state 
of  moral  existence.  He  was  too  young  and  inex- 
perienced when  he  first  acted  upon  this  principle 
to  perceive  the  obstacles  which  opposed  the  pro- 
gress  of  his  views,  arising  out  of  the  usages  and 
customs  which  ride  mankind,  and  which,  from  the 
nature  of  things,  it  takes  a  long  time  to  overcome. 
Ardent  in  the  pursuit  of  the  good  he  sought,  lie 
was  always  ready  to  meet  the  consequences  of  his 
actions ;  and  if  any  condemn  them  for  their  mis- 
taken views,  they  ought  to  feel  that  charity  should 
forbid  their  arraigning  motives,  when  such  proofs 
of  sincerity  were  before  them.  The  vermin  who, 
under  the  specious  title  of  "  reviewers,"  seek  in 
England  to  crush  every  bud  of  genius  that  appears 
out  of  the  pale  of  their  own  party,  fell  mercilessly 
upon  the  works  of  Shelley.  The  beauty  and  pro- 
fundity which  none  but  the  fTucious  zealots  of  a 
245i 


IklEIklOIR  OF  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


TU 


faction  could  deny — these  were  passed  over  in  a 
sweeping  torrent  of  vulgar  vituperation  by  the 
servile  and  venal  Quarterly. 

During  his  residence  at  Great  IVIarlow,  he  com- 
posed his  Revolt  of  Islam.  In  1817  he  left  Eng- 
land, never  to  return  to  it,  and  directed  his  steps 
to  Italy,  where  he  resided  partly  at  Venice,  partly 
at  Pisa  near  his  friend  Byron,  and  on  the  neigh- 
boring coast.  In  the  month  of  Jime  1822  he  was 
temporarily  a  resident  in  a  house  situated  on  the 
Gulf  of  Lerici.  Being  much  attached  to  sea-ex- 
cursions, he  kept  a  boat,  in  which  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  cruising  along  the  coast.  On  the  7th  of 
July,  he  set  sail  from  Leghorn,  where  he  had  been 
to  meet  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  who  had  just  then  ar- 
rived in  Italy,  intending  to  return  to  Lerici.  But 
he  never  reached  that  place ;  the  boat  in  which 
he  set  sail  was  lost  in  a  violent  storm,  and  all  on 
board  perished.  The  following  particulars  of  that 
melancholy  event  are  extracted  from  the  work  of 
Mr.  Leigh  Hunt,  entitled  "  Lord  Byron  and  some 
of  his  Contemporaries." 

"  In  June  1822, 1  arrived  in  Italy,  in  consequence 
of  the  invitation  to  set  up  a  work  with  my  friend 
and  Lord  Byron.  Mr.  Shelley  was  passing  the  sum- 
mer season  at  a  house  he  had  taken  for  that  piu:- 
pose  on  the  Gulf  of  Lerici ;  and  on  hearing  of  my 
arrival  at  Leghorn,  came  thither,  accompanied  by 
Mr.  Williams,  formerly  of  the  8th  Dragoons,  who 
was  then  on  a  visit  to  him.  He  came  to  welcome 
his  friend  and  family,  and  see  us  comfortably  set- 
tled at  Pisa.  He  accordingly  went  with  us  to  that 
city,  and  after  remaining  in  it  a  few  days,  took 
leave  on  the  night  of  the  7th  July,  to  return  with 
Mr.  Williams  to  Lerici,  meaning  to  come  back  to 
us  shortly.  In  a  day  or  two  tlie  voyagers  were 
missed.  The  afternoon  of  the  8th  had  been  stormy, 
with  violent  squalls  from  tlie  soutli-west.  A  night 
succeeded,  broken  up  with  that  tremendous  thun- 
der and  lightning,  which  appals  the  stoutest  sea- 
man in  the  Mediterranean,  dropping  its  bolts  in 
all  directions  more  like  melted  brass,  or  liquid  pil- 
lars of  fire,  than  any  thing  we  conceive  of  hght- 
ning  in  our  northern  climate.  The  suspense  and 
anguish  of  their  fi-icnds  need  not  be  dwelt  upon. 
A  dreadful  interval  took  place  of  more  than  a 
week,  during  which  every  inquiry  and  every  fond 
hope  were  exhausted.  At  the  end  of  that  period 
our  worst  fears  were  confirmed.  The  following 
narrative  of  the  particulars  is  from  the  pen  of  Mr. 
TrelawTiey,  a  friend  of  Lord  Byron's,  who  had  not 
long  been  acquainted  with  Mr.  Shelley,  but  enter- 
tained the  deepest  regard  for  him  : — 

" '  Mr.  Shelley,  Mr.  Williams  (formerly  of  the 
8th  Dragoons),  and  one  seaman,  Charles  Vivian, 
left  Villa  Magni  near  Lerici,  a  small  town  situate 
in  the  Bay  of  Spezia,  on  the  30th  of  June,  at  twelve 
o'clock,  and  arrived  the  same  night  at  Leghorn. 


Their  boat  had  been  built  for  Mr.  Shelley  at  Genoa 
by  a  captain  in  tlie  navy.  It  was  twenty -four  feet 
long,  eight  in  the  beam,  schooner-rigged,  with 
gaft  topsails,  etc.  and  drew  four  feet  water.  On 
Monday,  the  8th  of  July,  at  the  same  hour,  tliey 
got  under  weigh  to  return  home,  having  on  board 
a  quantity  of  household  articles,  four  hundred  dol- 
lars, a  small  canoe,  and  some  books  and  manu- 
scripts. At  half  past  twelve  they  made  all  saU  out 
of  the  harbor  with  a  light  and  favorable  breeze, 
steering  direct  for  Spezia.  I  had  likewise  weighed 
anchor  to  accompany  them  a  few  miles  out  in 
Lord  Byron's  schooner,  the  Bolivar  ;  but  there  was 
some  demur  about  papers  from  the  guard-boat; 
and  they,  fearful  of  losing  the  breeze,  sailed  with- 
out me.  I  re-ancliored,  and  watched  my  friends, 
till  their  boat  became  a  speck  on  the  horizon, 
which  was  growing  thick  and  dark,  with  hea\'y 
clouds  moving  rapidly,  and  gathering  in  the  south- 
west quarter.  I  then  retired  to  tlie  cabin,  where  I 
had  not  been  half  an  hour,  before  a  man  on  deck 
told  me  a  heavy  squall  had  come  on.  We  let  go 
another  anchor.  The  boats  and  vessels  in  the  roads 
were  scudding  past  us  in  all  directions  to  get  into 
harbor ;  and  in  a  moment,  it  blew  a  hard  gale  from 
the  south-west,  the  sea,  from  excessive  smootliness, 
foaming,  breaking,  and  getting  up  into  a  very 
heavy  swell.  The  wind,  having  shifted,  was  now 
directly  against  my  friends.  I  felt  confident  they 
would  be  obliged  to  bear  oflf  for  Leghorn ;  and 
being  anxious  to  hear  of  their  safety,  stayed  on 
board  till  a  late  hour,  but  saw  nothing  of  them. 
The  violence  of  the  wind  did  not  continue  above 
an  hour ;  it  then  gradually  subsided ;  and  at  eight 
o'clock,  when  I  went  on  shore,  it  was  almost  a 
calm.  It,  however,  blew  hard  at  intervals  during 
the  night,  with  rain,  and  thunder  and  lightning. 
The  lightning  struck  the  mast  of  a  vessel  close  to 
us,  shivering  it  to  splinters,  killing  two  men,  and 
wounding  others.  From  these  circumstances,  be- 
coming greatly  alarmed  for  the  safety  of  the  voy- 
agers, a  note  was  dispatched  to  Mr.  Shelley's  house 
at  Lerici,  the  reply  to  wliicJi  stated  that  nothing 
had  been  heard  of  him  and  liis  friend,  which  aug- 
mented our  fears  to  such  a  degree,  that  couriers 
were  dispatched  on  the  whole  line  of  coast  from 
Leghorn  to  Nice,  to  ascertain  if  they  had  put  in 
anywhere,  or  if  there  had  been  any  wreck,  or  in- 
dication of  losses  by  sea.  I  immediately  started 
for  Via  Reggio,  having  lost  sight  of  the  boat  in 
that  direction-  My  worst  fears  were  almost  con- 
firmed  on  my  arrival  there,  by  news  that  a  small 
canoe,  two  empty  water-barrels,  and  a  bottle,  had 
been  found  on  the  shore,  which  things  I  recognized 
as  belonging  to  the  boat.  I  had  still,  however, 
warm  hopes  that  these  articles  had  been  thrown 
overboard  to  clear  them  from  useless  lumber  in 
the  storm ;  and  it  seemed  a  general  opinion  that 
they  had  missed  Leghorn,  and  put  into  Elba  or 
243 


vm 


MEMOIR  OF  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


Corsica,  as  nothing  more  was  heard  for  eight  days. 
This  state  of  suspense  becoming  intolerable,  I  re- 
turned from  Spezia  to  Via  Reggio,  where  my  worst 
fears  were  confirmed  by  the  information  that  two 
bodies  had  been  washed  on  shore,  one  on  that 
night  very  near  the  town,  which,  by  the  dress  and 
stature,  I  knew  to  be  Mr.  Slicllcy's.  I\Ir.  Keats's 
last  volume  of  "  Lamia,"  "  Isabella,"  etc.  being 
open  in  the  jacket  pocket,  confirmed  it  beyond  a 
doubt.  The  body  of  Mr.  Williams  was  subsequent- 
ly found  near  a  tower  on  tlie  Tuscan  shore,  about 
four  miles  from  his  companion.  Both  the  bodies 
were  greatly  decomposed  by  the  sea,  but  identified 
beyond  a  doubt.  The  seaman,  Charles  Vivian,  was 
not  found  for  nearly  three  weeks  afterwards  : — his 
body  was  interred  on  the  spot  on  which  a  wave 
had  washed  it,  in  tiie  vicinity  of  Massa. 

" '  After  a  variety  of  applications  to  the  Luc- 
chese  and  Tuscan  governments,  and  our  ambassa- 
dor at  Florence,  I  obtained,  from  the  kindness  and 
exertions  of  Mr.  Dayvkins,  an  order  to  the  officer 
commanding  the  tower  of  Migliarino  (near  to 
which  Lieutenant  Williams  had  been  cast,  and 
buried  in  the  sand),  that  the  body  should  be  at  my 
disposal.  I  likewise  obtained  an  order  to  the  same 
effect  to  the  commandant  at  Via  Reggio,  to  deliver 
up  the  remains  of  Mr.  Shelley,  it  having  been  de- 
cided by  the  friends  of  the  parties  that  tlie  bodies 
should  be  reduced  to  ashes  by  fire,  as  the  readiest 
mode  of  conveying  them  to  tlie  places  where  the 
deceased  would  have  wished  to  repose,  as  well  as 
of  removing  all  objections  respecting  the  quaran- 
tine laws,  which  had  been  urged  against  their  dis- 
interment. Every  thing  being  prepared  for  the 
requisite  purposes,  I  embarked  on  board  Lord  By- 
ron's schooner  with  my  friend  Captain  Shenlcy, 
and  sailed  on  the  1.3th  of  August.  After  a  tedious 
passage  of  eleven  hours,  we  anchored  off  Via  Reg- 
gio, and  fell  in  with  two  small  vessels,  which  I 
had  hired  at  Leghorn  some  days  before  for  the 
purpose  of  ascertaining,  by  the  means  used  to  re- 
cover sunken  vessels,  the  place  in  which  my 
ftiend's  boat  had  foundered.  They  had  on  board 
the  captain  of  a  fishing-boat,  who,  having  been 
overtaken  in  the  same  squall,  had  witnessed  the 
sinking  of  the  boat,  without  (as  he  says)  the  pos- 
sibility of  assisting  her.  After  dragging  the  bot- 
tom, in  the  place  which  he  indicated,  for  six  days 
without  finding  her,  I  sent  them  back  to  Leghorn, 
and  went  on  sliore.  The  major  commanding  the 
town,  with  the  captain  of  the  port,  accompanied 
me  to  the  governor.  He  received  us  very  cour- 
teously, and  did  not  object  to  the  removal  of  our 
friends'  remains,  but  to  burning  them,  as  the  latter 
was  not  specified  in  the  order.  However,  after 
some  little  explanation,  he  assented,  and  we  gave 
the  necessary  directions  for  making  every  prepa- 
ration to  commence  our  painful  undertaking  next 
morning.' " 


"  It  was  thought  that  the  whole  of  these  melan- 
choly operations  might  have  been  performed  in 
one  day  :  but  the  calculation  turned  out  to  be  er- 
roneous. Mr.  Williams's  remains  were  commencea 
with.  Mr.  Trelawney  and  Captain  Shenley  were 
at  the  tower  by  noon,  with  proper  persons  to  assist, 
and  were  joined  shortly  by  Lord  Byron  and  my- 
self A  portable  furnace  and  a  tent  had  been  pre- 
pared. "Wood,"  continues  Mr.  Trelawney,  "we 
found  in  abmidance  on  the  beach,  old  trees  and 
parts  of  wrecks.  Within  a  few  paces  of  the  spot 
where  the  body  lay,  there  was  a  rude-built  shed 
of  straw,  forming  a  temporary  shelter  for  soldiers 
at  night,  when  performing  the  coast-patrol  duty. 
The  grave  was  at  high-water  mark,  some  eighteen 
paces  from  the  surf,  as  it  was  tlien  breaking,  the 
distance  about  four  miles  and  a  half  from  Via 
Reggio.  The  magnificent  bay  of  Spezia  is  on  the 
right  of  this  spot,  Leghorn  on  the  left,  at  equal 
distances  of  about  twenty -two  miles.  The  head- 
lands, projecting  boldly  and  far  into  the  sea,  form 
a  deep  and  dangerous  gulf,  with  a  heavy  swell 
and  a  strong  current  generally  running  right  into 
it.  A  vessel  embayed  in  this  gulf,  and  overtaken 
by  one  of  the  squalls  so  common  upon  tlie  coast 
of  it,  is  almost  certain  to  be  wrecked.  The  loss 
of  small  craft  is  great ;  and  the  shallowness  of  the 
water,  and  breaking  of  the  surf,  preventing  ap- 
proach to  the  shore,  or  boats  going  out  to  assist, 
the  loss  of  lives  is  in  proportion.  It  was  in  the 
centre  of  this  bay,  about  four  or  five  miles  at  sea, 
in  fifteen  or  sixteen  fathom  water,  with  a  light 
breeze  under  a  crowd  of  sail,  that  the  boat  of  our 
friends  was  suddenly  taken  clap  aback  by  a  sudden 
and  very  violent  squall;  and  it  is  supposed  that  in 
attempting  to  bear  up  under  such  a  press  of  can- 
vas, all  tlie  sheets  fast,  the  hands  unprepared,  and 
only  three  persons  on  board,  the  boat  filled  to  lee- 
ward, and  having  two  tons  of  ballast,  and  not  be- 
ing decked,  went  down  on  the  instant ;  not  giving 
them  a  moment  to  prepare  themselves  by  even 
taking  off  their  boots,  or  seizing  an  oar.  Mr 
Williams  was  the  only  one  who  could  swim,  and 
he  but  indifferently.  The  spot  where  Mr.  Wil- 
liams's body  lay  was  well  adapted  for  a  man  of 
his  imaginative  cast  of  mind,  and  I  wished  his  re- 
mains to  rest  imdisturbed;  but  it  was  willed  other- 
wise. Before  us  was  the  sea,  with  islands ;  behind 
us  the  Apennines ;  beside  us,  a  large  tract  of  tliick 
wood,  stunted  and  twisted  into  fantastic  shapes  by 
tlie  sca-brecze. — The  heat  was  intense,  the  sand 
being  so  scorched  as  to  render  standing  on  it  pain- 
ful." 

"  Mr.  Trelawney  proceeds  to  describe  tlie  disin- 
terment and  burning  of  Mr.  Williams's  remains. 
Calumny,  which  never  shows  itself  grosser  than 
in  its  charges  of  want  of  refinement,  did  not  spare 
even  these  melancholy  ceremonies.  The  friends 
of  the  deceased,  though  they  took  no  pains  to  pub- 
244 


I^IEMOIR  OF  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


K 


lish  the  proceeding,  were  accused  of  wishing  to 
make  a  sensation ;  of  doing-  a  liorriblc  and  unfeel- 
ing thmg,  cte.  Tlie  trutii  was,  that  the  nearest 
connexions,  both  of  ]\Ir.  Shelley  and  Mr.  Williams, 
wished  to  have  their  remains  interred  in  regular 
places  of  burial ;  and  that  ibr  this  purpose  tlicy 
could  be  removed  in  no  other  manner.  Such  being 
the  case,  it  is  admitted  that  tlie  mourners  did  not 
refuse  themselves  the  little  comibrt  of  supposhig 
tiiat  lovers  of  books  and  antiquhy,  like  jMr.  Shel- 
ley and  his  friend,  would  not  have  beeji  sorry  to 
foresee  this  part  of  their  fate.  Among  the  mate- 
rials for  burning,  as  many  of  the  graeefuller  and 
more  classical  ailicles  as  could  be  procured, — 
frankincense,  wine,  etc. — were  not  forgotten. 

"  The  proceedings  of  the  next  day,  witlr  Mr. 
Shelley's  remains,  exactly  resembled  those  of  the 
foregoing,  with  tlie  exception  of  there  being  two 
assistants  less.  On  both  days,  the  extraordinary 
beauty  of  the  flame  arising  from  the  funeral  pile 
was  noticed.  Mr.  Shelley's  remains  were  taken 
to  Rome,  and  deposited  in  the  Protestant  burial- 
gromid,  near  those  of  a  child  he  had  lost  in  that 
city,  and  of  Mr.  Keats.  It  is  the  cemetery  he 
speaks  of  in  the  preface  to  his  Elegy  on  the  death 
of  his  young  friend,  as  calculated  to  "  make  one 
in  love  with  death,  to  think  that  one  should  be 
buried  in  so  sweet  a  place." — The  generous  reader 
will  be  glad  to  hear,  that  the  remains  of  Mr.  Shel- 
ley were  attended  to  their  final  abode  bj''  some  of 
the  most  respectable  English  residents  in  Rome. 
He  was  sure  to  awaken  the  sympathy  of  gallant 
and  accomplished  spirits  wherever  he  went,  alive 
or  dead.  The  remains  of  Mr,  ^Villiams  were  taken 
to  England.  Mr.  Wilhams  was  a  very  intelhgent, 
good-hearted  man,  and  his  death  was  deplored  by 
friends  worthy  of  him. " 

Shelley  was  thirty  years  old  when  he  died.  He 
was  tall  and  slender  in  his  figure,  and  stooped  a 
little  in  the  shoulders,  though  perfectly  well-made. 
The  expression  of  his  features  was  mild  and  good. 
His  complexion  was  fair,  and  his  checks  colored. 
His  eyes  were  large  and  lively ;  and  the  whole 
urn  of  his  face,  which  was  small,  was  graceful 
and  full  of  sensibility.  He  was  subject  to  attacks 
of  a  disorder  which  forced  him  to  lie  down  (if  in 
the  open  air,  upon  the  ground)  until  they  were 
over  ;  yet  he  bore  them  kindly  and  without  a  mur- 
mur. His  disposition  was  amiable,  and  even  the 
word  "  pious"  has  been  applied  to  his  conduct  as 
regarded  others,  to  his  love  of  nature,  and  to  his 
ideas  of  that  power  which  pervades  all  things. 
He  was  very  fond  of  music ;  frugal  in  all  but  liis 
charities,  often  to  considerable  self-denial,  and 
loved  to  do  acts  of  generosity  and  kindness.  He 
was  a  first-rate  scholar  ;  and  besides  the  languages 
of  antiquity,  well  understood  the  German,  Ital- 
ian  and  French  tongues.  He  was  an  excellent 
metaphysician,  and  was  no  slight  adept  in  natural 


philosophy.  He  loved  to  study  in  the  open  air,  in 
the  shadow  of  the  wood,  or  by  the  side  of  the 
water-fall.  In  short,  he  was  a  singular  illustration 
of  the  force  of  natural  genius,  bursting  the  bonds 
of  birth  and  habit,  and  the  conventional  ties  of  the 
circle  in  which  he  was  born,  and  soaring  high, 
mider  the  direction  of  his  own  sjurit,  chartlessand 
alone.  He  steered  by  his  own  ideas  of  justice ; 
hence  he  was  ever  at  war  with  things  which  rea- 
son and  right  had  no  hand  in  establishing, — radi- 
cally wrong  in  themselves  perhaps,  or  to  be  changed 
for  the  better,  but  by  usage  become  second  natm'e 
to  society,  or  at  least  to  that  far  larger  proportion 
of  it  which  lives  by  custom  alone.  He  had  no 
value  for  what  the  mass  of  men  estimate  as  desi- 
rable ;  a  seat  in  the  senate  he  declined,  though  he 
might  have  enriched  himself  by  its  acceptance. 
He  seemed  to  commit  the  mistake  of  others  before 
him,  in  dreaming  of  the  perfectibility  of  man.  An 
anecdote  is  related  of  him  that,  at  a  ball  of  fashion 
where  he  was  a  leading  character,  and  the  most 
elegant  ladies  of  the  crowd  expected  the  honor  of 
being  led  out  by  him,  he  selected  a  friendless  girl 
for  a  partner  who  was  scorned  by  her  companions, 
having  lain  under  the  imputation  of  an  unlucky 
mishap  some  time  preceding. 

The  books  in  which  he  commonly  read  were 
the  Greek  writers ;  in  the  tragedians  particularly, 
he  was  deeply  versed.  The  Bible  was  a  work  of 
great  admiration  with  him,  and  his  frequent  study. 
For  the  character  of  Christ  and  his  doctrines  he 
had  great  reverence,  the  axiom  of  the  founder  of 
Christianity  being  that  by  which  he  endeavored  to 
shape  his  course  in  despite  of  all  obstacles.  In  pe- 
cmaiary  matters  he  was  liberal.  Uncharitable  in- 
deed must  that  man  have  been  who  doubted  the 
excellence  of  his  intentions,  or  charged  him  with 
wilful  error  :  who  then  sliall  judge  a  being  of  whom 
this  may  be  said,  save  his  Creator — who  that  lives 
in  the  way  he  sees  others  hve,  without  regard  to 
the  mode  being  right  or  wrong,  shall  charge  him 
with  crime,  who  tries  to  reconcile  together  his  life 
and  his  aspirations  after  human  perfectibility  ? 
Shelley  had  his  faults  as  well  as  other  men,  but  on 
the  whole  it  appears  that  his  deviations  from  the 
vulgar  routine  form  the  great  sum  of  the  charges 
made  against  him.  His  religious  sentiments  were 
between  him  and  his  God. 

The  writings  of  Shelley  are  too  deep  to  be  popu- 
lar, but  there  is  no  reader  possessing  taste  and 
judgment,  who  will  not  do  homage  to  his  pen  He 
was  a  poet  of  great  power  :  he  felt  intensely,  and 
his  works  everywhere  display  the  ethereal  spirit 
of  genius  of  a  rare  order — abstract,  perhaps,  but 
not  less  powerful ;  his  is  the  poetry  of  intellect, 
not  that  of  the  Lakers ;  his  theme  is  the  high  one 
of  intellectual  nature  and  lofty  feeling,  not  of  wag- 
oners or  idiot  children.  His  faults  in  writing  are 
obvious,  but  equally  so  are  his  beauties.  He  is  too 
33  245 


MEMOIR  OF  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


much  of  a  philosopher,  and  dwells  too  much  upon 
favorite  images,  that  draw  less  upon  our  sympa- 
thies than  those  of  social  life.  His  language  is 
lofty,  and  no  one  knows  better  how  to  cull,  arrange, 
and  manage  the  syllables  of  his  native  tongue.  He 
thorouglily  understood  metrical  composition. 

Shelley  began  to  publish  prematurely,  as  we 
have  already  stated,  at  the  early  age  of  15  ;  but  it 
was  not  till  about  the  year  1811  or  1812  that  he 
seems  first  to  have  devoted  his  attention  to  poetical 
composition.  To  enumerate  his  poetical  works 
here  would  be  a  useless  task,  as  they  will  be  found 
in  the  collection  of  his  poems  appended.  His 
"Prometheus  Unbound"  is  a  noble  work;  his 
"Cenci"  and  "  Adonais"  are  his  principal  works 
in  point  of  merit.  Love  was  one  of  his  favorite 
themes,  as  it  is  with  all  poets,  and  he  has  ever 
touched  it  with  a  master-hand.  The  subject  of  the 
"  Cenci"  is  badly  selected,  but  it  is  nobly  written, 
and  admirably  sustained.  Faults  it  has,  but  they 
are  amply  redeemed  by  its  beauties.  It  is  only 
from  the  false  clamor  raised  against  him  during 
his  life-time,  that  his  poems  liave  not  been  more 
read.  No  scholar,  no  one  having  the  slightest  pre- 
tensions to  true  taste  in  poetrj^  can  be  without 
them.  It  may  be  boldly  prophesied  that  they  will 
one  day  be  more  read  than  they  have  ever  yet 
been,  and  more  understood.  In  no  nation  but  Eng- 
land do  the  reading  public  suffer  others  to  judge 
for  them,  and  pin  their  ideas  of  the  defects  or 
beauties  of  their  national  writers  upon  the  partial 
diatribes  of  hired  pens,  and  the  splenetic  outpour- 
ings of  faction.  It  is  astonisliing  how  tlie  nation 
of  Newton  and  Locke  is  thus  contented  to  suffer 
itself  to  be  deceived  and  misled  by  literary  Ma- 
chiavelism. 

The  following  preface  to  the  autlior's  Posthu- 
mous Poems  contains  much  to  interest  the  admi- 
rers of  his  genius.  Tlie  circumstance  of  its  being 
from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Shelley  will  still  farther  re- 
commend it : — 

"  It  had  been  my  wish,  on  presenting  the  public 
with  the  Posthumous  Poems  of  Mr.  Shelley,  to 
have  accompanied  them  by  a  biographical  notice  ; 
as  it  appeared  to  me,  that  at  this  moment  a  narra- 
tion of  the  events  of  my  husband's  life  would  come 
more  gracefully  from  otlier  hands  tlian  mine,  I 
applied  to  Mr.  Ijcigh  Hunt.  The  distinguished 
friendship  that  Mr.  Shelley  felt  for  him,  and  the 
enthusiastic  affection  with  which  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt 
clings  to  his  friend's  memory,  seemed  to  point 
him  out  as  the  person  best  calculated  for  such  an 
undertaking.  His  absence  from  this  country, 
which  prevented  our  mutual  explanation,  has  im- 
fortunately  rendered  my  scheme  abortive.  I  do 
not  doubt  but  that,  on  some  other  occasion,  he  will 
pay  this  tribute  to  his  lost  friend,  and  sincerely  re- 
gret that  the  volume  which  I  edit  has  not  been 
honored  by  its  insertion. 


"  The  comparative  solitude  in  which  Mr.  Shelley 
lived,  was  the  occasion  that  he  was  personally 
knowTi  to  few  ;  and  his  fearless  enthusiasm  in  the 
cause,  which  he  considered  the  most  sacred  upon 
earth,  the  improvement  of  the  moral  and  ph)"£ical 
state  of  mankind,  was  the  chief  reason  why  he, 
like  other  illustrious  reformers,  was  pursued  by 
hatred  and  calumny.  No  man  was  ever  more  de- 
voted tlian  he,  to  the  endeavor  of  making  those 
around  him  happy ;  no  man  ever  possessed  friends 
more  unfeigncdly  attached  to  him.  The  ungrate- 
ful world  did  not  feel  his  loss,  and  the  gap  it  made 
seemed  to  close  as  quicldy  over  his  memory  as 
the  murderous  sea  above  his  living  frame.  Here- 
after men  will  lament  that  his  transcendent  pow- 
ers of  intellect  were  extinguished  before  they  had 
bestowed  on  them  their  choicest  treasures.  To  his 
friends  his  loss  is  irremediable :  the  wise,  the 
brave,  the  gentle,  is  gone  for  ever  !  He  is  to  them 
as  a  bright  vision,  whose  radiant  track,  left  behind 
in  tlie  memory,  is  worth  all  the  realities  that  so- 
ciety can  afford.  Before  the  critics  contradict  me, 
let  them  appeal  to  any  one  who  had  ever  known 
him  :  to  see  him  was  to  love  him  ;  and  his  pres- 
ence, like  Ithuriel's  spear,  was  alone  sufficient  to 
disclose  the  falsehood  of  the  tale,  which  his  ene 
mies  whispered  in  the  ear  of  the  ignorant  world. 

"  His  life  was  spent  in  the  contemplation  of  na- 
ture, in  arduous  study,  or  in  acts  of  kindness  and 
affection.  He  was  an  elegant  scholar  and  a  pro- 
fomid  metaphysician :  without  possessing  much 
scientific  knowledge,  he  was  imrivalled  Sn  the 
justness  and  extent  of  his  observations  on  natural 
objects  ;  he  knew  every  plant  by  its  name,  and 
was  familiar  with  the  history  and  habits  of  every 
production  of  tlie  earth  ;  he  could  interpret  with- 
out a  fault  each  appearance  in  the  sky,  and  the 
varied  phenomena  of  heaven  and  earth  filled  him 
with  deep  emotion.  He  made  his  study  and  read- 
ing-room of  the  sliadovved  copse,  the  stream,  the 
lake  and  the  water-tall.  Ill  health  and  continual 
pain  preyed  upon  his  powers ;  and  the  solitude  in 
v/liich  we  lived,  particularly  on  our  first  arrival  in 
Italy,  although  congenial  to  his  feelings,  must  fre- 
quently  liave  weighed  upon  his  spirits  :  those  beau- 
tiful and  atTecting  '  Lines,  written  in  dejection  at 
Naples,'  were  composed  at  such  an  interval ;  but 
Vi'hcn  in  health,  his  spirits  were  buoyant  and 
youthful  to  an  extraordinary  degree. 

"  Such  was  his  love  for  nature,  that  every  page 
of  his  poetry  is  associated  in  the  minds  of  his 
friends  with  the  loveliest  scenes  of  the  countries 
which  he  inhabited.  In  early  life  he  visited  the 
most  beautiful  parts  of  this  country  and  Ireland, 
Afterwards  the  Alps  of  Switzerland  became  his 
inspirers.  '  Prometheus  Unboimd '  was  written 
among  the  deserted  and  flower-grown  ruins  of 
Rome ;  and  when  he  made  his  home  under  the 
Pisan  hills,  their  roofless  recesses  harbored  him  as 
246 


MEMOIR  OF  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


XI 


ne  composed  'The  Witch  of  Atlas'  '  Adonais,'  and 
'Hellas.'  In  the  wild  but  beautilul  Bay  of  Spczia, 
the  winds  and  waves  wliich  he  loved  became  his 
playmates.  His  days  were  chiefly  spent  on  the 
water;  tlie  management  of  his  boat,  its  alterations 
and  improvements,  were  his  principal  occupation. 
At  night,  when  the  unclouded  moon  shone  on  the 
calm  sea,  he  often  went  alone  in  his  little  shallop 
to  the  rocky  caves  that  bordered  it,  and  sitting  be- 
neatli  their  shelter  wrote  'The  Triumph  of  Life,' 
the  last  of  his  productions.  The  beauty  but 
strangeness  of  this  lonely  place,  the  refined  plea- 
sure which  he  felt  in  the  companionship  of  a  few 
selected  friends,  our  entire  sequestration  from  the 
rest  of  the  world,  all  contributed  to  render  this 
period  of  his  life  one  of  continued  enjoyment.  I 
am  convinced  that  the  two  months  we  passed  tliere 
were  the  happiest  he  had  ever  kno^vn :  his  health 
even  rapidly  improved,  and  he  was  never  better 
than  when  I  last  saw  him,  full  of  spirits  and  joy, 
embark  for  Leghorn,  that  he  might  there  welcome 
Leigh  Hunt  to  Italy.  I  was  to  have  accompanied 
him,  but  illness  confined  me  to  my  room,  and  thus 
put  the  seal  on  my  misfortmic.  His  vessel  bore 
out  of  sight  with  a  favorable  wind,  and  I  remained 
awaiting  his  return  by  the  breakers  of  that  sea 
wliich  was  about  to  ingulf  him. 

"  He  spent  a  week  at  Pisa,  employed  in  kind 
offices  towards  his  friend,  and  enjoying  with  keen 
delight  the  renewal  of  their  intercourse.  He  then 
embarked  with  Mr.  Williams,  the  chosen  and 
beloved  sharer  of  his  pleasures  and  of  his  fate,  to 
return  to  us.  We  waited  for  them  in  vain ;  the 
sea  by  its  restless  moaning  seemed  to  desire  to  in- 
form us  of  what  we  would  not  learn : but  a 

veil  may  well  be  drawn  over  such  misery.  The 
real  anguish  of  these  moments  transcended  all  the 
fictions  that  the  most  glowing  imagination  ever 
portrayed:  our  seclusion,  the  savage  nature  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  surrounding  villages,  and  our 
immediate  vicinity  to  the  troubled  sea,  combined 


to  imbue  with  strange  horror  our  days  of  uncer- 
tainty. The  truth  was  at  last  known, — a  truth 
that  made  our  loved  and  level}'  Italy  appear  a  tomb, 
its  sky  a  pall.  Every  heart  echoed  the  deep  lament; 
and  my  only  consolation  was  in  tlie  praise  and 
earnest  love  that  each  voice  bestowed  and  each 
countenance  demonstrated  for  him  we  had  lost, — 
not,  I  fondly  hope,  for  ever:  his  unearthly  and 
elevated  nature  is  a  pledge  of  the  continuation  of 
his  being,  although  in  an  altered  form.  Rome  re 
eeived  his  ashes ;  they  are  deposited  beneath  its 
weed-grown  wall,  and  '  the  world's  sole  monu- 
ment' is  enriched  by  his  remains. 

"  '  Julian  and  IVIaddalo,'  '  The  Witch  of  Atlas,' 
and  most  of  the  Translations,  were  written  some 
years  ago,  and,  with  the  exception  of 'The  Cyclops,' 
and  the  Scenes  from  the  '  Magieo  Prodigioso,' 
may  be  considered  as  having  received  the  author's 
ultimate  corrections.  'The  Trimnph  of  Life'  was 
his  last  work,  and  was  left  in  so  mifinished  a  state, 
that  I  arranged  it  in  its  present  form  with  great 
difficulty.  Many  of  the  Miscellaneous  Poems, 
written  on  the  spur  of  the  occasion,  and  never  re- 
touched, I  found  among  his  manuscript  books,  and 
have  carefully  copied :  I  have  subjoined,  whenever 
I  have  been  able,  the  date  of  their  composition. 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  the  critics  will  repre- 
hend  the  insertion  of  some  of  the  most  imperfect 
among  these  ;  but  I  frankly  own,  that  I  have  been 
more  actuated  by  the  fear  lest  any  monument  of 
his  genius  should  escape  me,  than  the  wish  of  pre- 
senting nothing  but  what  was  complete  to  the  fas- 
tidious reader.  I  feel  secure  that  the  Lovers  of 
Shelley's  Poetry  (who  know  how,  more  than  any 
other  poet  of  the  present  day,  every  line  and  word 
he  wrote  is  instinct  with  peculiar  beauty)  will 
pardon  and  thank  me :  I  consecrate  this  volume 
to  them. 

"  Mary  W.  Shelley. 


■London,  June  1st,  1824. 


247 


THE 

POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 


^i\t  Kcljolt  of  liKjilani ; 

A  POEM. 

IN  TWELVE  CANTOES. 


PREFACE. 


The  Poem  which  I  now  present  to  the  ■world,  is  an 
attempt  Irom  which  I  scarcely  ilare  to  expect  success, 
and  in  which  a  writer  of  established  fame  might  fail 
without  disgrace.  It  is  an  experiment  on  the  temper 
of  tiie  public  mind,  as  to  how  far  a  thirst  for  a  hap- 
pier condition  of  moral  and  political  society  survives, 
among  the  enlightened  and  refined,  the  tempests 
which  have  shaken  the  age  in  which  we  live.  I 
have  sought  to  enlist  the  harmony  of  metrical  lan- 
guage, the  etiiereal  combinations  of  the  fancy,  the 
rapid  and  subtle  transitions  of  human  passion,  all 
tliose  elements  which  e.=senlially  compose  a  Poem, 
in  the  cause  of  a  liberal  and  comprehensive  morality  ; 
and  in  the  view  of  kindling  within  the  bosoms  of  my 
readers,  a  virtuous  enthusiasm  for  those  doctrines  of 
liberty  and  justice,  that  failh  and  hope  in  something 
good,  which  neither  violence,  nor  misrepresentation, 
nor  prejudice,  can  ever  totally  extinguish  among 
mankind. 

For  this  purpose  I  have  chosen  a  story  of  human 
passion  in  its  most  universal  character,  diversified 
with  moving  and  romantic  adventures,  and  appeal- 
ing, in  contempt  of  all  artificial  opinions  or  institu- 
tions, to  the  common  sympathies  of  every  human 
breast.  I  have  made  no  attempt  to  recommend  the 
motives  which  I  would  substitute  for  those  at  present 
governing  mankind,  by  methodical  and  systematic 
argument  I  would  only  awaken  the  feelings,  so  that 
the  reader  should  see  the  beauty  of  true  virtue,  and 
l3€  incited  to  those  inquiries  wliich  have  led  to  my 
moral  and  political  creed,  and  that  of  some  of  the 
sublimest  intellects  in  the  world.  The  Poem  there- 
fore (with  the  exception  of  the  first  Canto,  which  is 
purely  introductor)'),  is  narrative,  not  didactic.  It  is 
a  succession  of  pictures  illustrating  the  growth  and 
progress  of  individual  mind  aspiring  after  excellence, 
and  devoted  to  the  love  of  mankind  ;  its  influence  in 
refining  and  making  pure  the  most  daring  and  un- 
common impulses  of  the  imagination,  the  understand- 
ing, and  the  senses ;  its  impatience  at  "  all  the  op- 
prcs-sions  which  are  done  under  the  sun  ;"  its  tend- 
ency to  awaken  public  hope,  and  to  enlighten  and 
2G 


improve  mankind  ;  the  rapid  effects  of  the  applica- 
tion of  that  tendency ;  the  awakening  of  an  immense 
nation  from  their  slavery  and  degradation  to  a  true 
sense  of  moral  dignity  and  freedom ;  the  bloodless 
dethronement  of  their  oppressors,  and  the  unveiling  of 
the  religious  frauds  by  which  they  had  been  deluded 
into  submission ;  the  tranquilhty  of  successful  pa- 
triotism, and  the  imiversal  toleration  and  benevolence 
of  true  philanthropy  ;  the  treachery  and  barbarity  of 
hired  soldiers ;  vice  not  the  object  of  punishment  and 
hatred,  but  kindness  and  pily ;  the  faithles.sness  of 
tyrants;  the  confederacy  of  the  Rulers  of  the  World, 
and  the  restoration  of  the  expelled  Dynasty  by  for- 
eign arms ;  the  massacre  and  extermination  of  the 
Patriots,  and  the  victory  of  established  power ;  the 
consequences  of  legitimate  despotism,  civil  war.  fam- 
ine, plague,  superstition,  and  an  utter  extinction  o.'^ 
the  domestic  affections  ;  the  judicial  murder  of  the 
advocates  of  Liberty ;  tlie  temporary  triumph  of  oj)- 
pression,  that  secure  earnest  of  its  final  and  inevita- 
ble fill! ;  the  transient  nature  of  ignorance  and  error, 
and  the  eternity  of  genius  and  virtue,  Such  is  the 
series  of  dehneations  of  which  the  Poem  consists. 
And  if  the  lofty  ])assions  with  which  it  has  been  my 
scope  to  distinguish  this  story,  shall  not  excite  in  the 
reader  a  generous  impulse,  an  ardent  thirst  for  ex- 
cellence, an  interest  profound  and  strong,  such  as 
belongs  to  no  meaner  desire — let  not  the  failure  be 
imputed  to  a  natural  mifitness  for  human  sympathy 
in  these  sublime  and  animated  themes.  It  is  the  busi- 
ness of  the  poet  to  communicate  to  others  the  plea- 
sure and  enthusiasm  arising  out  of  those  images  and 
feelings,  in  the  vivid  presence  of  which  within  his 
own  mind,  consists  at  once  his  inspiration  and  his 
reward. 

The  panic  which,  like  an  epidemic  transport,  seized 
upon  all  classes  of  men  during  the  excesses  conse- 
quent upon  the  French  Revolution,  is  gradually  giving 
place  to  sanity.  It  has  ceased  to  be  believed,  that 
whole  generations  of  mankind  ought  to  consign  them- 
selves to  a  hopeless  inheritance  of  ignorance  and 
miser}',  because  a  nation  of  men  who  had  been  dupea 
and  slaves  for  centuries,  were  incapable  of  conduct- 
ing themselves  with  the  wisdom  and  tranquillity  of 
freemen  so  soon  as  some  of  their  fetters  were  partially 
loosened.  That  their  conduct  could  not  have  been 
249 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


marked  by  any  other  character  than  ferocity  and 
thoughtlessness,  is  the  historical  fact  from  which  lib- 
erty derives  all  its  recommendations,  and  falsehood 
the  worst  features  of  its  deformity.  There  is  a  reflux 
in  the  tide  of  human  things,  which  bears  the  ship- 
wrecked hopes  of  men  into  a  secure  haven,  after  the 
storms  are  past.  Methinks,  those  who  now  live  have 
survived  an  age  of  despair. 

The  French  Revolution  may  be  considered  as  one 
of  those  manifestations  of  a  general  state  of  feeling 
among  civilized  mankind,  produced  by  a  defect  of 
correspondence  between  the  knowledge  existing  in 
society  and  the  improvement  or  gradual  abolition  of 
political  institutions.  The  year  1788  may  be  assumed 
as  the  epoch  of  one  of  the  most  important  crises  pro- 
duced by  this  feeling.  The  sympathies  connected 
with  that  event  extended  to  every  bosom.  The  most 
generous  and  amiable  natures  were  those  which  par- 
ticipated the  most  extensively  in  these  sympathies. 
But  such  a  degree  of  unmingled  good  was  expected, 
as  it  was  impossible  to  realize.  If  the  Revolution  had 
been  in  every  respect  prosperous,  then  misrule  and 
superstition  would  lose  half  their  claims  to  our  ab- 
horrence, as  fetters  which  the  captive  can  unlock 
with  the  slightest  motion  of  his  fingers,  and  which  do 
not  eat  with  poisonous  rust  into  the  soul.  The  re- 
vulsion occasioned  by  the  atrocities  of  the  dema- 
gogues and  the  re-eslablishment  of  successive  tyr- 
annies in  France  was  terrible,  and  lelt  in  the  remotest 
corner  of  the  civilized  world.  Could  they  listen  to 
the  plea  of  reason  who  had  groaned  under  the  calam- 
ities of  a  social  state,  according  lo  the  provisions  of 
which,  one  man  riots  in  luxury  whilst  another  fam- 
ishes for  want  of  bread  ?  Can  he  who  the  day  before 
was  a  trampled  slave,  suddenly  become  liberal-mind- 
ed, forbearing,  and  independent  ?  This  is  the  conse- 
quence of  the  habits  of  a  state  of  society  to  be  pro- 
duced by  resolute  perseverance  and  indefatigable 
hope,  and  long-suffering  and  long-believing  courage, 
and  the  systematic  efforts  of  generations  of  men  of 
intellect  and  virtue.  Such  is  the  lesson  which  ex- 
perience teaches  now.  But  on  the  first  reverses  of  hope 
in  the  progress  of  French  liberty,  the  sanguine  eager- 
ness for  good  overleapt  the  solution  of  these  questions, 
and  for  a  time  extinguished  itself  in  the  unexpected- 
ness of  their  result.  Thus  many  of  the  most  ardent 
and  tender-hearted  of  tlie  worshippers  of  public  good, 
have  been  morally  ruined  by  what  a  partial  glimpse 
of  the  events  they  deplored,  appeared  to  show  as  the 
melancholy  desolation  of  all  their  cherished  hopes. 
Hence  gloom  and  misanthropy  have  become  the  char- 
acteristics of  the  age  in  which  we  hve,  the  solace  of 
a  disappointment  that  unconsciously  finds  relief  only 
in  the  wilful  exaggeration  of  its  own  despair  This 
influence  has  tainted  the  literature  of  the  age  with  the 
hopelessness  of  the  minds  from  A\hich  it  flows.  Meta- 
physics,* and  inquiries  into  moral  and  political  science, 
':ave  become  little  else  than  vain  attempts  to  revive 
exploded  superstitions,  or  sophisms  like  those  t  of  Mr. 
Malthus,  calculated  to  lull  the  oppre.ssors  of  manldnd 
into  a  security  of  everlasting  triumph.     Our  works 


*  I  ought  to  fixcept  Sir  W.  Druramond's  "Academical  Ques- 
tions:" a  volume  of  very  acute  and  powerful  metaphysical 
criticism. 

t  It  is  remarkable,  as  a  symptom  of  the  revival  of  public 
hope,  that  Mr.  Maltbus  has  assigned,  in  the  later  tditions  of  his 
work,  an  indefinite  dninmion  to  moral  restraint  over  the  prin- 
ciple of  populaiion.  This  concession  answers  all  the  inferfaces 
from  his  doctrine  unfavorable  to  human  improvement,  and 
reduces  the  "Essay  on  Pupulation"  to  a  commentary  illustra- 
tive of  the  unanswerableness  of  "  Political  Justice.^' 


of  fiction  and  poetry  have  been  overshadowed  by  the 
same  infectious  gloom.  But  mankind  appear  to  me 
to  be  emerging  from  their  trance.  I  am  aware,  me- 
thinks, of  a  slow,  gradual,  silent  change.  In  that 
belief  I  have  composed  the  following  Poem. 

I  do  not  presume  to  enter  into  competition  with 
our  greatest  contetnporary  Poets.  Yet  I  am  unwilling 
to  tread  in  the  footsteps  of  any  who  have  preceded 
me.  I  have  sought  to  avoid  the  imitation  of  any 
style  of  language  or  versification  peculiar  to  the  origin- 
al minds  of  which  it  is  the  character,  designing  that 
even  if  what  1  have  produced  be  worthless,  it  should 
still  be  properly  my  own.  Kor  have  I  permitted  any 
system  relating  to  mere  words,  to  divert  the  attention 
of  the  reader  from  whatever  interest  I  may  have 
succeeded  in  creating,  to  my  own  ingenuity  in  con- 
triving to  disgust  them  according  to  the  rules  of  criti- 
cism. I  have  simply  clothed  my  thoughts  in  what 
appeared  to  me  the  most  obvious  and  appropriate 
language.  A  person  familiar  with  nature,  and  with 
the  most  celebrated  productions  of  the  human  mind, 
can  scarcely  err  in  following  the  instinct,  with  re- 
spect to  selection  of  language,  produced  by  that 
familiarity. 

There  is  an  education  peculiarly  fitted  for  a  Poet, 
without  which,  genius  and  sensibility  can  hardly  fill 
the  circle  of  their  capacities.  No  education  indeed 
can  entitle  to  this  appellation  a  dull  and  luiobservant' 
mind,  or  one,  though  neither  dull  nor  unobservant,  in 
which  the  channels  of  communication  between 
thought  and  expression  have  been  obstructed  or 
closed.  How  far  it  is  my  fortime  to  belong  to  either 
of  the  latter  classes,  I  cannot  know.  I  aspire  to  be 
something  better.  The  circumstances  of  my  acci- 
dental education  have  been  favorable  to  this  am- 
bition. I  have  been  familiar  from  boyhood  with 
mountains  and  lakes,  and  the  sea,  and  the  solitude  of 
forests  ;  danger  which  sports  upon  the  brink  of  pre- 
cipices, has  been  my  playmate.  I  have  trodden  the 
glaciers  of  the  Alps,  and  lived  under  the  eye  of 
Mont  Blanc.  I  have  been  a  wanderer  among  dis- 
tant fields.  I  have  sailed  down  mighty  rivers,  and 
seen  the  sun  rise  and  set,  and  the  stars  come  forth, 
whilst  I  have  sailed  night  and  day  down  a  rapid 
stream  among  mountains.  1  have  seen  popidous 
cities,  and  have  watched  the  passions  which  rise  and 
spread,  and  sink  and  change  amongst  assembled 
multitudes  of  men.  I  have  seen  the  theatre  of  the 
more  visible  ravages  of  tyranny  and  war,  cities  and 
villages  reduced  to  scattered  groups  of  black  and  roof- 
less houses,  and  the  naked  inhabitants  sitting  famished 
upon  their  desolated  thresholds.  I  have  conversed  with 
living  men  of  genius.  The  poetrj*  of  ancient  Greece 
and  Rome,  and  modern  Italy,  and  our  own  country, 
has  been  to  me  like  external  nature,  a  passion  and  an 
enjoyment.  Such  are  the  sources  from  which  the 
materials  for  the  imagery  of  my  Poem  have  been 
drawn.  I  have  coixsidered  Poetry  in  its  most  com- 
prehensive sense,  and  have  read  the  Poets  and  the 
Historians,  and  the  Metaph5-sicianst  whose  writings 
have  been  accessible  to  me,  and  have  looked  upon 
the  beautiful  and  majestic  scenery  of  the  earth  as 
common  sources  of  those  elements  which  it  is  the 
province  of  the  Poet  to  embody  and  combine.  Yet 
the  experience  and  the  feelings  to  which  I  refer,  do 
not  in   themselves   constitute  men   Poets,  but  only 

X  In  this  sense  there  may  be  such  a  thins  as  perfectibility  id 
works  of  fiction,  notwithstanding  the  concession  often  made  by 
the  advocates  of  human  improvement,  that  perfectibility  is  a 
term  applicable  only  to  science. 

250 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


prepares  them  to  be  the  auditors  of  tliose  who  are. 
ilow  far  I  shall  be  found  to  possess  that  more  essen- 
tial attribute  of  Poetry,  the  power  of  awakening  in 
others  sensations  like  those  which  animate  my  own 
bosom,  is  that  which,  to  speak  sincerely,  I  know  not; 
and  which,  with  an  acquiescent  and  contented  spirit, 
I  expect  to  be  taught  by  the  effect  which  I  shall  pro- 
duce upon  those  whom  I  now  address. 

I  have  avoided,  as  I  have  said  before,  the  imitation 
of  any  contemporary  stj'le.  But  there  must  bo  a 
resemblance  which  does  not  depend  upon  their  own 
wilL  between  all  the  writers  of  any  particular  age. 
They  cannot  escape  from  subjection  to  a  common  in- 
fluence which  arises  out  of  an  infinite  combination 
jf  circumstances  belonging  to  the  times  in  which 
they  live,  though  each  is  in  a  degree  the  author  of 
Ihe  very  influence  by  which  his  being  is  thus  per- 
vaded. Thus,  the  tragic  Poets  of  the  age  of  Peri- 
cles; the  Italian  revivers  of  ancient  learning;  those 
mighty  intellects  of  our  own  country  tjiat  succeeded 
the  Reformation,  the  translators  of  tiie  Bible,  Shak- 
Bpeare,  Spenser,  the  Dramatists  of  the  reign  of  Eliza- 
beth, and  Lord  Bacon  ;*  the  colder  spirits  of  the  in- 
terval that  succeeded  ; — all,  resemble  each  other,  and 
differ  from  every  other  in  their  several  classes.  In 
this  view  of  things,  Ford  can  no  more  be  called  tlie 
imitator  of  Shakspeare,  than  Shakspeare  the  imitator 
of  Ford.  There  were  perhaps  few  other  points  of 
resemblance  between  these  two  men,  than  that  which 
the  universal  and  inevitable  influence  of  their  age 
produced.  And  this  is  an  influence  which  neither 
the  meanest  scribbler,  nor  the  sublimest  genius  of 
any  era,  can  escape ;  and  wliich  I  have  not  attempt- 
ed to  escape. 

I  have  adopted  the  stanza  of  Spenser  (a  measure 
inexpressibly  beautiful),  not  because  I  consider  it  a 
finer  model  of  poetical  harmony  than  the  blank  verse 
of  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  but  becau.se  in  the  latter 
there  is  no  shelter  for  mediocrity :  you  must  either 
succeed  or  fail.  This  perhaps  an  aspiring  spirit  should 
desire.  But  I  was  enticed,  also,  by  the  brilliancy 
and  magnificence  of  sound  which  a  mind  that  has 
been  nourished  upon  musical  thoughts,  can  produce 
by  a  just  and  harmonious  arrangement  of  the  pauses 
of  this  measure.  Yet  there  wdl  be  found  some  in- 
stances where  I  have  completely  failed  in  this  at- 
tempt, and  one,  which  I  here  request  the  reader  to 
consider  as  an  erratum,  where  there  is  left  most  in- 
advertently an  alexandrine  in  the  middle  of  a  stanza 

But  in  this,  as  in  everjf  other  respect,  I  have  writ- 
ten fearles.sly.  It  is  the  misfortune  of  this  age,  that 
its  Writers,  too  thoughtless  of  immortality,  are  ex- 
quisitely sensible  to  temporary  praise  or  blame.  They 
write  with  the  fear  of  Reviews  before  their  eyes. 
This  system  of  criticism  sprang  up  in  lliat  torpid  in- 
terval when  Poetry  was  not.  Poetry,  and  the  art 
which  professes  to  regulate  and  limit  its  powers,  can- 
not subsist  together.  Longinus  could  not  have  been 
the  contemporary  of  Homer,  nor  Boilcau  of  Horace. 
Yet  this  species  of  criticism  never  presumed  to  as- 
sert an  understanding  of  its  own  :  it  has  always,  un- 
like true  science,  followed,  not  preceded  the  opinion 
of  mankind,  and  would  even  now  bribe  with  worth- 
less adulation  some  of  our  greatest  Poets  to  impose 
gratuitous  fetters  on  their  own  imaginations,  and 
become  unconscious  accomplices  in  the  daily  murder 
of  all  genius  either  not  so  aspiring  or  not  so  fortunate 

*  Aliltoo  staoda  olooe  in  tlie  age  which  he  illumitied. 


as  their  own.  I  have  sought  therefore  to  write,  as  I 
believe  that  Homer,  Shakspeare,  and  Milton  wrote, 
with  an  utter  disregard  of  anonymous  censure.  I 
am  certain  that  calumny  and  misrepresentation, 
though  it  may  move  me  to  compassion,  cannot  dis- 
turb my  peace.  1  shall  understand  the  expressive 
silence  of  those  sagacious  enemies  who  dare  not 
trust  themselves  to  sjieak.  I  shall  endeavor  to  ex- 
tract from  the  midst  of  insult,  and  contempt,  and 
maledictions,  those  admonitions  which  may  tend  to 
correct  whatever  imperfections  such  censurers  may 
discover  in  this  my  first  serious  appeal  to  the  Public. 
If  certain  Critics  were  as  clear-sighted  as  they  are 
malignant,  how  great  would  be  the  benefit  to  be  de- 
rived from  their  virulent  writings  I  As  it  is,  I  fear  1 
shall  be  malicious  enough  to  be  amused  with  their 
paltry  tricks  and  lame  invectives.  Should  the  Pub- 
lic judge  that  my  composition  is  worthless,  I  shall 
indeed  bow  before  tlie  tribunal  from  which  Milton 
receiv'ed  his  crown  of  immortality,  and  shall  seek  to 
gather,  if  I  live,  strength  from  that  defeat,  which  may 
nerve  me  to  some  new  enterprise  of  thought  which 
may  iiol  be  worthless.  I  cannot  conceive  that  Lucre- 
tius, when  he  meditated  that  poem  whose  doctrines 
are  yet  the  bases  of  our  metaphysical  knowledge, 
and  whose  eloquence  has  been  the  wonder  of  man- 
kind, wrote  in  aWe  of  such  censure  as  the  hired 
sophists  of  the  impure  and  superstitious  noblemen 
of  Rome  might  attix  to  what  he  should  produce.  It 
was  at  the  period  when  Greece  was  led  captive,  and 
Asia  made  tributary  to  the  Republic,  fast  verging  it- 
self to  slavery  and  ruiii,  that  a  multitude  of  Syrian 
captives,  bigoted  to  the  worship  of  their  obscene 
Ashtaroth,  and  the  unworthy  successors  of  Socrates 
and  Zeno,  found  there  a  precarious  subsistence  by 
administering,  under  the  name  of  freedmen,  to  the 
vices  and  vanities  of  the  great.  These  wretched 
men  were  skilled  to  plead,  with  a  superficial  but 
plausible  set  of  sophisms,  in  favor  of  that  contempt 
for  virtue  which  is  the  portion  of  slaves,  and  that 
faith  in  portents,  the  most  fiital  substitute  for  benevo- 
lence in  the  imaginations  of  men,  which  arising  from 
the  enslaved  communities  of  the  East,  then  first  be- 
gan to  overwhelm  the  western  nations  in  its  stream. 
Were  these  the  kind  of  men  whose  disapprobation 
the  W'ise  and  lofty-minded  Lucretius  should  have  re- 
garded wilh  a  salutary  awe  ?  The  latest  and  perhaps 
the  meanest  of  those  who  follow  in  his  foootsteps, 
would  disdain  to  hold  life  on  such  conditions. 

The  Poem  now  presented  to  the  Public  occupied 
lillle  more  than  six  months  in  the  composition.  That 
period  has  been  devoted  to  the  task  with  unremitting 
ardor  and  enthusiasm.  I  have  exercised  a  watchful 
and  earnest  criticism  on  my  work  as  it  grew  under 
my  hands.  I  would  willingly  have  sent  it  forth  to 
the  world  with  that  perfection  which  long  labor  and 
revision  is  said  to  bestow.  But  I  found  that  if  I 
should  gain  something  in  exactness  by  this  method,  I 
might  lose  much  of  the  newness  and  energy  of 
imagery  and  language  as  it  flowed  fresh  from  my 
mind.  And  although  the  mere  composition  occupied 
no  more  than  six  months,  the  thoughts  thus  arranged 
were  slowly  gathered  in  as  many  years. 

I  trust  that  flie  reader  will  carefully  distinguish 
between  those  opinions  which  have  a  dramatic  pro- 
priety in  reference  to  the  characters  which  they  are 
designed  to  elucidate,  and  such  as  are  properly  my 
I  own.  The  erroneous  and  degrading  idea  which  men 
[have  conceived  of  a  Supreme  Being,  for  instance,  is 
251 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


spoken  against,  but  not  the  Supreme  Being  itself. 
The  behef  which  some  superstitious  persons  whom 
I  have  brought  upon  the  stage  entertain  of  the  Deity, 
as  injurious  to  the  character  of  his  benevolence,  is 
widely  different  from  my  own.  In  recommending 
also  a  great  and  important  change  in  the  spirit  which 
animates  the  social  institutions  of  mankind,  I  have 
avoided  all  flattery  to  those  violent  and  malignant 
passions  of  our  nature,  which  are  ever  on  the  watch 
to  mingle  with  and  to  alloj'  the  most  beneficial  in- 
novations. There  is  no  quarter  given  to  Revenge,  or 
Envy,  or  Prejudice.  Love  is  celebrated  eveiywhere 
as  the  sole  law  which  should  govern  the  moral  world. 


DEDICATION. 


There  is  no  danger  to  a  man,  that  knows 
VVliat  life  and  death  is ;  there  's  not  any  law 
Exceeds  his  knowledge  ;  neither  is  it  lawful 
That  he  should  stoop  to  any  other  law. 

Ckapman. 


TO  MARY 


1. 


5. 

And  from  that  hour  did  I  with  earnest  thought 
Heap  knowledge  from  forbidden  mines  of  lore, 
Yet  nothing  that  my  tyrants  knew  or  taught 
I  cared  to  learn,  but  from  that  secret  store 
Wrought  linked  armor  for  my  soul,  before 
It  might  walk  forth  to  war  among  mankind  • 
Thus  power  and   hope   were   strengthen'd  more 

and  more 
Within  me,  till  there  came  upon  my  mind 
A  sense  of  loneliness,  a  thirst  with  which  I  pined. 


Alas,  that  love  should  be  a  blight  and  snare 
To  those  who  seek  all  sympathies  in  one ! — 
Such  once  I  sought  in  vain ;  then  black  despair, 
The  shadow  of  a  starless  night,  was  thrown 
Over  the  world  in  which  I  moved  alone : — 
Yet  never  found  I  one  not  false  to  me, 
Hard  hearts,  and  cold,  like  weights  of  icy  stone 
Which  crush'd  and  wither'd  mine,  that  could  not  be 
Aught  but  a  lifeless  clog,  until  revived  by  thee 


So  now  my  summer-task  is  ended,  Mary, 
And  I  return  to  thee,  mine  own  heart's  home  ; 
As  to  his  Queen  some  victor  Knight  of  Faery, 
Earning  bright  spoils  for  her  enchanted  dome ; 
Nor  thou  disdain,  that  ere  my  fame  become 
A  star  among  the  stars  of  mortal  night, 
If  it  indeed  may  cleave  its  natal  gloom. 
Its  doubtful  promise  thus  I  would  unite 
With  thy  beloved  name,  thou  Child  of  love  and  light. 

2. 
The  toil  which  stole  from  thee  so  many  an  hour, 
Is  ended, — and  the  fruit  is  at  thy  feet ! 
No  longer  where  the  woods  to  frame  a  bower 
With  interlaced  branches  mix  and  meet, 
Or  where  with  sound  like  many  voices  sweet, 
Water-falls  leap  among  wild  islands  green. 
Which  framed  for  my  lone  boat  a  lone  retreat 
Of  moss-grown  trees  and  weeds,  shall  I  be  seen : 
But  beside  thee,  where  still  my  heart  has  ever  been 

3. 

Thoughts  of  great  deeds  were  mine,  dear  Friend, 

when  lirst 
The  clouds  which  wrap  this  world  from  youth  did 

pass. 
I  do  remember  well  the  hour  which  burst 
My  spirit's  sleep :  a  fresh  May-dawn  it  was. 
When  I  walk'd  forth  upon  the  glittering  grass. 
And  wept,  I  knew  not  why  ;  until  there  rose 
From  the  near  school-room,  voices,  that,  alas! 
Were  l)ut  one  echo  from  a  world  of  woes — 
The  harsh  and  grating  strife  of  tyrants  and  of  foes. 

4. 
And  then  I  clasp'd  my  hands  and  look'd  around — 
— But  none  was  near  to  mock  my  streaming  eyes, 
Which   pour'd    their  warm  drops   on  the    sunny 

ground — 
So  without  shame,  I  spake  : — "  I  will  be  wise, 
And  just,  and  free,  and  mild,  if  in  me  lies 
Such  power,  for  I  grow  weary  to  behold 
The  selfish  and  the  strong  still  tyrannize 
Without  reproach  or  check."    I  then  controU'd 
My  tears,  my  heart  grew  calm,  and  I  was  meek  and  bold. 


Thou  Friend,  whose  presence  on  my  wintry  heart 
Fell,  like  bright  Spring  upon  some  herbless  plain ; 
How  beautiful  and  calm  and  free  thou  wert 
In  thy  young  wisdom,  when  the  mortal  chain 
Of  Custom  thou  didst  burst  and  rend  in  twain, 
And  walked  as  free  as  light  the  clouds  among. 
Which  many  an  envious  slave  then  breathed  in  vain 
From  his  dim  dungeon,  and  my  spirit  sprung 
To  meet  thee  from  the  woes  which  had  begirt  it  long! 


No  more  alone  through  the  world's  wilderness, 
Although  I  trod  the  paths  of  high  intent, 
I  journey'd  now  :  no  more  companionless, 
Where  solitude  is  like  despair,  I  went. — 
There  is  the  wisdom  of  a  stern  content 
^\'^len  Poverty  can  blight  the  just  and  good. 
When  Infamy  dares  mock  the  innocent. 
And  cherish'd  friends  turn  with  the  multitude 
To  trample  :  this  was  ours,  and  we  unshaken  stood ! 

9. 

Now  has  descended  a  serener  hour. 

And  with  inconstant  fortune,  friends  return ; 

Though  suffering  leaves  the  knowledge  and  the 

power 
Wliich  says : — Let  scorn  be  not  repaid  with  scorn 
And  from  thy  side  two  gentle  babes  are  bom 
To  fill  our  home  with  smiles,  and  thus  are  we 
Most  fortunate  beneath  life's  beaming  morn ; 
And  these  delights,  and  thou  have  been  to  me 
The  parents  of  the  Song  I  consecrate  to  thee. 

10. 

Is  it,  that  now  my  inexperienced  fingers 
But  strike  the  prelude  of  a  loftier  strain  ? 
Or,  must  the  lyre  on  which  my  spirit  lingers 
Soon  pause  in  silence,  ne'er  to  sound  again. 
Though  it  might  shake  the  Anarch  Custom's  reign, 
And  charm  the  minds  of  men  to  Truth's  own  sway 
Holier  than  was  Amphion's  ?  I  would  fain 
Reply  in  hope — but  I  am  worn  away, 
And  Death  and  Love  are  yet  contending  for  their  prey 
252 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


11 

And  what  art  thou  ?  I  luiow,  but  dare  not  speak : 
Time  may  interpret  to  his  silent  years. 
Yet  in  the  paleness  of  thy  thoughtful  cheek, 
And  in  the  hght  thine  ample  forehead  wears, 
And  in  thy  sweetest  smiles,  and  in  thy  tears, 
And  in  thy  gentle  speech,  a  prophecy 
Is  whisper'd,  to  subdue  my  fondest  fears : 
And  through  thine  eyes,  even  in  thy  soul  I  see 
A  lamp  of  vestal  fire  burning  internally. 

12. 

They  say  that  thou  wert  lovely  from  thy  birth. 
Of  glorious  parents,  thou  aspiring  Child. 
I  wonder  not — for  One  then  left  this  earth 
Whose  life  was  like  a  setting  planet  mild, 
Which  clothed  thee  in  the  radiance  undefiled 
Of  its  departing  glory;  still  her  fame 
Shines  on  thee,  through  the  tempests  dark  and  wild 
Which  shake  these  latter  days ;  and  thou  canst  claim 
The  shelter,  from  thy  Sire,  of  an  immortal  name. 

13. 

One  voice  came  forth  from  many  a  mighty  spirit, 
Which  was  the  echo  of  three  thousand  years ; 
And  the  tumultuous  world  stood  mute  to  hear  it, 
As  some  lone  man  who  in  a  desert  hears 
The  music  of  his  home  : — unwonted  fears 
Fell  on  the  pale  oppressors  of  our  race. 
And  Faith,  and  Custom,  and  lovv-thoughted  cares, 
Uke  thunder-stricken  dragons,  for  a  space 
Left  the  torn  human  heart,  their  food  and  dwelling- 
place. 

14. 

Truth's  deathless  voice  pauses  among  mankind ! 
If  there  must  be  no  response  to  my  cry — 
If  men  must  rise  and  stamp  with  fury  blind 
On  liis  pure  name  who  loves  them, — thou  and  I, 
Sweet  friend !  can  look  from  our  tranquillity 
Like  lamps  into  the  world's  tempestuous  night, — 
Two  tranquil  stare,  while  clouds  are  passing  by 
Which  wrap  them  from  the  foundering  seaman's 
sight, 
That  burn  from  year  to  year  with  unextinguish'd  light. 


CANTO  L 


When  the  last  hope  of  trampled  France  had  fail'd 
Like  a  brief  dream  of  unremaining  glory, 
From  visions  of  despair  I  rose,  and  scaled 
The  peak  of  an  aerial  promontory. 
Whose  cavem'd  base  with  the  vext  surge  was  hoary  ; 
And  saw  the  golden  dawn  break  forth,  and  waken 
Each  cloud,  and  every  wave: — but  transitory 
The  calm :  for  sudden,  the  firm  earth  was  shaken, 
As  if  by  the  last  wreck  its  frame  were  overtaken. 


II. 

So,  as  I  stood,  one  blast  of  muttering  thunder 
Burst  in  far  peals  along  the  waveless  deep. 
When,  gathering  fast,  around,  above  and  under, 
Long  trains  of  tremulous  mist  began  to  creep, 
Until  their  complicating  lines  did  steep 
The  orient  sun  in  shadow  : — not  a  sound 
Was  heard  ;  one  horrible  repose  did  keep 
The  forests  and  the  floods,  and  all  around 
Darkness  more  dread  than  night  was  pour'd  upon 
the  ground. 

III. 
Hark !  't  is  the  rushing  of  a  wind  that  sweeps 
Earth  and  the  ocean.    See  !  the  lightnings  yawn 
Deluging  Heaven  with  fire,  and  the  lash'd  deeps 
Glitter  and  boil  beneath  :  it  rages  on, 
One  mighty  stream,  whirlwind  and  waves  upthrown, 
Lightning,  and  hail,  and  darkness  eddying  by. 
There  is  a  pause — the  sea-birds,  that  were  gone 
Into  their  caves  to  shriek,  come  forth,  to  spy 
What  calm  has  fall'n  on  earth,  what  light  is  in  the  sky. 

IV. 
For,  where  the  irresistible  storm  had  cloven 
That  fearful  darkness,  the  blue  sky  was  seen 
Fretted  with  many  a  fair  cloud  interwoven 
Most  delicately,  and  the  ocean  green. 
Beneath  that  opening  spot  of  blue  serene, 
Quiver'd  like  burning  emerald  :  calm  was  spread 
On  all  below ;  but  far  on  high,  between 
Earth  and  the  upper  air,  the  vast  clouds  fled. 
Countless  and  swift  as  leaves  on  autumn's  tempest 
shed. 


For  ever,  as  the  war  became  more  fierce 
Between  the  whirlwinds  and  the  rack  on  high, 
That  spot  grevi'  more  serene  ;  blue  light  did  pierce 
The  woof  of  those  white  clouds,  which  seem'd  to  he 
Far,  deep,  and  motionless;  while  through  the  sky 
The  pallid  semicircle  of  the  moon 
Past  on,  in  slow  and  moving  majesty ; 
Its  upper  horn  array'd  in  mists,  which  soon 
But  slowly  fled,  like  dew  beneath  the  beams  of  noon. 

VI. 

I  could  not  choose  but  gaze ;  a  fascination 
Dwelt  in  thatmoon, and sky,and clouds,  whichdrew. 
My  fancy  thither,  and  in  expectation 
Of  what  I  knew  not,  I  remain'd : — the  hue 
Of  the  white  moon,  amid  that  Heaven  so  blue. 
Suddenly  stain'd  with  shadow  did  appear ; 
A  speck,  a  cloud,  a  shape,  approaching  grew, 
Like  a  great  ship  in  the  sun's  sinking  sphere 
Beheld  afar  al  sea,  and  swift  it  came  anear. 

VII. 

Even  like  a  bark,  which  from  a  chasm  of  mountains» 
Dark,  vast,  and  overhanging,  on  a  river 
Wliich  there  collects  the  strength  of  all  its  fountains. 
Comes  forth,  whilst  with  the  speed  its  frame  doth 

quiver, 
Sails,  oars,  and  stream,  tending  to  one  endeavor; 
So,  from  that  chasm  of  light  a  winged  Form 
On  all  the  winds  of  Heaven  approaching  ever 
Floated,  dilating  as  it  came  :  the  storm 
Pursued  it  with  fierce  blasts,  and  lightnings  swift  and 
warm. 

34  253 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


VIII. 

A  course  precipitous,  of  dizzy  speed, 
Suspending  thought  and  breath;  a  monstrous 
For  in  the  air  do  I  behold  indeed 
An  Eagle  and  a  Serpent  wreathed  in  fight: — 
And  now  relaxing  its  impetuous  flight. 
Before  the  aerial  rock  on  which  I  stood, 
The  Eagle,  hovering,  wheel'd  to  left  and  right. 
And  hung  with  lingering  wings  over  the  flood, 
And  startled  with  its  yells  the  wide  air's  solitude. 

IX. 

A  shaft  of  light  upon  its  wings  descended. 
And  every  golden  feather  gleam'd  therein — 
Feather  and  scale  inextricably  blended. 
The  Serpent's  mail'd  and  many-color'd  skin 
Shone  through  the  plumes  its  coils  were  twined 

within 
By  many  a  swollen  and  luiotted  fold,  and  high 
And  far,  the  neck  receding  lithe  and  thin, 
Sustain'd  a  crested  head,  which  wanly 
Shifted  and  glanced  before  the  Eagle's  stedfast  eye. 


Around,  around,  in  ceaseless  circles  wheeling 
With  clang  of  wings  and  scream,  the  Eagle  sail'd 
Incessantly — sometimes  on  high  concealing 
Its  lessening  orbs,  sometimes  as  if  it  fail'd, 
Droop'd  through  the  air ;  and  still  it  shriek'd  and 

wail'd. 
And  casting  back  its  eager  head,  with  beak 
And  talon  unremittingly  assail'd 
The  wreathed  Serpent,  who  did  ever  seek 
Upon  his  enemy's  heart  a  mortal  wound  to  wreak. 

XI. 

What  life,  what  power,  was  kindled  and  arose 
Within  the  sphere  of  that  appalling  fray ! 
For,  from  the  encounter  of  tliose  wondrous  foes, 
A  vapor  like  the  sea's  suspended  spray 
Hung  gather'd :  in  the  void  air,  far  away. 
Floated  the  shatter'd  plumes;  bright  scales  did  leap, 
Where'er  the  Eagle's  talons  made  their  way, 
Like  sparks  into  the  darkness ; — as  they  sweep, 
Blood  stains  the  snowy  foam  of  the  tumultuous  deep. 

xn 

Swift  chances  in  that  combat — many  a  check. 
And  many  a  change,  a  dark  and  wild  turmoil ; 
Sometimes  the  Snake  around  his  enemy's  neck 
Lock'd  in  stiff  rings  his  adamantine  coil. 
Until  the  Eagle,  faint  with  pain  and  toil, 
Remitted  his  strong  flight,  and  near  the  sea 
Languidly  flutter'd,  hopeless  so  to  foil 
His  adversaiy,  who  then  rear'd  on  liigh 
His  red  and  burning  crest,  radiant  with  victory. 

XIII. 
Then  on  the  white  edge  of  the  bursting  surge. 
Where  they  had  sunk  together,  would  the  Snake 
Relax  his  suffocating  grasp,  and  scourge 
The  wind  witli  his  wild  writhings ;  for  to  break 
That  chain  of  torment,  the  vast  bird  would  shake 
The  strength  of  his  unconquerable  wings 
As  in  despair,  and  with  his  sinewy  neck. 
Dissolve  in  sudden  shock  those  linked  rings. 
Then  soar — as  swift  as  smoke  from  a  volcano  springs. 


XIV. 

Wile  baffled  wile,  and  strength  encounter'd  strength. 
Thus  long,  but  unprevailing : — the  event 
Of  that  portentous  fight  appear'd  at  length : 
Until  the  lamp  of  day  was  almost  spent 
It  had  endured,  when  hfeless,  stark,  and  rent, 
Hung  high  that  mighty  Serpent,  and  at  last 
Fell  to  the  sea,  while  o'er  the  continent, 
With  clang  of  wings  and  scream  the  Eagle  past, 
Heavily  borne  away  on  the  exhausted  blast. 

XV. 

And  with  it  fled  the  tempest,  so  that  ocean 
And  earth  and  sky  shone  through  the  atmosphere — 
Only,  'twas  strange  to  see  the  red  commotion 
Of  waves  like  mountains  o'er  the  sinking  sphere 
Of  sunset  sweep,  and  their  fierce  roar  to  hear 
Amid  the  calm :  down  the  steep  path  I  wound 
To  the  sea-shore — the  evening  was  most  clear 
And  beautiful,  and  there  the  sea  I  found 
Calm  as  a  cradled  child  in  dreamless  slumber  bound. 


XVI. 

There  was  a  Woman,  beautiful  as  morning. 
Sitting  beneath  the  rocks,  upon  the  sand 
Of  the  waste  sea — fair  as  one  flower  adorning 
An  icy  wilderness — each  delicate  hand 
Lay  cross'd  upon  her  bosom,  and  the  band 
Of  her  dark  hair  had  fall'n,  and  so  she  sate 
Looking  upon  the  waves;  on  the  bare  strand 
Upon  the  sea-mark  a  small  boat  did  wait. 
Fair  as  herself,  like  Love  by  Hope  left  desolate. 


XVII. 

It  seem'd  that  this  fair  Shape  had  look'd  upon 
That  unimaginable  fight,  and  now 
That  her  sweet  eyes  were  weary  of  the  sun, 
As  brightly  it  illustrated  her  woe; 
For  in  the  tears  which  silently  to  flow 
Paused  not,  its  lustre  hung :  she  watching  aye 
The  foam-wreaths  which  the  faint  tide  wove  below 
Upon  the  spangled  sands,  groan'd  heavily, 
And  after  every  groan  look'd  up  over  the  sea. 

XVIII. 
And  when  she  saw  the  wounded  Serpent  make 
His  path  between  the  waves,  her  lips  grew  pale, 
Parted,  and  quiver'd;  the  tears  ceased  to  break 
From  her  immovable  eyes ;  no  voice  of  wail 
Escaped  her ;  but  she  rose,  and  on  the  gale 
Loosening  her  star-bright  robe  and  shadowy  hair 
Pour'd  forth  her  voice  ;  the  caverns  of  the  vale 
That  open'd  to  the  ocean,  caught  it  there, 
And  fill'd  with  silver  sounds  the  overflowing  air. 

XIX. 

She  spake  in  language  whose  strange  melody 
Might  not  belong  to  earth.    I  heard,  alone, 
What  made  its  music  more  melodious  be. 
The  pity  and  the  love  of  every  tone ; 
But  to  the  Snake  those  accents  sweet  were  known 
His  native  tongue  and  hers;  nor  did  he  beat 
The  hoar  spray  idly  then,  but  winding  on 
Through  the  green  shadows  of  the  waves  that  meet 
Near  to  the  shore,  did  pause  beside  her  snowy  feet 
254 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


XX. 

Then  on  the  sands  the  Woman  sate  again, 
And  wept  and  clasp'd  her  hands,  and  all  between, 
Renew'd  the  unintelligible  strain 
Ol^  her  melodious  voice  and  eloquent  mien  ; 
And  she  unveil'd  her  lx)som,  and  the  green 
And  glancing  shadows  of  the  sea  did  play 
O'er  its  marmoreal  depth  : — one  moment  seen, 
For  ere  the  next,  the  Serpent  did  obey 
Her  voice,  and,  coil'd  in  rest,  in  her  embrace  it  lay. 

XXI 

Then  she  arose,  and  smiled  on  me  with  eyes 
Serene  yet  sorrowing,  like  that  planet  fair, 
While  yet  the  daylight  lingereth  in  the  skies 
Whick  cleaves  with  arrowy  beams  the  dark-red  air, 
And  said :  To  grieve  is  wise,  but  the  despair 
Was  weak  and  vain  which  led  thee  here  fi-om  sleep : 
This  shalt  thou  know,  and  more,  if  thou  dost  dare 
With  me  and  with  tliis  Serpent,  o'er  the  deep, 
A  voyage  divine  and  strange,  companionsliip  to  keep. 

xxn. 

Her  voice  was  like  the  wildest,  saddest  tone, 
Yet  sweet,  of  some  loved  voice  heard  long  ago. 
I  wept.     Shall  this  fair  woman  all  alone 
Over  the  sea  with  that  fierce  Serpent  go  ? 
His  head  is  on  her  heart,  and  who  can  know 
How  soon  he  may  devour  his  feeble  prey  ? — 
Such  were  my  thoughts,  when  the  tide  'gan  to  flow; 
And  that  strange  boat  like  the  moon's  shade  did  sway 
Amid  reflected  stars  that  in  the  waters  lay. 

xxiri. 

A  boat  of  rare  device,  which  had  no  sail 
But  its  owTi  curved  prow  of  thin  moonstone. 
Wrought  like  a  web  of  texture  fine  and  frail. 
To  catch  those  gentlest  winds  which  are  not  known 
To  breathe,  but  by  the  steady  speed  alone. 
With  which  it  cleaves  the  sparkling  sea ;  and  now 
We  are  embark'd,  the  mountains  hang  and  frown 
Over  the  starry  deep  that  gleams  below 
A  vast  and  dim  expanse,  as  o'er  the  waves  we  go. 

XXIV. 

And  as  we  sail'd,  a  strange  and  awful  tale 
That  Woman  told,  like  such  mysterious  dream 
As  makes  the  slumberer's  cheek  with  wonder  pale! 
'T  was  midnight,  and  around,  a  shoreless  stream. 
Wide  ocean  roU'd,  when  that  majestic  theme 
Shrined  in  her  heart  found  utterance,  and  she  bent 
Her  looks  on  mine;  those  eyes  a  kindling  beam 
Of  love  divine  into  my  spirit  sent, 
And  ere  her  lips  could  move,  made  the  air  eloquent. 

XXV. 

Speak  not  to  me,  but  hear!  much  shalt  thou  learn, 
Much  must  remain  unthought,  and  more  untold. 
In  the  dark  Future's  ever-.flowing  urn: 
Know  then,  that  from  the  depth  of  ages  old 
Two  Powers  o'er  mortal  things  dominion  hold 
Ruling  the  world  with  a  divided  lot. 
Immortal,  all  pervading,  manifold. 
Twin  Genii,  equal  Gods — when  life  and  thought 
Sprang  forth,  they  burst    the  womb  of  inessential 
Naught. 


XXVI. 

The  earliest  dweller  of  the  world  alone, 
Stood  on  the  verge  of  chaos :  Lo !  afar 
O'er  the  wide  wild  abyss  two  meteors  shone 
Sprung  from  the  depth  of  its  tempestuous  jar* 
A  blood-red  Comet  and  the  Morning  Star 
Mingling  their  beams  in  combat — as  he  stood. 
All  thoughts  within  his  mind  waged  nmtual  war 
In  dreadful  sympathy — when  to  the  flood 
That  fair  Star  fell,  he  turn'd  and  shed  his  brotlier's  bloou, 

XXVII. 

Thus  evil  triumph'd,  and  the  Spirit  of  evil. 
One  Power  of  many  shapes  which  none  may  know 
One  Shape  of  many  names;  the  Fiend  did  revel 
In  victor}',  reigning  o'er  a  world  of  woe. 
For  the  new  race  of  man  v\ent  to  and  fro, 
Famish'd  and  homeless,  lothed  and  lotliing,  wUd, 
And  hating  good — for  his  immortal  foe, 
He  changed  from  starry  shape,  beauteous  and  mild 
To  a  dire  Snake,  with  man  and  beast  unreconciled 

XXVIII. 

The  darkness  lingering  o'er  the  dawn  of  things, 
Was  Evil's  breath  and  life :  this  made  him  strong 
To  soar  aloft  with  overshadowing  wings; 
And  the  great  Spirit  of  Good  did  creep  among 
The  nations  of  mankind,  and  every  tongue 
Cursed  and  blasphemed  him  as  he  past ;  for  none 
Knew  good  from  evil,  though  their  names  were  hung 
In  mockery  o'er  the  i'ane  where  many  a  groan. 

As  King,  and  Lord,  and  God,  the  conquering  Fiend  did 
own. 

XXIX. 
The  fiend,  whose  name  was  Legion ;  Death,  Decay, 
Earthq  uake  and  Blight,  and  Want,  and  Madness  pale, 
Winged  and  wan  diseases,  an  array 
Numerous  as  leaves  thatglrew  the  autumnal  gale ; 
Poison,  a  snake  in  flowers,  beneath  the  veil 
Of  food  and  mirth,  hiding  his  mortal  head; 
And,  without  whom  all  these  might  naught  avail, 
Fear,  Hatred,  Faith,  and  Tyranny,  who  spread 

Those  subtle  nets  which  snare  the  living  and  the  dead. 

XXX. 

His  spirit  is  their  power,  and  they  his  slaves 
In  air,  and  light,  and  thought,  and  language  dwell; 
And  keep  their  state  from  palaces  to  graves. 
In  all  resorts  of  men — invisible, 
But  when,  in  ebon  mirror.  Nightmare  fell 
To  tyrant  or  impostor  bids  them  rise. 
Black  v\'inged  demon  forms — whom,  fi-om  the  hell. 
His  reign  and  dwelling  beneath  nether  skies, 
He  loosens  to  their  dark  and  blasting  ministries. 

XXXI. 

In  the  world's  youth  his  empire  was  as  firm 
As  its  foundations — soon  the  Spirit  of  Good, 
Though  in  the  likeness  of  a  lothesome  worm, 
Sprang  from  the  billows  of  the  formless  flood, 
Which  shrank  and  fled ;  and  w  ith  that  fiend  of  blood 
Renew'd  the  doubtful  war — thrones  then  first  shook. 
And  earth's  immense  and  trampled  multitude. 
In  hope  on  their  own  powers  began  to  look, 
And  Fear,  the  demon  pale,  liis  sanguine  shrine  Ibr- 
sook. 

255 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXXII. 

Then  Greece  arose,  and  to  its  bards  and  sages, 
In  dream,  the  golden-pinion'd  Genii  came. 
Even  where  they  slept  amid  the  night  of  ages, 
Steeping  their  hearts  in  the  divinest  flame. 
Which  thy  breath  kindled,  Power  of  holiest  name ! 
And  oft  in  cycles  since,  when  darkness  gave 
New  weapons  to  thy  foe,  iheir  sunlike  fame 
Upon  the  combat  shone — a  light  to  save. 
Like  Paradise  spread  forth  beyond  the  shadowy  grave. 

XXXIII. 
Such  is  this  conflict — when  mankind  doth  strive 
With  its  oppressors  in  a  strife  of  blood. 
Or  when  free  thoughts,  like  lightnings,  are  alive  ; 
And  in  each  bosom  of  the  multitude 
Justice  and  truth,  with  custom's  hydra  brood. 
Wage  silent  war ; — when  priests  and  kings  dissemble 
In  smiles  or  frowns  their  fierce  disquietude. 
When  round  pure  hearts,  a  host  of  hopes  assemble. 
The  Snake  and  Eagle  meet — the  world's  foundations 
tremble ! 

XXXIV. 
Thou  hast  beheld  that  fight — when  to  thy  home 
Thou  dost  return,  steep  not  its  hearth  in  tears ; 
Though  thou  mayst  hear  that  earth  is  now  become 
The  tyrant's  garbage,  which  to  his  compeers, 
The  vile  reward  of  their  dishonor'd  years. 
He  will  dividing  give. — The  victor  Fiend 
Omnipotent  of  yore,  now  quails,  and  fears 
His  triumph  dearly  won,  which  soon  will  lend 
An  impulse  swift  and  sure  to  his  approachuig  end. 

XXXV. 

List,  stranger,  list !  mine  is  a  human  form. 
Like  that  thou  wearest — touch  me — shrink  not  now! 
My  hand  thou  feel'st  is  not  a  ghost's,  but  warm 
With  human  blood. — 'Twas  many  years  ago. 
Since  first  my  thirsting  soul  aspired  to  know 
The  secrets  of  this  wondrous  world,  when  deep 
My  heart  was  pierced  with  sympathy,  for  woe 
Which  could  not  be  mine  own — and  thought  did 
keep 
In  dream,  imnatural  watch  beside  an  infant's  sleep. 

XXXVI. 
Woe  could  not  be  mine  own,  since  far  from  men 
I  dwelt,  a  free  and  happy  orphan  child. 
By  the  sea-shore,  in  a  deep  mountain  glen  ; 
And  near  the  waves,  and  through  the  forests  wild, 
I  roam'd,  to  storm  and  darkness  reconciled : 
For  I  was  calm  while  tempest  shook  the  sky : 
But  when  the  breathless  heavens  in  beauty  smiled, 
I  wept,  sweet  tears,  yet  too  tumultuously 
For  peace,  and  clasp'd  my  hands  aloft  in  ecstasy. 

XXXVII. 

These  were  forebodings  of  my  fate — before 
A  woman's  heart  beat  in  my  virgin  breast 
It  had  been  nurtured  in  divinest  lore  : 
A  dpng  poet  gave  me  books,  and  blest 
With  wild  but  holy  talk  the  sweet  unrest 
In  which  I  watch'd  him  as  lie  died  away — ■ 
A  youth  with  hoary  hair — a  fleeting  guest 
Of  our  lone  mountains — and  this  lore  did  sway 
My  spirit  like  a  storm,  contending  there  alway. 


XXXVIII. 

Thus  the  dark  tale  which  history  doth  unfold, 
I  knew,  but  not,  methinks,  as  others  know. 
For  they  weep  not ;  and  Wisdom  had  unroll'd 
The  clouds  which  hide  the  gulf  of  mortal  woe 
To  few  can  she  that  warning  vision  show. 
For  I  loved  all  things  with  intense  devotion  ; 
So  that  when  Hope's  deep  source  in  fullest  flow, 
Like  earthquake  did  uplift  the  stagnant  ocean 

Of  human  thoughts— mine  shook  beneath  the  wide 
emotion. 

XXXIX. 
When  first  the  living  blood  through  all  these  veina 
Kindled  a  thought  in  sense,  great  France  sprang 

forth. 
And  seized,  as  if  to  break,  the  ponderous  chains 
Which  bind  in  woe  the  nations  of  the  earth. 
I  saw,  and  started  from  my  cottage  hearth  ; 
And  to  the  clouds  and  waves  in  tameless  gladness, 
Shriek'd,  till  they  caught  immeasurable  mirth — 
And  laugh'd  in  light  and  music:  soon,  sweet  madness 

Was  pour'd  upon  my  heart,  a  soft  and  thrilling  sadness, 

XL. 

Deep  slumber  fell  on  me  : — my  dreams  were  fire 
Soft  and  delightful  thoughts  did  rest  and  hover 
Like  shadows  o'er  my  brain ;  and  strange  desire, 
The  tempest  of  a  passion,  raging  over 
My  tranquil  soul,  its  depths  with  light  did  cover. 
Which  past ;  and  calm,  and  darkness,  sweeter  fai 
Came — then  I  loved ;   but  not  a  human  lover ! 
For  when  I  rose  from  sleep,  the  Morning  Star 
Shone  through  the  woodbine  wreaths  which  round 
my  casement  were. 

XLL 

'T  was  like  an  eye  which  seem'd  to  smile  on  me 
I  watch'd,  till  by  the  sun  made  pale,  it  sank 
Under  the  billows  of  the  heaving  sea ; 
But  from  its  beams  deep  love  my  spirit  drank, 
And  to  my  brain  the  boundless  world  now  shrank 
Into  one  thought — one  image — yes,  for  ever ! 
Even  like  the  day-spring,  pour'd  on  vapors  dank. 
The  beams  of  that  one  Star  did  shoot  and  quiver 
Through  my  benighted  mind — and  were  extinguish'd 


XLII. 

The  day  past  thus :  at  night,  methought  in  dream 
A  shape  of  speechless  beauty  did  appear  : 
It  stood  like  hght  on  a  careering  stream 
Of  golden  clouds  which  shook  the  atmosphere ; 
A  winged  youth,  its  radiant  brow  did  wear 
The  Morning  Star :  a  wild  dissolving  bliss 
Over  my  frame  he  breathed,  approaching  near. 
And  bent  his  eyes  of  kindling  tenderness 
Near  mine,  and  on  my  lips  impress'd  a  lingering  kiss 

XLIII. 

And  said  :  a  Spirit  loves  thee,  mortal  maiden. 
How  wilt  thou  prove  thy  worth?  Then  joy  and  sleep 
Together  fled,  my  soul  was  deeply  laden. 
And  to  the  shore  I  went  to  muse  and  weep  ,• 
But  as  I  moved,  over  my  heart  did  creep 
A  joy  less  soft,  but  more  profound  and  strong 
Than  ray  sweet  dream  ;  and  it  forbade  to  keep 
The  path  of  the  sea-shore:  that  Spirit's  tongue 
Seem'd  whispering  in  my  heart,  and  bore  my  steps 
along. 

256 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


xuv. 

How,  to  that  vast  and  peopled  city  led, 

VVIiich  w:is  a  field  of  holy  warfare  then, 

I  walk'd  among  the  dying  and  the  dead. 

And  shared  in  leafless  deeds  with  evil  men. 

Calm  as  an  angel  in  the  dragon's  den — 

How  I  braved  death  lor  liberty  and  truth, 

And  spiirn'd  at  peace,  and  power,  and  fame;  and 

when 
Those  hopes  had  lost  the  glory  of  their  youth, 
Hjw  sadly  1  return'd — might  move  the  hearer's  ruth : 

XLV. 
Warm  tears  throng  fast !  the  tale  may  not  be  said — 
Know  then,  that  when  this  grief  had  been  subdued, 
I  was  not  left,  like  others,  cold  and  dead  ; 
The  Spirit  whom  I  loved  in  solitude 
Sustain'd  liis  child  :  the  tempest-sliaken  wood. 
The  waves,  the  fountains,  and  the  hush  of  night — 
These  were  his  voice,  and  well  I  understood 
His  smile  divine,  when  the  calm  sea  was  bright 
With  silent  stars,  and  Heaven  was  breathless  with 
delight. 

XLVI. 

In  lonely  glens  amid  the  roar  of  rivers. 
When  the  dim  nights  were  moonless,  have  I  known 
Joys  which  no  tongue  can  tell ;  my  pale  lip  quivers 
When  thought  revisits  them  : — luiow  thou  alone, 
That  after  many  wondrous  years  were  flown, 
I  was  awaken'd  by  a  shriek  of  woe ; 
And  over  me  a  mystic  robe  was  thrown, 
By  viewless  hands,  and  a  bright  star  did  glow 
Before  my  steps — the  Snake  then  met  his  mortal  foe. 

XLVII. 

Thou  fearest  not  then  the  Serpent  on  thy  heart  ? 
Fear  it !  she  said,  with  brief  and  passionate  cry. 
And  spake  no  more :  that  silence  made  me  start — 
I  look'd,  and  we  were  sailing  pleasantly, 
Swift  as  a  cloud  between  the  sea  and  sky. 
Beneath  the  rising  moon  seen  far  away ; 
Mountains  of  ice,  like  sapplure,  piled  on  high. 
Hemming  the  horizon  round,  in  silence  lay 
On  the  still  waters — these  we  did  approach  alway. 

XLvni. 

And  swift  and  swifter  grew  the  vessel's  motion, 
So  that  a  dizzy  trance  fell  on  my  brain — 
Wild  music  woke  me :  we  had  past  the  ocean 
Which  girds  the  pole,  Nature's  remotest  reign — 
And  we  glode  fast  o'er  a  pellucid  plain 
Of  waters,  azure  with  the  noon-lide  day. 
Ethereal  mountains  shone  around — a  I'ane 
Stood  in  the  midst,  girt  by  green  isles  which  lay 
On  the  blue  sunny  deep,  resplendent  far  away. 

XLIX. 

It  was  a  Temple,  such  as  mortal  hand 
Has  never  built,  nor  ecstasy,  nor  dream, 
Rear'd  in  the  cities  of  enchanted  land : 
"Twas  likest  Heaven,  ere  yet  day's  purple  stream 
Ebbs  o'er  the  western  forest,  while  the  gleam 
Of  ttie  unrisen  moon  among  the  clouds 
Is  gathering— when  with  many  a  golden  beam 
The  thronging  constellations  rush  in  crowds. 
Paving  with  fu-e  the  skv  and  the  marmoreal  lloods. 
'2  II 


L. 
Like  what  may  be  conceived  of  this  vast  dome, 
When  from  the  def)ths  which  thought  can  seldom 

pierce. 
Genius  beholds  it  rise,  his  native  home. 
Girt  by  the  deserts  of  the  Universe, 
Yet,  nor  in  painting's  light,  or  mightier  verse, 
Or  sculpture's  marble  language  can  invest 
That  shape  to  mortal  sense — such  glooms  immerse 
That  incommunicable  sight,  and  rest 
Upon  the  laboring  brain  and  overburlhen'd  breast. 

LI. 

Winding  among  the  lawny  islands  fair. 

Whose  bloomy  forests  slarr'd  the  shadov\y  deep, 

The  wingless  boat  paused  where  an  ivory  stair 

Its  fretwork  in  the  crystal  sea  did  steep. 

Encircling  that  vast  Fane's  aerial  heap :  • 

We  disembark'd,  and  through  a  portal  wide 

We  pass'd — whose  roof  of  moonstone  carved,  did 

keep 
A  glimmering  o'er  the  forms  on  every  side, 

Sculptures  like  life  and  thought;  immovable,  deep- 
eyed. 

LII. 
We  came  to  a  vast  hall,  whose  glorious  roof  ■ 
Was  diamond,  wiiich  had  drunk  the  lightning's  sheen 
In  darkness,  and  now  pour'd  it  through  the  woof 
Of  spell-inwoven  clpuds  hung  there  to  screen 
Its  blinding  splendor — through  such  veil  was  seen 
That  work  of  subtlest  power,  divine  and  rare ; 
Orb  above  orb,  with  starry  shapes  between. 
And  horned  moons,  and  meteors  strange  and  fair, 

On  night-black  colurans  poised — one  hollow  hemi- 
sphere ! 

LIII. 
Ten  thousand  columns  in  that  quivering  light 
Disiinct — between  whose  shafts  wound  far  away 
The  long  and  labyrinthine  aisles — more  bright 
With  their  own  radiance  than  the  Heaven  of  Day ; 
And  on  the  jasper  walls  around,  there  lay 
Paintings,  the  poesy  of  mightiest  thought, 
Which  did  the  Spirit's  history  display ; 
A  tale  of  passionate  change,  divinely  taught, 

Which,  in  their  winged  dance,  unconscious  Genii 
wrought. 

LIV. 
Beneath,  there  sate  on  many  a  sapphire  throne. 
The  Great,  who  had  departed  from  mankind, 
A  mighty  Senate  , — some,  whose  white  hair  shone 
Like  mountain  snow,  mild,  beautiful,  and  blind. 
Some,  female  forms,  whose  gestures  beam'd  with 

mind ; 
And  ardent  j'ouths,  and  children  bright  and  fair ; 
And  some  had  lyres  whose  strings  were  intertwined 
With  pale  and  clinging  flames,  which  ever  there 

Waked  faint  yet   thrilling  sounds  that  pierced  the 
crystal  air. 

LV. 
One  seat  was  vacant  in  the  midst,  a  throne, 
Rear'd  on  a  pyramid  like  sculptured  flame, 
Distinct  with  circling  stej>s  which  rested  on 
Their  own  deep  fire — .■'oon  as  the  Woman  came 
Into  that  hall,  slie  shrick'd  the  Spirit's  name 
And  fell ;  and  vanish'd  slowly  from  the  sight. 
Darkness  arose  from  her  dissolving  frame. 
Which  gathering,  fdl'd  that  dome  of  woven  light. 

Blotting  its  sphered  stars  with  supernatural  night 
257 


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SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


LVI. 
Then  first,  two  glittering  lights  were  seen  to  glide 
In  circles  on  the  amethystine  fioor, 
Small  serpent  eyes  trailing  from  side  to  side, 
Like  meteors  on  a  river's  grassy  shore, 
They  round  each  other  roll'd,  dilating  more 
And  more — then  rose,  commingling  into  one, 
One  clear  and  mighty  planet  hanging  o'er 
A  cloud  of  deepest  shadow,  which  was  thrown 
Athwart  the  glowing  steps  and  the  crystalline  throne. 

L'V^I. 

The  cloud  which  rested  on  that  cone  of  flame 
Was  cloven  ;  beneath  the  planet  sate  a  Form, 
Fairer  than  tongue  can  speak  or  thought  may  frame, 
The  radiance  of  whose  limbs  rose-like  and  warm 
#Flow'd  forth,  and  did  with  softest  light  inform 
The  shadowy  dome,  the  sculptures,  and  the  state 
Of  those  assembled  shapes — with  clinging  charm 
Sinking  upon  their  hearts  and  mine — He  sate 
Majestic,  yet  most  mild — calm,  yet  compassionate. 

LVIII. 

Wonder  and  joy  a  passing  faintness  threw 
Over  my  brow — a  hand  supported  me. 
Whose  touch  was  magic  strength :  an  eye  of  blue 
Look'd  into  mine,  like  moonlight,  soothingly  ; 
And  a  voice  said — Thou  must  a  listener  be 
This  day — two  mighty  Spirits  now  return, 
Like  birds  of  calm,  from  the  world's  raging  sea. 
They  pour  fresh  light  from  Hope's  immortal  urn ; 
A  tale  of  human  power — despair  not — list  and  learn ! 

LIX. 

I  look'd,  and  lo!  one  stood  forth  eloquently. 
His  eyes  were  dark  and  deep,  and  the  clear  brow 
Which  shadow'd  them  was  like  the  morning  sky. 
The  cloudless  Heaven  of  Spring,  when  in  their  flow 
Through  the  bright  air,  the  soft  winds  as  they  blow 
Wake  the  green  world — his  gestures  did  obey 
The  oracular  mind  that  made  his  features  glow, 
And  where  his  curved  lips  half  open  lay. 
Passion's  divinest  stream  had  made  impetuous  way. 


LX. 

Beneath  the  darltness  of  his  outspread  hair 
He  stood  thus  beautiful :  but  there  was  One 
Who  sate  beside  him  like  his  shadow  there, 
And  held  his  hand — far  lovelier — she  was  known 
To  be  thus  fair,  by  the  few  lines  alone 
Wliich  through  her  floating  locks  and  gather'd  cloak, 
Glances  of  soul-dissolving  glory,  shone  : — 
None  else  beheld  her  eyes — in  him  they  woke 
Memories  which  found  a  tongue,  as  thus  he  silence 
broke. 


CANTO  n. 


L 

The  starlight  smile  of  children,  the  sweet  looks 
Of  women,  the  fair  breast  from  which  I  fed, 
The  murmur  of  the  unreposing  brooks. 
And  the  green  light  which,  shifting  overhead, 
Some  tangled  bower  of  vines  around  me  shed. 
The  shells  on  the  sea-sand,  and  the  wild  flowers. 
The  lamp-hght  through  the  rafters  cheerly  spread 
And  on  the  twining  flax — in  life's  young  hours 
These  sights  and  sounds  did  nurse  my  spirit's  folded 
powers. 

n. 

In  Argolis,  beside  the  echoing  sea, 
Such  impulses  within  my  mortal  frame 
Arose,  and  they  were  dear  to  memory, 
Like  tokens  of  the  dead  : — but  others  came 
Soon,  in  another  shape :  the  wondrous  fame 
Of  the  past  world,  the  vital  words  and  deeds 
Of  minds  wliom  neither  time  nor  change  can  tame 
Traditions  dark  and  old,  whence  evil  creeds 
Start  forth,  and  whose  dim  shade  a  stream  of  poison 
feeds. 

III. 

I  heard,  as  all  have  heard,  the  various  story 
Of  human  hfe,  and  wept  unwilling  tears. 
Feeble  historians  of  its  shame  and  glory. 
False  disputants  on  all  its  hopes  and  fears. 
Victims  who  worshipp'd  ruin, — chroniclers 
Of  daily  scorn,  and  slaves  who  lothed  their  state; 
Yet  flattering  power  had  given  its  ministers 
A  throne  of  judgment  in  the  grave : — 'twas  fate, 
That  among  such  as  these  my  youth  should  seek  its 
mate. 

IV. 

The  land  in  which  I  lived,  by  a  fell  bane 
Was  wither'd  up.    Tyrants  dwelt  side  by  side. 
And  stabled  in  our  homes, — until  the  chain 
Stifled  the  captive's  cry,  and  to  abide 
That  blasting  curse  men  had  no  shame — all  vied 
In  evil,  slave  and  despot ;  fear  with  lust, 
Strange  fellowship  through  mutual  hate  had  tied, 
Like  two  dark  serpents  tangled  in  the  dust, 
Which  on  the  paths  of  men  their  minghng  poison  thrust. 


Earth,  our  bright  home,  its  mountains  and  its  waters 
And  the  ethereal  shapes  which  are  suspended 
Over  its  green  expanse,  and  those  fair  daughters. 
The  clouds,  of  Sun  and  Ocean,  who  have  blended 
The  colors  of  the  air  since  first  extended 
It  cradled  the  young  world,  none  wander'd  forth 
To  see  or  feel .-  a  darkness  had  descended 
On  every  heart :  the  light  which  shows  its  worth, 
Must  among  gentle  thoughts  and  fearless  take  its  birth 
258 


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11 


VI. 
This  vital  world,  this  home  of  happy  spirits, 
Was  as  a  dungeon  to  my  blasted  kind, 
All  that  despair  from  murder'd  hope  inherits 
They  sought,  and  in  their  helpless  misery  blind, 
A  deeper  prison  and  heavier  chains  did  find. 
And  stronger  tyrants: — a  dark  gulf  before, 
The  realm  of  a  stern  Ruler,  yawn'd  ;  behind, 
Terror  and  Time  conflicting  drove,  and  bore 
On  their  tempestuous  flood  the  shrieking  wretch  from 
shore. 

VII. 

Out  of  that  Ocean's  wrecks  had  Guilt  and  Woe 
Framed  a  dark  dwelling  for  their  homeless  thought, 
And,  starting  at  the  ghosts  which  to  and  fro 
Glide  o'er  its  dim  and  gloomy  strand,  had  brought 
The  worship  thence  which  they  each  other  taught, 
Well  might  men  lothe  their  life,  well  might  they 

turn 
Even  to  the  ills  again  from  which  they  sought 
Such  refuge  after  death ! — well  might  they  learn 
To  gaze  on  this  fair  world  with  hopeless  unconcern ! 

VIII. 

For  they  all  pined  in  bondage  ;  body  and  soul, 
Tyrant  and  slave,  victim  and  torturer,  bent 
Before  one  Power,  to  which  supreme  control 
Over  their  will  by  their  own  weakness  lent, 
Made  all  its  many  names  omnipotent  ; 
All  symbols  of  things  evil,  all  divine ; 
And  hynms  of  blood  or  mockery,  which  rent 
The  air  from  all  its  fanes,  did  intertwine 
imposture's  impious  toils  round  each  discordant  shrine. 

IX. 

I  heard,  as  all  have  heard,  life's  various  story. 
And  in  no  careless  heart  transcribed  the  tale  ; 
But,  from  the  sneers  of  men  who  had  grown  hoary 
In  shame  and  scorn,  from  groans  of  crowds  made 

pale 
By  famine,  from  a  mother's  desolate  wail 
O'er  her  polluted  child,  from  innocent  blood 
Pour'd  on  the  earth,  and  brows  anxious  and  pale 
With  the  heart's  warfare  ;  did  I  gather  food 
To  feed  my  many  thoughts — a  tameless  multitude  ! 

X. 

I  wander'd  through  the  wrecks  of  days  departed 
Far  by  the  desolated  shore,  when  even 
O'er  the  still  sea  and  jagged  islets  darted 
The  light  of  moonrise ;  in  the  northern  Heaven, 
Among  the  clouds  near  the  horizon  driven. 
The  mountains  lay  beneath  one  planet  pale ; 
Around  me,  broken  tombs  and  columns  riven 
Look'd  vast  in  twilight,  and  the  sorrowing  gale 
Waked  in  those  ruins  gray  its  everlasting  wail ! 

XI. 
I  knew  not  who  had  framed  these  wonders  then, 
Ts'or  had  I  heard  the  s;ory  of  their  deeds ; 
But  dwellings  of  a  race  of  mightier  men, 
And  monuments  of  less  ungentle  creeds 
Tell  their  own  tale  to  him  who  wisely  heeds 
The  language  which  they  speak  ;  and  now,  to  me 
The  moonlight  making  pale  the  blooming  weeds. 
The  bright  stars  shining  in  the  breathless  sea, 
Interpreted  those  scrolls  of  mortal  mystery. 


XII. 
Such  man  has  been,  and  such  may  yet  become ! 
Ay,  wiser,  greater,  gentler,  even  than  ihey 
Who  on  the  fragments  of  yon  shattcr'd  dome 
Have  stamj/d  the  sign  of  power — I  felt  the  sway 
Of  the  vast  stream  of  ages  bear  aw'ay 
My  floating  thoughts — my  heart  beat  loud  and 

fast — 
Even  as  a  storm  let  loose  beneath  the  ray 
Of  ihe  still  moon,  my  spirit  onward  past 
Beneath  Truth's  steady  beams  upon  its  tumult  cast 

XIII. 

It  shall  be  thus  no  more !  too  long,  too  long. 
Sons  of  the  glorious  dead  !  have  ye  lain  bounH 
In  darkness  and  in  ruin. — Hope  is  strong. 
Justice  and  Truth  their  winged  child  have  found- 
Awake!  arise!  unlil  the  mighty  sound 
Of  your  career  shall  scatter  in  its  gust 
The  thrones  of  the  oppressor,  and  the  ground 
Hide  the  last  altar's  unregarded  dust, 
Whose  Idol  has  so  long  betray'd  your  impious  trust 

XIV. 
It  must  be  so — I  ^vill  arise  and  waken 
The  multitude,  and  like  a  sulphurous  hill, 
Which  on  a  sudden  from  its  snows  has  shaken 
The  swoon  of  ages,  it  shall  burst  and  fill 
The  world  with  cleansing  fire ;  it  must,  it  will — 
It  may  not  be  restrain'd  ! — and  who  shall  stand 
Amid  the  rocking  earthquake  stedfast  still. 
But  Laon  ?  on  high  Freedom's  desert  land 
A  tower  whose  marble  walls  the  leagued  storms 
withstand  I 

XV. 
One  summer  night,  in  commune  with  the  hope 
Thus  deeply  fed,  amid  those  ruins  gray 
I  walch'd,  beneath  the  dark  sky's  starry  cope ; 
And  ever  from  that  hour  upon  me  lay 
The  burthen  of  this  hope,  and  night  or  day, 
In  vision  or  in  dream,  clove  to  my  breast : 
Among  mankind,  or  when  gone  far  away 
To  the  lone  shores  and  mountains,  't  was  a  guest, 
Which  follovv'd  where  I  fled,  and  walch'd  when  I 
did  rest. 

XVI. 
These  hopes  found  words  through  wliich  my  spirit 

sought 
To  weave  a  bondage  of  such  sympathy. 
As  might  create  some  response  to  the  thought 
Which  ruled  me  now — and  as  the  vapors  lie 
Bright  in  the  outspread  morning's  radiancy, 
So  were  these  thoughts  invested  with  the  light 
Of  language  ;  and  all  bosoms  made  reply 
On  which  its  lustre  stream'd,  whene'er  it  might 
Thro'  darkness  wide  and  deep  tliose  tranced  spirits 
smite. 

XVII. 

Yes,  many  an  eye  with  dizzy  tears  was  dim. 
And  oft  I  thought  to  clasp  my  own  heart's  brother, 
When  I  could  feel  the  listener's  senses  swim. 
And  hear  his  breath  its  own  swift  gaspings  smother 
Even  as  my  words  evoked  them — and  another. 
And  yet  another,  I  did  fondly  deem. 
Felt  that  we  all  were  sons  of  one  great  mother  i 
And  the  cold  truth  such  sad  reverse  did  seem. 
As  to  awake  in  grief  from  some  delightful  dream. 
259 


12 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XVIII. 
Yes,  oft  beside  the  ruin'd  labyrinth 
Which  skirts  the  hoary  caves  of  the  green  deep, 
Did  Laon  and  his  friend  on  one  gray  plinth. 
Round  whose  worn  base  the  wild  waves  liiss  and 

leap, 
Resting  at  eve,  a  lofty  converse  keep  ; 
And  that  this  friend  was  false,  may  now  be  said 
Calmly — that  he  like  other  men  could  weep 
Tears  which  are  lies,  and  could  betray  and  spread 

Snares  for  that  guileless  heart  which  for  his  own  had 
bled. 

XIX. 
Then,  had  no  great  aim  recompensed  my  sorrow, 
I  must  have  sought  dark  respite  from  its  stress. 
In  dreamless  rest,  in  sleep  that  sees  no  morrow — 
For  to  tread  life's  dismaying  wilderness 
Without  one  smile  to  cheer,  one  voice  to  bless. 
Amid  the  snares  and  scoffs  of  human-kind. 
Is  hard — but  I  betray'd  it  not,  nor  less 
With  love  that  scorn'd  return,  sought  to  unbind 

The  interwoven  clouds  which  make  its  wisdom  bUnd. 

XX. 

With  deathless  minds  which   leave  where  they 

have  past 
A  path  of  light,  my  soul  communion  knew ; 
Till  from  that  glorious  intercourse,  at  last, 
As  from  a  mine  of  magic  store,  I  drew 
Words  which  were  weapons ; — round  my  heart 

there  grew 
The  adamantine  armor  of  their  power. 
And  from  my  fancy  wings  of  golden  hue 
Sprang  forth — yet  not  alone  from  wisdom's  tower, 
A  minister  of  truth,  these  plumes  young  Laon  bore. 

XXI. 

An  orphan  with  my  parents  lived,  whose  eyes 
Were  load-stars  of  delight,  which  drew  me  home 
When  I  might  wander  forth  ;  nor  did  I  prize 
Aught  human  thing  beneath  Heaven's  mighty  dome 
Beyond  this  child  :  so  when  sad  hours  were  come. 
And  baffled  hope  like  ice  still  clung  to  me, 
Since  kin  were  cold,  and  friends  had  now  become 
Heartless  and  false,  I  turn'd  from  all,  to  be, 
Cythna,  the  only  source  of  tears  and  smiles  to  thee. 

XXII. 

What  wert  thou  then  ?   A  child  most  infantine, 
Yet  wandering  far  beyond  that  innocent  age 
In  all  but  its  sweet  looks  and  mien  divine ; 
Even  then,  methought,  with  the  world's  tyrant  rage 
A  patient  warfare  thy  young  heart  did  wage. 
When  those  soft  eyes  of  scarcely  conscious  thought. 
Some  tale,  or  thine  own  fancies  would  engage 
To  overflow  with  tears,  or  converse  fraught 
With  passion,  o'er  their  depths  its  fleeting  hght  had 

wrought 

XXIII. 
She  moved  upon  this  earth  a  shape  of  brightness, 
A  power,  that  from  its  objects  scarcely  drew 
One  impulse  of  her  being — in  her  lightness 
Most  like  some  radiant  cloud  of  morning  dew. 
Which  wanders  through  the  waste  air's  pathless 

blue. 
To  nourish  some  far  desert ;  she  did  seem 
Beside  me,  gathering  beauty  as  she  grew, 
Like  the  bright  shade  of  some  immortal  dream 
'  Which  walks,  when  tempest  sleeps,  the  wave  of 

Ufe's  dark  stream. 


XXIV. 

As  mine  own  shadow  was  this  child  to  me, 
A  second  self,  far  dearer  and  more  fair; 
Which  clothed  in  undissolving  radiancy 
All  those  steep  paths  which  languor  and  despair 
Of  human  things,  had  made  so  dark  and  bare, 
But  which  I  trod  alone — nor,  till  bereft 
Of  friends,  and  overcome  by  lonely  care. 
Knew  I  what  solace  for  that  loss  was  left. 
Though  by  a  bitter  wound  my  trusting  heart  was 
cleft. 

XXV. 

Once  she  was  dear,  now  she  was  all  I  had 
To  love  in  human  life — this  playmate  sweet. 
This  child  of  twelve  years  old — so  she  was  made 
My  sole  associate,  and  her  willing  feet 
Wander'd  with  mine  where  earth  and  ocean  meet. 
Beyond  the  aerial  mountains  whose  vast  cells 
The  unre posing  billows  ever  beat. 
Through  forests  wide  and  old,  and  lawny  dells. 
Where  boughs  of  incense  droop  over  the  femerald 
wells. 

XXVI. 

And  warm  and  light  I  felt  her  clasping  hand 
Wlien  twined  in  mine:  she  follow'd  where  I  went, 
Through  the  lone  paths  of  our  immortal  land. 
It  had  no  waste,  but  some  memorial  lent 
Which  strung  me  to  my  toil — some  monument 
Vital  with  mind :  then,  Cythna  by  my  side, 
Until  the  bright  and  beaming  day  were  spent, 
Would  rest,  with  looks  entreating  to  abide. 
Too  earnest  and  too  sweet  ever  to  be  denied. 

XXVII. 

And  soon  I  could  not  have  refused  her — thus 
For  ever,  day  and  night,  we  two  were  ne'er 
Parted,  but  when  brief  sleep  divided  us  : 
And  when  the  pauses  of  the  lulling  air 
Of  noon  beside  the  sea,  had  made  a  lair 
For  her  soothed  senses,  in  my  arms  she  slept. 
And  I  kept  watch  over  her  slumbers  there. 
While,  as  the  shifting  visions  o'er  her  swept, 
Amid  her  innocent  rest  by  turns  she  smiled  and  wept 

XXVIII. 

And,  in  the  murmur  of  her  dreams  was  heard 
Sometimes  the  name  of  Laon : — suddenly 
She  would  arise,  and  like  the  secret  bird 
AVhom  sunset  wakens,  fill  the  shore  and  sky 
With  her  sweet  accents — a  wild  melody ! 
Hymns  which  my  soul  had  woven  to  Freedom 

strong 
The  source  of  passion  whence  they  rose,  to  be ; 
Triumphant  strains,  which,  like  a  spirit's  tongue. 
To  the  enchanted  waves  that  child  of  glory  sung. 

XXIX. 

Her  white  arms  lifted  through  the  shadowy  stream 
Of  her  loose  hair — oh,  excellently  great 
Seem'd  to  me  then  my  purpose,  the  vast  theme 
Of  those  impassion'd  songs,  when  Cythna  sate 
Amid  the  calm  which  rapture  doth  create 
After  its  tumult,  her  heart  vibrating. 
Her  spirit  o'er  the  ocean's  floating  state 
From  her  deep  eyes  far  wandering,  on  the  wing 
Of  visions  that  were  mine,  beyond  its  utmost  spruig 
260 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


13 


XXX. 

For,  before  Cythna  loved  it,  had  my  song 
Peopled  with  thoughts  the  boundless  universe, 
A  mighty  congregation,  which  were  strong 
Where'er  they  trod  the  darkness  Jo  disperse 
The  cloud  of  that  imutterable  curse 
Which  clings  upon  mankind  : — all  things  became 
Slaves  to  my  holy  and  heroic  verse. 
Earth,  sea  and  sky,  the  planets,  life  and  fame 
And  fate,  or  whate'er  else  binds  the  world's  wondrous 
frame. 

XXXI. 

And  this  beloved  child  thus  felt  the  sway 
Of  my  conceptions,  gathering  like  a  cloud 
The  very  wind  on  which  it  rolls  away  : 
Hers  too  were  all  my  thoughts,  ere  yet  endow'd 
With  music  and  wth  light,  their  fountains  flow'd 
In  poesy ;  and  her  still  and  earnest  face. 
Pallid  with  feelings  which  intensely  glow'd 
Within,  was  turn'd  on  mine  with  speechless  grace. 
Watching  the  hopes  which  there  her  heart  had  leani'd 
to  trace. 

XXXII. 

In  me,  communion  with  this  purest  being 
Kindled  intenser  zeal,  and  made  me  wise 
In  knowledge,  which  in  hers  mine  own  mind  seeing 
Left  in  the  human  world  few  mysteries : 
How  without  fear  of  evil  or  disguise 
Was  Cythna  I — what  a  spirit  strong  and  mild. 
Which  death,  or  pain  or  peril  could  despise. 
Yet  melt  in  tenderness  !  what  genius  wild. 
Yet  mighty,  was  inclosed  within  one  simple  child ! 

XXXIII. 

New  lore  was  this — old  age  with  its  gray  hair, 
And  wrinkled  legends  of  unworthy  things, 
And  icy  sneers,  is  naught :  it  cannot  dare 
To  burst  the  chains  which  life  for  ever  flings 
On  the  entangled  soul's  aspiring  wings, 
So  is  it  cold  and  cruel,  and  is  made 
The  careless  slave  of  that  dark  power  which  brings 
Evil,  like  blight  on  man,  who,  still  betray'd, 
Laughs  o'er  the  grave  in  which  his  living  hopes  are  laid. 

XXXIV. 

Nor  are  the  strong  and  the  severe  to  keep 
The  empire  of  the  world  :  thus  Cythna  taught 
Even  in  the  visions  of  her  eloiiuent  sleep. 
Unconscious  of  the   power   through  which   she 

wrought 
The  woof  of  such  intelligible  thought. 
As  from  the  tranquil  strength  which  cradled  lay 
In  her  smile-peopled  rest,  my  spirit  sought 
Why  the  deceiver  and  the  slave  has  sway 
O'er  heralds  so  divine  of  truth's  arising  day. 

XXXV. 

Within  that  fairest  form,  the  female  mind 
Untainted  by  the  poison-clouds  which  rest 
On  the  dark  world,  a  sacred  home  did  find : 

•   But  else,  from  the  wide  earth's  maternal  breast, 
Victorious  Evil,  which  had  dispossest 
AD  native  power,  had  those  fair  children  torn. 
And  made  them  slaves  to  soothe  his  vile  unrest, 
And  minister  to  lust  its  joys  forlorn. 

Till  they  had  leani'd  to  breathe  the  atmosphere  of 
scorn. 


XXXVI. 

This  misery  was  but  coldly  felt,  till  she 

Became  my  only  friend,  who  had  indued 

My  purpose  with  a  wider  sympathy ; 

Thus,  Cythna  mourn'd  with  me  the  servitude 

In  which  the  half  of  human-kind  were  mew'd, 

Victims  of  lust  and  hate,  the  slaves  of  slaves. 

She  mourn'd  that  grace  and  power  were  thrown 

as  food 
To  the  hyena  Lust,  who,  among  graves, 
Over  his  lothed  meal,  laughing  in  agony,  raves. 

XXXVII. 

And  I,  still  gazing  on  that  glorious  child. 

Even  as  these  thoughts  flush'd  o'er  her. — "  Cythna 

sweet, 
Well  witli  the  world  art  thou  unreconciled  : 
Never  will  peace  and  human  nature  meet 
Till  free  and  equal  man  and  woman  greet 
Domestic  peace ;  and  ere  this  power  can  make 
In  human  hearts  its  calm  and  holy  seat : 
This  slavery  must  be  broken." — As  I  spake, 
From  Cythna's  eyes  a  light  of  exultation  brake. 

xxxvin. 

She  replied  earnestly  : — "  It  shall  be  mine, 
This  task,  mine,  Laon  ! — tliou  hast  much  to  gain  ; 
Nor  wilt  Iliou  at  poor  Cythna's  pride  repine, 
If  she  should  lead  a  happy  female  train 
To  meet  thee  over  the  rejoicing  plain, 
When  myriads  at  thy  call  shall  throng  around 
The  Golden  City." — Then  the  child  did  strain 
My  arm  upon  her  trenmlous  heart,  and  wound 
Her  own  about  my  neck,  till  some  reply  she  found; 

XXXIX. 

I  smiled  and  spake  not — "Whereforedoslthou  smile 
A  t  what  I  say  ?  Laon,  I  am  not  weak, 
And  though  my  cheek  might  become  pale  the  while, 
With  thee,  if  thou  desirest,  will  I  seek 
Through  their  array  of  banded  slaves  to  wreak 
Ruin  upon  the  tyrants.    I  had  thought 
It  was  more  liard  to  turn  my  unpractised  cheek 
To  scorn  and  shame,  and  this  beloved  spot 
And  thee,  O  dearest  friend,  to  leave  and  murmur  not; 

XL. 

"  Whence  came  I  what  I  am  ?  thou,  Laon,  knowest- 
How  a  young  child  sliould  thus  undaunted  be ; 
Methinks,  it  is  a  power  which  thou  bestowest, 
Through  which  I  seek,  by  most  resembling  thee, 
So  to  become  most  good,  and  great  and  free. 
Yet  far  beyond  this  Ocean's  utmost  roar 
In  lowers  and  huts  are  many  like  to  me. 
Who,  could  they  see  thine  eyes,  or  feel  such  lore 
As  I  have  learnt  from  them,  like  me  would  fear  no  more 

XLI. 

"  Think'st  thou  that  I  shall  speak  unskilfully,. 
And  none  will  heed  me  ?  I  remember  now. 
How  once,  a  slave  in  tortures  doom'd  to  die. 
Was  saved,  because  in  accents  sweet  and  low. 
He  sung  a  song  his  Judge  loved  long  ago, 
As  he  was  led  to  death. — All  shall  relent 
Who  hear  me — tears  as  mine  have  flow'd,  shall 

flow, 
Heart.s  beat  as  mine  now  beats,  with  such  intent 
As  renovates  the  world;  a  will  omnipotent! 
35  261 


14 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XUI. 

"  Yes,  I  will  tread  Pride's  golden  palaces, 
Through  Penury's  roofless  huts  and  squalid  cells 
Will  I  descend,  where'er  in  abjectness 
Woman  with  some  vile  slave  her  tyrant  dwells, 
There  with  the  music  of  thine  own  sweet  spells 
Will  disenchant  the  captives,  and  will  pour 
For  the  despairing,  from  the  crystal  wells 
Of  thy  deep  spirit,  reason's  miglity  lore, 
And  power  shall  then  abound,  and  hope  arise  once 
more. 

XLIII. 
"  Can  man  be  free  if  woman  be  a  slave  ? 
Chain  one  who  lives,  and  breathes  this  boundless  air 
To  the  corruption  of  a  closed  grave ! 
Can  they  whose  mates  are  beasts,  condemn'd  to  bear 
Scorn,  heavier  far  than  toil  or  anguish,  dare 
To  trample  their  oppressors  ?  in  their  home 
Among  their  babes,  thou  knowest  a  curse  would 

wear 
The  shape  of  woman — hoary  crime  would  come 
Behind,  and  fraud  rebuild  Rehgion's  tottering  dome. 

XLIV. 
"  I  am  a  child  : — I  would  not  yet  depart. 
WTien  I  go  forth  alone,  Ijearing  the  lamp 
Aloft  which  thou  hast  kindled  in  my  heart, 
Millions  of  slaves  from  many  a  dungeon  damp 
Shall  leap  in  joy,  as  the  benumbing  cramp 
Of  ages  leaves  their  limbs — no  ill  may  harm 
Thy  Cythna  ever — truth  its  radiant  stamp 
Has  fix'd,  as  an  invulnerable  charm 
Upon  her  children's  brow,  dark  falsehood  to  disarm. 

XLV. 

"  Wait  yet  awhile  for  the  appointed  day — 
Thou  wilt  depart,  and  I  with  tears  shall  stand 
Watching  thy  dim  sail  skirt  the  ocean  gray ; 
Amid  the  dwellers  of  this  lonely  land 
I  shall  remain  alone — and  thy  command 
Shall  then  dissolve  the  world's  unquiet  trance, 
And,  multitudinous  as  the  desert  sand 
Borne  on  the  storm,  its  millions  shall  advance. 
Thronging  round  thee,  the  light  of  their  deliverance. 

XLVT. 

"  Then,  like  the  forests  of  some  pathless  mountain. 
Which  from  remotest  glens  two  warring  winds 
Involve  in  fire,  which  not  the  loosen'd  fountain 
Of  broadest  floods  might  quench,  shall  all  the  kinds 
Of  evil,  catch  from  our  uniting  minds 
The  spark  which  must  consume  them ; — Cythna 

then 
Will  have  cast  off  the  impotence  that  binds 
Her  childhood  now,  and  through  the  paths  of  men 
■  Will  pass,  as  the  charm 'd  bird  that  haunts  the  serpent's 
den. 

XLVII. 
*  We  part! — O  Laon,  I  must  dare  nor  tremble 
To  meet  these  looks  no  more  I — Oh,  heavy  stroke, 
Sweet  brother  of  my  soul !  can  I  dissemble 
The  agony  of  this  thought?" — As  thus  she  spoke 
The  gather'd  sobs  her  quivering  accents  broke, 
And  in  my  anns  she  hid  her  beating  breast. 
I  remain'd  still  for  tears — sudden  she  woke 
As  one  awakes  from  sleep,  and  wildly  prest 
My  bosom,  her  whole  frame  impetuously  possest. 


XLVIII. 
"  We  part  to  meet  again — but  yon  blue  waste, 
Yon  desert  wide  and  deep  holds  no  recess. 
Within  whose  happy  silence,  thus  embraced 
We  might  survive  all  ills  in  one  caress : 
Nor  doth  the  grave — I  fear  'tis  passionless — 
Nor  yon  cold  vacant  Heaven : — we  meet  again 
Within  the  minds  of  men,  \\'hose  lips  shall  bless 
Our  memory,  and  whose  hopes  its  light  retain 
Wlien  these  dissever'd  bones  are    trodden   in  the 
plain." 

xux. 

I  could  not  speak,  though  she  had  ceased,  for  now 
The  fountains  of  her  feeling,  swift  and  deep, 
Seem'd  to  suspend  the  tumult  of  their  flow ; 
So  we  arose,  and  by  the  starlight  steep 
Went  homeward — neither  did  we  speak  nor  weep, 
But  pale,  were  calm  with  passion — thus  subdued 
Like  evening  shades  that  o'er  the  mountains  creep, 
We  moved  towards  our  home ;  where,  in  this  mood. 
Each  from  the  other  soiiffht  refuge  in  solitude. 


CANTO  IIL 


T. 


What  thoughts  had  sway  o'er  Cythna's  lonely 

slumber 
That  night,  I  know  not ;  but  my  own  did  seem 
As  if  they  might  ten  thousand  years  outnumber 
Of  waiving  life,  the  visions  of  a  dream. 
Which  hid  in  one  dim  gulf  the  troubled  stream 
Of  mind ;  a  boundless  chaos  wild  and  vast. 
Whose  limits  yet  were  never  memory's  theme  : 
And  I  lay  struggling  as  its  whirlwinds  past. 
Sometimes  for  rapture  sick,  sometimes  for  pain  aghast. 

ir. 

Two  hours,  whose  mighty  circle  did  embrace 
More  time  than  might  make  gray  the  infant  world 
Roll'd  thus,  a  weary  and  tumultuous  space  : 
When  the  third  came,  like  mist  on  breezes  cvu-l'd 
From  my  dim  sleep  a  shadow  was  unfurl'd : 
INIcthought,  upon  tlie  threshold  of  a  cave 
I  sate  with  Cythna ;  drooping  briony,  pearl'd 
With  dew  from  the  wild  streamlet's  shatter'd  wave, 
Hung,  where  we  sate  to  taste  the  joys  which  Nature 
gave. 

III. 
We  lived  a  day  as  we  were  wont  to  live. 
But  Nature  had  a  robe  of  glory  on, 
And  the  bright  air  o'er  every  shape  did  weave 
Intenser  hues,  so  that  the  herbless  stcme. 
The  leafless  bough  among  the  leaves  alone. 
Had  being  clearer  than  its  own  could  be. 
And  Cythna's  pure  and  radiant  self  was  shown 
In  this  strange  vision,  so  divine  to  me, 
That  if  I  loved  before,  now  love  was  agony. 
262 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


15 


IV. 

Mom  fled,  noon  came,  evening,  then  night  de- 
scended, 
And  we  prolong'd  calm  talk  beneath  the  sphere 
Of  the  cahu  moon — when  suddenly  was  blended 
With  our  repose  a  nameless  sense  of  fear; 
And  from  the  cave  beliind  I  seem'd  to  hear 
Sounds  gathering  upwards ! — accents  incomplete, 
And  stilled  shrielvs, — and  now,  more  near  and  near, 
A  tumult  and  a  rush  of  thronging  feet 
The  cavern's  secret  depths  beneath  the  earth  did  beat. 

V. 

The  scene  was  changed,  and  away,  away,  away! 
Through  the  air  and  over  the  sea  we  sped, 
And  Cylhna  in  my  sheltering  bosom  lay, 
And  the  winds  bore  me— tlu-ough  the  darkness  spread 
Around,  the  gaping  earth  then  vomited 
Legions  of  foul  and  ghastly  shapes,  which  hung 
Upon  my  flight ;  and  ever,  as  we  fled. 
They  pluck'd  at  Cythna — soon  to  me  then  clung 
A  sense  of  actual  things  those  monstrous  dreams  among. 

VI. 

And  I  lay  struggling  in  the  impotence 
Of  sleep,  while  outward  life  had  burst  its  boimd. 
Though,  still  deluded,  strove  the  tortured  sense 
To  its  dire  wanderings  to  adapt  the  sound 
Which  in  the  light  of  morn  was  pour'd  around 
OuJ  dwelling — breathless,  pale,  and  unaware 
I  rose,  and  all  the  cottage  crowded  found 
With  armed  men,  whose  glittering  swords  were  bare, 
And  whose  degraded  limbs  the  tyrant's  garb  did  wear. 

VII. 
And  ere  with  rapid  lips  and  gather'd  brow 
I  could  demand  the  cause — a  feeble  shriek — 
It  was  a  feeble  shriek,  faint,  far  and  low. 
Arrested  me — my  mien  grew  calm  and  meek. 
And  grasping  a  small  knife,  I  went  to  seek 
Tliat  voice  among  the  crowd — 'twas  Cytlina's  cry! 
Beneath  most  calm  resolve  did  agony  wreak 
Its  whirlwind  rage  : — so  I  past  quietly 
Till  I  beheld,  where  boimd,  that  dearest  child  did  lie. 

vin. 

I  started  to  behold  her,  for  delight 
And  exultation,  and  a  joyance  free, 
Solemn,  serene  and  lofty,  fill'd  the  light 
Of  the  calm  smile  with  which  she  look'd  on  me : 
So  that  I  fear'd  some  brainless  ecstasy, 
Wrought  from  that  bitter  woe,  had  wilder'd  her — 
"  Farewell !  farewell !"  she  said,  as  I  drew  nigh. 
"  At  first  my  peace  was  marr'd  by  this  strange  stir. 
Now  I  am  calm  as  truth — its  chosen  minister. 

IX. 

"  Look  not  so,  Laon — say  farewell  in  hope. 
These  bloody  men  are  but  the  slaves  who  bear 
Their  mistress  to  her  task — it  was  my  scope 
The  slavery  where  they  drag  me  now,  to  share. 
And  among  captives  willing  chains  to  wear 
Awhile — the  rest  thou  knowest— return,  dear  friend ! 
Let  our  first  triumph  trample  the  despair 
Wiich  would  ensnare  us  now,  for  in  the  end, 
In  victory  or  in  death  our  hopes  and   fears  must 
blend.' 


X. 

These  words  had  fallen  on  my  unheeding  ear, 
^Vllilst  I  had  watch'd  the  motions  of  the  crew 
With  seeming  careless  glance  ;  not  many  wero 
Around  her,  for  their  comrades  just  withdrew 
To  guard  some  other  victim — so  1  drew 
]My  knife,  and  with  one  impulse,  suddenly 
All  unaware  three  of  their  number  slew, 
And  grasp'd  a  fourth  by  the  throat,  and  with  loud 
cry 
My  coimtrymen  invoked  to  death  or  liberty ! 

XI. 

What  follow'd  then,  I  know  not — for  a  stroke 
On  my  raised  arm  and  naked  head,  came  down, 
Filling  my  eyes  with  blood — when  I  awoke, 
I  felt  that  they  had  bound  me  in  my  swoon, 
And  up  a  rock  which  overhangs  the  town. 
By  the  steep  path  were  bearing  me :  below. 
The  plain  was  fiU'd  with  slaughter, — overthrown 
The  vineyards  and  the  harvests,  and  the  glow 
Of  blazing  roofs  shone  far  o'er  the  white  Ocean's  flow. 

XII. 

Upon  that  rock  a  mighty  column  stood. 
Whose  capitol  seemed  sculptured  in  the  sky. 
Which  to  the  wanderers  o'er  the  solitude 
Of  distant  seas,  from  ages  long  gone  by. 
Had  made  a  landmark  ;  o'er  its  height  to  fly 
Scarcely  the  cloud,  the  vulture,  or  the  blast 
Has  power — and  when  the  shades  of  evening  lie 
On  Earth  and  Ocean,  its  carved  summits  cast 
The  simken  daylight  far  through  the  aerial  waste. 

XIII. 
Tliey  bore  me  to  a  cavern  in  the  hill 
Beneath  that  column,  and  imbound  me  there : 
And  one  did  strip  me  stark ;  and  one  did  fill 
A  vessel  from  the  putrid  pool ;  one  bare 
A  lighted  torch,  and  four  with  friendless  care 
Guided  my  steps  the  cavern-paths  along. 
Then  up  a  steep  and  dark  and  narrow  stair 
We  wound,  until  the  torches'  fiery  tongue 
Amid  the  gushing  day  beamless  and  pallid  himg. 

XIV. 
They  raised  me  to  the  platform  of  the  pile, 
That  column's  dizzy  height : — the  grate  of  brass 
Through  which  they  thrust  me,  open  stood  the  while. 
As  to  its  ponderous  and  suspended  mass. 
With  chains  which  eat  into  the  flesli,  alas ! 
With  brazen  links,  my  naked  limbs  they  bound  : 
The  grate,  as  they  departed  to  repass. 
With  horrid  clangor  fell,  and  the  far  sound 
Of  their  retiring  steps  in  the  dense  gloom  was  drown'd. 

XV. 

The  noon  was  calm  and  bright: — around  that  column 
The  overhanging  sky  and  circhng  sea 
Spread  forth  in  silentncss  profound  and  solemn 
The  darkness  of  brief  frenzy  cast  on  me. 
So  that  I  knew  not  my  own  misery: 
The  islands  and  the  mountains  in  the  day 
Like  clouds  reposed  afar ;  and  I  could  see 
The  town  among  the  woods  below  that  lay. 
And  the  dark  rocks  which  boimd  the  bright  and  | 
bay. 

263 


16 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XVI. 

It  was  so  calm,  that  scarce  the  feathery  weed 
Sown  by  some  eagle  on  the  topmost  stone 
Sway'd  in  the  air ; — so  bright,  that  noon  did  breed 
No  shadow  in  the  sky  beside  mine  own — 
Mine,  and  the  shadow  of  my  chain  alone. 
Below  the  smoke  of  roofs  involved  in  flame 
Rested  like  night,  all  else  was  clearly  shown 
In  that  broad  glare,  yet  sound  to  me  none  came, 
But  of  the  living  blood  that  ran  within  my  frame. 

XVII. 

The  peace  of  madness  fled,  and  ah,  too  soon! 
A  ship  was  lying  on  the  sunny  main. 
Its  sails  were  flagging  in  the  breathless  noon — 
Its  shadow  lay  beyond — that  sight  again 
Waked,  with  its  presence,  in  my  tranced  brain 
The  stings  of  a  known  sorrow,  keen  and  cold : 
I  knew  that  ship  bore  Cythna  o'er  the  plaui 
Of  waters,  to  her  blighting  slavery  sold. 

And  watch'd  it  with  such  thoughts  as  must  remain 
untold. 

XVIII. 
I  watch'd,  until  the  shades  of  evening  wrapt 
Earth  like  an  exhalalion — then  the  bark 
Moved,  for  that  calm  was  by  the  sunset  snapt. 
It  moved  a  speck  upon  the  Ocean  dark  : 
Soon  the  wan  stars  came  forth,  and  I  could  mark 
Its  path  no  more  !^I  sought  to  close  mine  eyes, 
But  like  the  balls,  their  lids  were  stiff  and  stark ; 
I  would  have  risen,  but  ere  that  I  could  rise. 

My  parched  skin  was  split  with  piercing  agonies. 


XIX. 
I  gnaw'd  my  brazen  chain,  and  sought  to  sever 
Its  adamantine  links,  that  I  might  die : 
O  Liberty !  forgive  the  base  endeavor. 
Forgive  me,  if  reserved  for  victory. 
The  Champion  of  thy  faith  e'er  sought  to  fly. — 
That  starry  night,  with  its  clear  silence,  sent 
Tameless  resolve  which  laugh'd  at  misery 
Into  my  soul — linked  remembrance  lent 
To  that  such  power,  to  me  such  a  severe  content. 

XX. 

To  breathe,  to  be,  to  hope,  or  to  despair 
And  die,  I  question'd  nol  ;  nor,  though  the  Sun 
Its  shafts  of  agony  kindling  through  the  air 
Moved  over  me,  nor  though  -in  evening  dun. 
Or  when  the  stars  iheir  visible  courses  run, 
Or  morning,  the  wide  universe  was  spread 
In  dreary  calmness  round  me,  did  I  shun 
Its  presence,  nor  seek  refuge  with  the  dead 
From  one  faint  hope  whose  flower  a  dropping  poison 

shed. 

XXI. 
Two  days  thus  past — ;I  neither  raved  nor  died — 
Thirst  raged  within  me,  like  a  scorpion's  nest 
Built  in  mine  entrails :  I  had  spurn'd  aside 
The  water-vessel,  while  despair  possest 
My  thoughts,  and  now  no   drop   remain'd !  the 

uprc-st 
Of  the  third  sun  brought  hunger — but  the  crust 
Which  had  been  left,  was  to  my  craving  breast 
Fuel,  not  food.    I  chew'd  the  bitter  dust. 
And  bit  my  bloodless  arm,  and  lick'd  the  brazen  rust. 


XXII. 

My  brain  began  to  fail  when  the  fourth  morn 
Burst  o'er  the  golden  isles — a  fearful  sleep. 
Which  through  the  caverns  dreary  and  forlorn 
Of  the  riven  soul,  sent  its  foul  dreams  to  sweep 
With  whirlwind  swiftness — a  fall  far  and  deep, — 
A  gulf,  a  void,  a  sense  of  senselessness — 
These  things  dwelt  in  me,  even  as  shadows  keep 
Their  watch  in  some  dim  charnel's  loneliness, 
A  shoreless  sea,  a  sky  sunless  and  planetless! 

XXIII. 

The  forms  which  peopled  this  terrific  trance 
I  well  remember — like  a  quire  of  devils, 
Around  me  they  involved  a  giddy  dance  ; 
Legions  seem'd  gathering  from  the  misty  levels 
Of  Ocean,  to  supply  those  ceaseless  revels, 
Foul,  ceaseless  shadows: — thought  could  not  divide 
The  actual  world  from  these  entangling  evils, 
Which  so  bemock'd  themselves,  that  I  descried 
All  shapes  like  mine  own  self,  hideously  multiplied 

XXIV. 

The  sense  of  day  and  night,  of  false  and  true, 
Was  dead  within  me.    Yet  two  visions  burst 
That  darkness — one,  as  since  that  hour  I  luiew, 
Was  not  a  phantom  of  the  realms  accurst. 
Where  then  my  spirit  dwelt — but  of  the  first 
I  know  not  yet,  was  it  a  dream  or  no. 
But  both,  though  not  distincter,  were  immersed 
In  hues  which,  when  through  memory's  waste  they 
flow. 
Made  their  divided  streams  more  bright  and  rapid  now 

XXV. 

Methought  that  gate  was  lifted,  and  the  seven 
Who  brought  me  thither,  four  stiff  corpses  bare, 
And  frorji  the  frieze  to  the  four  winds  of  Heaven 
Hung  them  on  high  by  the  entangled  hair : 
Swarthy  were  three — the  fourth  was  very  fair : 
As  they  retired,  the  golden  moon  upsprung. 
And  eagerly,  out  in  the  giddy  air, 
Leaning  that  I  might  eat,  I  stretch'd  and  clung 
Over  the  shapeless  depth  in  which  those  corpses  hung 

XXVI. 
A  woman's  shape,  now  lank  and  cold  and  blue 
The  dwelling  of  the  many-color'd  vvonn. 
Hung  there,  the  white  and  hollow  cheek  I  drew 
To  my  dry  lips — what  radiance  did  inform 
Those  horny  eyes  ?  whose  was  that  wither'd  form  ? 
Alas,  alas !  it  seem'd  that  Cythna's  ghost 
Laugh'd  in  those  looks,  and  that  the  flesh  was  warm 
Within  my  teeth! — a  whirlwind  keen  as  frost 
Then  in  its  sinking  gulfs  my  sickening  spirit  tost 

XXVII. 
Then  seem'd  it  that  a  tameless  hurricane 
Arose,  and  bore  me  in  its  dark  career 
Beyond  the  sun,  beyond  the  stars  that  wane 
On  the  verge  of  formless  space — it  languish 'd  there, 
And  dying,  left  a  silence  lone  and  drear. 
More  horrible  than  famine : — in  the  deep 
The  shape  of  an  old  man  did  then  appear. 
Stately  and  beautiful,  that  dreadful  sleep 
His  heavenly  smiles  dispersed,  and  I  could  wake  and 
weep. 

264 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


]7 


XXVIII. 
And  when  the  blinding  tears  had  fallen,  I  saw 
That  column,  and  those  corpses,  and  the  moon, 
And  felt  the  poisonous  tooth  of  hunger  gnaw 
My  viials,  I  rejoiced,  as  if  thfe  boon 
Of  senseless  death  would  be  accorded  soon ; — 
When  from  tliat  stony  gloom  a  voice  arose, 
Solcnm  and  sweet  as  when  low  winds  attune 
The  midnight  pines,  the  grate  did  then  unclose, 
\nd  on  that  reverend  form  the  moonlight  did  repose. 

XXIX. 

He  struck  my  chains,  and  gently  spake  and  smiled : 
As  they  were  loosen'd  by  that  Hermit  old. 
Mine  eyes  were  of  their  madness  half  beguiled, 
To  answer  those  kind  looks — he  did  infold 
His  giant  arms  arotmd  me,  to  uphold 
My  wretched  frame,  my  scorched  limbs  he  wound 
In  linen  moist  and  balmy,  and  as  cold 
As  dew  to  drooping  leaves  : — the  chain,  with  sound 
Like  earthquake,  through  the  chasm  of  that  steep 
stair  did  bound, 

XXX. 

As  lifting  me,  it  fell! — What  next  I  heard, 
Were  billows  leaping  on  the  harbor  bar. 
And  the  shrill  sea-wind,  whose  breath  idly  stirrd 
My  hair ; — I  look'd  abroad,  and  saw  a  star 
Shining  beside  a  sail,  and  distant  far 
That  mountain  and  its  column,  the  Imown  mark 
Of  those  who  in  the  wide  deep  wandering  are, 
So  that  I  fear'd  some  Spirit,  fell  and  dark. 
In  trance  had  lain  me  thus  within  a  fiendish  bark. 

XXXI. 

For  now  indeed,  over  the  salt  sea  billow 
I  sail'd :  yet  dared  not  look  upon  the  shape 
Of  him  who  ruled  the  helm,  although  the  pillow 
For  my  light  head  was  hollow'd  in  his  lap, 
And  my  bare  limbs  lus  mantle  did  enwrap, 
Fearing  it  was  a  fiend  :  at  last,  he  bent 
O'er  me  his  aged  face,  as  if  to  snap 
Those  dreadful  thoughts  the  gentle  grandsire  bent, 
And  to  my  inmost  soul  his  soothing  looks  he  sent. 

XXXII. 

A  soft  and  healing  potion  to  my  lips 
At  intervals  he  raised — now  look'd  on  high, 
To  mark  if  yet  the  starry  giant  dips 
Ilis  zone  in  the  dim  sea — now  cheeringly, 
Though  he  said  htlle,  did  he  speak  to  me. 
"  It  is  a  friend  beside  thee — take  good  cheer, 
Poor  victim,  thou  art  now  at  liberty  ! " 
I  joy'd  as  those  a  human  tone  to  hear. 
Who  in  cells  deep  and  lone  have  languish'd  many  a 
year. 

XXXIII. 
A  dim  and  feeble  joy,  whose  glimpes  oft 
Were  quench'd  in  a  relapse  of  wildering  dreams. 
Yet  still  melhought  we  sail'd,  until  aloft 
The  stars  of  night  grew  pallid,  and  the  beams 
Of  morn  descended  on  the  ocean-streams, 
And  still  that  aged  man,  so  grand  and  mild. 
Tended  me,  even  as  some  sick  mother  seems 
To  hang  in  hope  over  a  dying  child. 
Pill  in  the  azure  East  darkness  again  was  pUed. 
21 


XXXIV. 

And  then  the  night-wind  streaming  from  the  shore. 
Sent  odors  dying  sweet  across  the  sea. 
And  the  swift  boat  the  little  waves  which  bore, 
Were  cut  by  its  keen  keel,  though  slantingly ; 
Soon  I  could  hear  the  leaves  sigh,  and  could  see 
The  myrtle-blossoms  starring  the  dim  grove, 
As  past  the  pebbly  beach  the  boat  did  flee 
On  sidelong  wing,  into  a  silent  cove. 
Where  ebon  pines  a  shade  under  the  starlight  wove. 


CANTO  IV. 


I. 


The  old  man  took  the  oars,  and  soon  the  bark 
Smote  on  the  beach  beside  a  tower  of  stone ; 
It  was  a  crumbling  heap,  whose  portal  dark 
With  blooming  ivy  trails  was  overgrown ; 
Upon  whose  floor  the  spangling  sands  were  strown, 
And  rarest  sea-shells,  which  the  eternal  flood. 
Slave  to  the  mother  of  the  months,  liad  thro^vn 
Within  the  walls  of  that  gray  tower,  which  stood 
A  changeling  of  man's  art,  nursed  amid  Nature's  brood. 

n. 

When  the  old  man  his  boat  had  anchored, 
He  wound  me  in  his  arms  with  tender  care, 
And  very  few,  but  kindly  words  he  said. 
And  bore  me  through  the  tower  adown  a  stair, 
Whose  smooth  descent  some  ceaseless  step  to  wear 
For  many  a  year  had  fall'n — We  came  at  last 
To  a  small  chamber,  which  with  mosses  rare 
Was  tapestried,  where  me  his  soft  hands  placed 
Upon  a  couch  of  grass  and  oak-leaves  interlaced. 

III. 

The  moon  was  darting  through  the  lattices 
Its  yellow  light,  warm  as  the  beams  of  day — 
So  warm,  that  to  admit  the  dewy  breeze. 
The  old  man  open'd  them ;  the  moonlight  lay 
Upon  a  lake  whose  waters  wore  their  play 
Even  to  the  threshold  of  that  lonely  home  : 
Within  was  seen  in  the  dim  wavering  ray, 
The  antique  sculptured  roof,  and  many  a  tome. 
Whose  lore  had  made  that  sage  all  that  he  had  become. 


rv. 

The  rock-built  barrier  of  the  sea  was  past, — 
And  I  was  on  the  margin  of  a  lake, 
A  lonely  lake,  amid  the  forests  vast 
And  snow}'  mountains : — did  my  spirit  wake 
From  sleep,  as  many-color'd  as  the  snake 
That  girds  eternity  ?  in  life  and  truth. 
Might  not  my  heart  its  cravings  ever  slake  ? 
Was  Cythna  then  a  dream,  and  all  rny  youth, 
And  all  its  hopes  and  fears,  and  all  its  joy  and  ruth  ? 
265 


18 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thus  madness  came  again, — a  milder  madness, 
Which  darken'd  naught  but  time's  unquiet  flow 
With  supernatural  shades  of  clinging  sadness ; 
That  gentle  Hermit,  in  my  helpless  woe, 
By  my  sick  couch  was  busy  to  and  fro. 
Like  a  strong  spirit  ministrant  of  good  : 
AVhen  I  was  heal'd,  he  led  me  forth  to  show 
The  wonders  of  his  sylvan  solitude, 
And  we  together  sate  by  that  isle-fretted  flood. 

VI. 

He  knew  his  soothing  words  to  weave  with  skill 
From  all  my  madness  told ;  like  mine  own  heart, 
Of  Cythna  would  he  question  me,  until 
That  thrilling  name  had  ceased  to  make  me  start. 
From  his  familiar  lips — it  was  not  art. 
Of  wisdom  and  of  justice  when  he  spoke — 
When  'mid  soft  looks  of  pity,  there  would  dart 
A  glance  as  keen  as  is  the  lightning's  stroke 
When  it  doth  rive  the  luiols  of  some  ancestral  oak. 

VII. 

Thus  slowly  from  my  brain  the  darkness  roll'd, 
My  thoughts  their  due  array  did  reassume 
Through  the  enchantments  of  that  Hermit  old  ; 
Then  I  bethought  me  of  the  glorious  doom 
Of  those  who  sternly  struggle  to  relume 
The  lamp  of  Hope  o'er  man's  bewilder'd  lot, 
And,  silting  by  the  waters,  in  the  gloom 
Of  eve,  to  that  friend's  heart  I  told  my.  thought — 
That  heart  which  had  grown  old,  but  had  corrupted 
not. 

VIII. 
That  hoary  man  had  spent  his  livelong  age 
In  converse  with  the  dead,  who  leave  the  stamp 
Of  over-burning  thoughts  on  many  a  page, 
^\'hen  they  are  gone  into  the  senseless  damp 
Of  graves ; — his  spirit  thus  became  a  lamp 
Of  splendor,  like  to  those  on  which  it  fed 
Through  peopled  haunts,  the  City  and  the  Camp, 
Deep  thirst  for  knowledge  had  his  footsteps  led. 
And  all  the  ways  of  men  among  mankind  he  read. 


IX. 

But  custom  maketh  blind  and  obdurate 
The  loftiest  hearts : — he  had  beheld  the  woe 
In  which  mankind  was  bound,  but  deem'd  that  fate 
Which  made  them  abject,  would  preserve  them  so  ; 
And  in  such  faith,  some  stedfast  joy  to  know. 
He  sought  this  cell :  but  when  fame  went  abroad, 
That  one  in  Argolis  did  imdergo 
Torture  for  liberty,  and  that  the  crowd 
High  truths  from  gifted  lips  had  heard  and  under- 
stood i 

X. 

And  that  the  multitude  was  gathering  wide  ; 
His  spirit  leap'd  within  his  aged  frame, 
In  lonely  peace  lie  could  no  more  abide. 
But  to  the  land  on  which  the  victor's  flame 
Had  fed,  my  native  land,  the  Hermit  came  : 
Each  heart  was  there  a  shield,  and  every  tongue 
Was  as  a  sword  of  truth — young  Laon's  name 
Rallied  their  secret  hopes,  though  tyrants  sung 
Hymns  of  triumphant  joy  our  scatler'u  tribes  among. 


XI. 

He  came  to  the  lone  column  on  the  rock. 
And  with  his  sweet  and  mighty  eloquence 
The  hearts  of  those  vvho  watch'd  it  did  unlock. 
And  made  them  melt  in  tears  of  penitence. 
They  gave  him  entrance  free  to  bear  me  thence. 
Since  this,  the  old  man  said,  seven  years  are  spent, 
While  slowly  truth  on  thy  benighted  sense 
Has  crept;  the  hope  which  wilder'd  it  has  lent, 
Meanwhile,  to  me  the  power  of  a  sublime  intent 

XII. 
"  Yes,  from  the  records  of  my  youthful  state. 
And  from  the  lore  of  bards  and  sages  old, 
From  whatsoe'er  my  waJien'd  ihouglits  create 
Out  of  the  hopes  of  thine  aspirings  bold. 
Have  I  collected  language  to  unfold 
Truth  to  my  countrymen  ;  from  shore  to  shore 
Doctrines  of  human  power  my  words  have  told. 
They  have  been  heard,  and  men  aspire  to  more 
Than  they  have  ever  gain'd  or  ever  lost  of  yore. 

XIII. 

"  In  secret  chambers  parents  read,  and  weep, 
My  writings  to  their  babes,  no  longer  blind ; 
And  yeiing  men  gather  when  their  tyrants  sleep. 
And  vows  of  faith  each  to  the  other  bind; 
And  marriageable  maidens,  who  have  pined 
With  love,  till  life  seem'd  melting  through  their  look, 
A  warmer  zeal,  a  nobler  hope  now  fmd ; 
And  every  bosom  thus  is  rapt  and  shook, 
Like  autumn's  myriad  leaves  in  one  svvoln  mountain 
brook. 

XIV. 

"  The  tyrants  of  the  Golden  City  tremble 
At  voices  which  are  heard  about  the  streets, 
The  ministers  of  fraud  can  scarce  dissemble 
The  lies  of  their  own  heart;  but  when  one  meets 
Another  at  the  shrine,  he  inly  weets. 
Though  he  says  nothing,  that  the  truth  is  known; 
Murderers  are  pale  upon  the  judgment-seats. 
And  gold  grows  vile  even  to  the  wealthy  crone, 
And  laughter  fills  the  Fane,  and  curses  shake  the 
Throne. 

XV. 

"  Kind  thoughts,  and  mighty  hopes,  and  gentle  deeds 
Abound,  for  fearless  love,  and  the  pure  law 
Of  mild  equality  and  peace,  succeeds 
To  faiths  which  long  have  held  the  world  in  awe, 
Bloody  and  false,  and  cold  : — as  whirlpools  draw 
All  wrecks  of  Ocean  to  their  chasm,  the  sway 
Of  thy  strong  genius,  Laon,  which  foresaw 
This  hope,  compels  all  spirits  to  obey, 
Which  round  thy  secret  strength  now  throng  in  wide 
array. 

XVI. 

"  Per  I  have  been  thy  passive  instrument" — 
(As  thus  the  old  man  spake,  his  countenance 
Gleam'd  on  me  like  a  spirit's) — "  thou  hast  lent 
To  me,  to  all,  the  power  to  advance 
Towards  this  unforeseen  deliverance 
From  our  ancestral  chains — aye,  thou  didst  rear 
That  lamp  of  hope  on  high,  which  time  nor  chance, 
Kor  change  may  not  extinguish,  and  my  share 
Of  good,  was  o'er  the  world  its  gather'd  beams  to  bear. 
266 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


19 


XVII. 
"  But  I,  alas !  am  both  unknown  and  old, 
And  though  the  woof  of  wisdom  I  know  well 
Ta  dye  in  hues  of  language,  I  am  cold 
In  seeming,  and  the  hopes  which  inly  dwell, 
My  manners  note  that  1  did  long  repel ; 
But  Laon's  name  to  the  tumultuous  throng 
Were  like  the  star  whose  beams  the  waves  compel 
And  tempests,  and  his  soul-subduing  tongue 
Were  as  a  lance  to  quell  the  mailed  crest  of  wrong. 

%  XVIII. 

"  Perchance  blood  need  not  flow,  if  thou  at  length 
Wouldst  rise,  perchance  the  very  slaves  would  spare 
Their  brethren  and  themselves;  great  is  the  strength 
Of  words — for  lately  did  a  maiden  fair, 
Who  from  her  childhood  has  been  taught  to  bear 
The  tyrant's  heaviest  yoke,  arise,  and  make 
Her  Sex  the  law  of  truth  and  freedom  liear, 
And  with  these  quiet  words — 'for  thine  own  sake 
I  prithee  spare  me ;' — did  with  ruth  so  take 

XIX. 

"  All  hearts,  that  even  the  torturer  who  had  bound 
Her  meek  calm  frame,  ere  it  was  yet  impaled, 
Loosen'd  her  w-eeping  then ;  nor  could  be  found 
One  human  hand  to  harm  her — unassail'd 
Therefore  she  walks  through  the  great  City,  veil'd 
In  virtue's  adamantine  eloquence, 
'Gainst  scorn,  and  death  and  pain  thus  trebly  mail'd. 
And  blending  in  the  smiles  of  that  defence, 
The  Serpent  and  the  Dove,  Wisdom  and  Innocence. 

XX. 

"  The  wild-eyed  vi-omen  throng  around  her  path  : 
From  their  luxurious  dungeons,  from  the  dust 
Of  meaner  thralls,  from  the  oppressor's  wrath, 
Or  the  caresses  of  his  sated  lust, 
They  congregate  : — in  her  they  put  their  trust ; 
The  tyrants  send  their  armed  slaves  to  quell 
Her  power; — they,  even  like  a  thunder-gust 
Caught  by  some  forest,  bend  beneath  the  spell 
Of  that  young  maiden's  speech,  and  to  their  cliiefs 
rebel. 

XXI. 

"  Thus  she  doth  equal  laws  and  justice  teach 
To  woman,  outraged  and  polluted  long ; 
Gathering  the  sweetest  fruit  in  human  reach 
For  those  fair  hands  now  free,  while  armed  wrong 
Trembles  before  her  look,  though  it  be  strong; 
Thousands  thus  dwell  beside  her,  virgins  bright, 
And  matrons  with  their  babes,  a  stalely  throng ! 
Lovers  renew  the  vows  which  th(!y  did  plight 
In  early  faith,  and  heart.s  long  parted  now  miile, 

XXII. 
"  And  homeless  orphans  find  a  home  near  her, 
And  those  poor  victims  of  the  proud,  no  less. 
Fair  wrecks,  on  whom  the  smiling  world  with  stir, 
Thrusts  the  redemption  of  its  wickedness : — 
In  squalid  huts,  and  in  its  palaces 
Sits  Lust  alone,  while  o'er  the  land  is  borne 
Her  voice,  whose  awful  sweetness  doth  repress 
All  evil,  and  her  foes  relenting  turn. 
And  cast  the  vote  of  love  in  hope's  abandon'd  urn. 


XXIII. 

"  So  in  the  populous  City,  a  young  maiden 
Has  baffled  Havoc  of  t!ie  ]irey  wliich  he 
Marks  as  his  own,  whene'er  willi  chains  o'erladen 
Men  make  them  arms  to  hurl  down  tyranny, 
P'alse  arbiter  between  the  bound  and  free; 
And  o'er  the  land,  in  hamlets  and  in  towns 
The  multitudes  collect  tumultuonsly. 
And  throng  in  arms;  but  tyraiuiy  diso«Tis 
Their  claim,  and  gathers  strength  around  its  trem- 
bling thrones. 

XXIV. 

"  Blood  soon,  although  unwillingly,  to  shed 
The  free  cannot  forbear — the  Queen  of  Slaves, 
The  hoodwink'd  Angel  of  the  blind  and  dead, 
Custom,  with  iron  mace  points  to  the  graves 
When  her  own  standard  desolately  waves 
Over  the  dust  of  Prophets  and  of  Kings. 
Many  yet  stand  in  her  array — '  she  paves 
Her  path  with  human  hearts,'  and  o'er  it  flings 
The  wildering  gloom  of  her  immeasurable  wings. 

XXV. 

"  There  is  a  plain  beneath  the  City's  wall, 
Bounded  by  misty  mountains,  wide  and  vast. 
Millions  there  lift  at  Freedom's  thrilling  call 
Ten  thousand  standards  wide,  they  load  the  blast 
Which  bears  one  sound  of  many  voices  past, 
And  startles  on  his  throne  their  sceptred  foe  : 
He  sits  amid  his  idle  pomp  aghast, 
And  that  his  power  hath  past  away,  doth  know — 
Why  pause  the  victor  swords  to  seal  his  overthrow? 

XXVI. 

"The  tyrant's  guards  resistance  yet  maintain  : 
Fearless,  and  fierce,  and  hard  as  beasts  of  blood ; 
They  stand  a  speck  amid  the  peopled  plain ; 
Carnage  and  ruin  have  been  made  their  food 
From  infancy — ill  has  become  their  good. 
And  for  its  hateful  sake  their  will  has  wove 
The  chains  which  eat  their  hearts — the  multitude 
Surrounding  them,  with  words  of  human  love. 
Seek  from  their  own  decay  their  stubborn  minds  tn 
move. 

XXVII. 

"  Over  the  land  is  felt  a  sudden  pause, 
As  night  and  day  those  ruthless  bands  around 
The  watch  of  love  is  kept : — a  trance  v\hich  awea 
The  ihoughtsof  men  with  hope — as  when  thesound 
Of  whirlwind,  whose  fierce  blasts  the  waves  and 

clouds  confound, 
Dies  suddenly,  the  mariner  in  fear 
Feels  silence  sink  upon  his  heart — thus  bound. 
The  conquerors  pause,  and  oh!  may  freemen  ne'er 
Clasp  the  relentless  knees  of  Dread,  the  murderer! 

XXVIIL 

"  If  blood  be  shed,  'tis  but  a  change  and  choice 
Of  bonds, — from  slavery  to  cowardice 
A  wretched  fall ! — uplift  thy  charmed  voice, 
Pour  on  those  evil  men  die  love  that  lies 
Hovering  within  those  spirit-soothing  eyes — 
Arise,  my  friend,  farewell ! " — As  thus  he  spake, 
From  the  green  earih  lightly  I  did  arise. 
As  one  out  of  dim  dreams  that  doth  awake. 
And  look'd  upon  the  depth  of  that  reposing  lake. 
267 


20 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXIX. 

I  saw  my  countenance  reflected  there ; — 
And  then  my  youth  fell  on  me  like  a  wind 
Descending  on  still  waters — my  thin  hair 
Was  prematurely  gray,  my  face  was  hned 
With  channels,  such  as  suffering  leaves  behind, 
Not  age ;  my  brow  was  pale,  but  in  my  cheek 
And  lips  a  flush  of  gnawing  fire  did  find 
Their  food  and  dwelling;  though  mine  eyes  might 
speak 
A  subtle  muid  and  strong  within  a  frame  thus  weak. 

XXX. 

And  though  their  lustre  now  was  spent  and  faded, 
Yet  in  my  hollow  looks  and  wither'd  mien 
The  likeness  of  a  shape  for  which  was  braided 
The  brightest  woof  of  genius,  still  was  seen — 
One  who,  methought,  had  gone  from  the  world's 

scene, 
And  left  it  vacant — 'twas  her  lover's  face — 
It  might  resemble  her — it  once  had  been 
The  mirror  of  her  thoughts,  and  still  the  grace 
WTiich  her  mind's  shadow  cast,  left  there  a  lingering 

trace. 

XXXI. 

What  then  was  I  ?  She  slumber'd  with  the  dead. 
Glory  and  joy  and  peace,  had  come  and  gone. 
Doth  the  cloud  perish,  when  the  beams  are  fled 
Which  steep'd  its  skirts  in  gold !  or  dark  and  lone, 
Doth  it  not  through  the  paths  of  night  unknown. 
On  outspread  wings  of  il.s  own  wind  upborne, 
Pour  rain  upon  the  earth?  the  stars  are  shown, 
Wlien  the  cold  moon  sharpens  her  silver  horn 
Under  the  sea,  and  make  the  wide  night  not  forlorn. 

XXXII. 

Strengthen'd  in  heart,  yet  sad,  that  aged  man 
I  left,  with  interchange  of  looks  and  tears, 
And  lingering  speech,  and  to  the  Camp  began 
My  way.  O'er  many  a  mountain  chain  which  rears 
Its  hundred  crests  aloft,  my  spirit  bears 
My  frame  ;  o'er  many  a  dale  and  many  a  moor, 
And  gaily  now  me  seems  serene  earth  wears 
The  bloomy  spring's  star-bright  investiture, 
A  vision  which  aught  sad  from  sadness  might  allure. 

XXXIII. 
My  powers  revived  within  me,  and  I  went 
As  one  whom  winds  waft  o'er  the  bending  grass, 
Through  many  a  vale  of  that  broad  continent. 
At  night  when  I  reposed,  fair  dreams  did  pass 
Before  my  pillow ; — my  own  Cythna  was 
Not  like  a  child  of  death,  among  them  ever ; 
When  I  arose  from  rest,  a  woful  mass 
That  gentlest  sleep  seem'd  from  my  life  to  sever, 
.  As  if  the  light  of  youth  were  not  withdrawn  for  ever. 

XXXIV. 

Aye  as  I  went,  that  maiden  who  had  rear'd 
The  torch  of  Truth  afar,  of  whose  high  deeds 
The  Hermit  in  his  pilgrimage  had  heard. 
Haunted  my  thoughts. — Ah,  Hope  its  sickness  feeds 
With  whatsoe'er  it  finds,  or  flowers  or  weeds  ! 
Could  she  be  Cythna  ? — Was  that  corpse  a  shade 
Such  as  self-torturing  thought  from  madness  breeds  ? 
Why  was  this  hope  not  torture  ?  yet  it  made 
A  light  arourd  my  steps  which  would  not  ever  fade. 


CANTO  V. 


I.  • 

Over  the  utmost  hill  at  length  I  sped, 
A  snowy  steep : — the  moon  was  hanging  low 
Over  the  Asian  moimtains,  and  outspread 
The  plain,  the  City,  and  the  Camp  below, 
Skirted  the  midnight  Ocean's  glimmering  flow 
The  City's  moon-lit  spires  and  myriad  lamps, 
Like  stars  in  a  sublunar  sky  did  glow, 
And  fires  blazed  far  amid  the  scatter'd  camps. 
Like  springs  of  flame,  which  burst  where'er  swift 
Earthquake  stamps, 

II. 

All  slept  but  those  in  watchful  arms  who  stood, 
And  those  who  sftte  tending  the  beacon's  light, 
And  the  few  sounds  from  that  vast  multitude 
Made  silence  more  profound — Oh,  what  a  might 
Of  human  thought  was  cradled  in  that  night ! 
IIow  many  hearts  impenetrably  veil'd 
Beat  underneath  its  shade,  what  secret  fight 
Evil  and  good,  in  vvoven  passions  mail'd. 
Waged  throush  that  silent  throng ;  a  war  that  never 
failed  ! 

III. 

And  now  the  Power  of  Good  held  victory 
So,  through  the  labyrinth  of  many  a  tent. 
Among  the  silent  millions  who  did  lie 
In  innocent  sleep,  exultingly  I  went  ; 
The  moon  had  left  Heaven  desert  now,  but  lent 
From  eastern  mom  the  first  faint  lustre  show'd 
An  armed  youth — over  his  spear  he  bent 
His  downward  face — "  A  friend  '."  I  cried  aloud, 
And  quickly  common  hopes  made  freemen  understood 

IV. 

I  sate  beside  him  while  the  morning  beam 
Crept  slowly  over  Heaven,  and  talk'd  with  him 
Of  those  immortal  hopes,  a  glorious  theme! 
Which  led  us  forth,  until  the  stars  grew  dim : 
And  all  the  while,  methought,  his  voice  did  swim, 
As  if  it  drowned  in  remembrance  were 
Of  thoughts  which  make  the  moist  eyes  overbrim 
At  last,  when  daylight  'gan  to  fill  the  air, 
He  look'd  on  me,  and  cried  in  wonder, "  Thou  art  here ! " 

V. 

Then,  suddenly,  I  knew  it  was  the  youth 
In  whom  its  earliest  hopes  my  spirit  found  ; 
But  envious  tongues  had  stain'd  his  spotless  truth, 
And  thoughtless  pride  his  love  in  silence  bound. 
And  shame  and  sorrow  mine  in  toils  had  wound. 
Whilst  he  was  innocent,  and  I  deluded  ; 
The  truth  now  came  upon  me,  on  the  ground 
Tears  of  repenting  joy,  which  fast  intruded. 
Fell  fast,  and  o'er  its  peace  our  minglingspiritsb'ooded 
268 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


21 


VI. 
Thus,  Avhile  willi  raind  lips  and  earnest  eyes 
We  talk'd,  a  sound  of  sweeping  conllict  spread, 
As  from  the  earili  did  suddenly  arise ; 
From  every  tent,  roused  by  that  elamor  dread. 
Out  bands  oulsprung  and  seized  their  arms — we 

sped 
Towards  the  sound  :  our  tribes  were  gathering  far. 
Those  sanguine  slaves  amid  ten  thousand  dead 
Stabb'd  in  their  sleep,  trampled  in  treacherous  war, 
The  gentle  hearts  whose  power  their  lives  had  sought 

to  spare. 

VII. 
Like  rabid  snakes,  that  sting  some  gentle  cliild 
Who  brings  them  food,  when  winter  false  and  fair 
Allures  them  forth  with  its  cold  smiles,  so  wild 
They  rage  among  the  camp : — they  overbear 
The  patriot  hosts — confusion,  then  despair 
Descends  like  night — when  "  Laon !  "  one  did  cry  : 
Like  a  bright  ghost  from  Heaven  that  shout  did 

scare 
The  slaves,  and  widening  through  the  vaulted  sky, 
Scem'd  sent  from  Earth  to  Heaven  in  sign  of  victory. 

vin. 

In  sudden  panic  those  false  murderers  fled, 
Like  insect  tribes  before  the  northern  gale : 
But  swifter  still,  our  hosts  encompassed 
Their  shatter'd  ranks,  and  in  a  craggy  vale, 
Whereeven  their  fierce  despair  might  naught  avail, 
Hemm'd   them  around ! — and  then  revenge  and 

fear 
Made  the  high  virtue  of  the  patriots  fail : 
One  pointed  at  his  foe  the  mortal  spear — 
I  rush'd  before  its  jxiint,  and  cried,  "Forbear,  forbear!" 

IX. 

The  spear  transfix'd  my  arm  that  was  uplifted 

In  swift  expostulation,  and  the  blood 

Gush'd  round  its  point :  I  smiled,  and — "  Oh  !  thou 

gifted 
With  eloquence  which  shall  not  be  withstood. 
Flow  thus  I" — I  cried  in  joy,  "  thou  vital  flood. 
Until  my  heart  be  diy,  ere  thus  the  cause 
For  which  thou  wert  aught  worthy  be  subdued — 
Ah,  ye  are  pale, — ye  weep, — your  passions  pause, — 
Tis  well !  ye  feel  the  truth  of  love's  benignant  laws. 

X. 

"  Soldiers,  our  brethren  and  our  friends  are  slain : 
Ye  raurder'd  them,  I  think,  as  they  did  sleep ! 
Alas,  what  have  ye  done  ?  the  slightest  pain 
Which  ye  might  suffer,  there  were  eyes  to  weep ; 
But  ye  have  quench'd  them — there  were  smiles  to 

steep 
Your  hearts  in  balm,  but  they  are  lost  in  woe  ; 
And  those  whom  love  did  set  his  watch  to  keep 
Around  your  tents  truth's  freedom  to  bestow, 
Ve  stabb'd  as  they  did  sleep— but  diey  forgive  ye 

now. 

XI. 

"  O  wherefore  should  ill  ever  flow  from  ill. 
And  pain  still  keener  pain  for  ever  breed  ? 
We  all  are  brethren — even  the  slaves  who  Idll 
For  hire,  are  men !  and  to  avenge  misdeed 
On  the  mi.sdoer,  doth  but  Misery  feed 
With  her  own  broken  heart !  O  Earth,  O  Heaven ! 
And  thou,  dread  Nature,  which  to  every  deed 
And  all  that  lives,  or  is,  to  be  hath  given, 
Even  as  to  thee  have  these  done  ill,  and  are  forgiven. 


XII. 

"  Join  then  your  hands  and  hearts,  and  let  the  past 

Be  as  a  grave  which  gives  not  up  its  dead 

To  evil  thoughts." — A  film  then  overcast 

My  sense  witli  dimness,  for  the  wound,  which 

bled 
Freshly,  swift  shadows  o'er  mine  eyes  had  shed. 
When  I  awoke,  I  lay  'mid  friends  and  foes, 
And  earnest  countenances  on  me  shed 
The  light  of  questioning  looks,  whilst  one  did  close 
My  wound  with  balmiest  herbs,  and  soothed  me  to 
repose. 

XIII. 
And  one  whose  spear  had  pierced  me,  lean'd  be- 
side 
With  quivering  lips  and  humid  eyes  ; — and  all 
Seem'd  like  some  brothers  on  a  journey  wide 
Gone  forth,  whom  now  strange  meeting  did  befall 
In  a  strange  land,  round  one  whom  they  might 

call 
Their  friend,  their  chief,  their  father,  for  assay 
Of  peril,  which  had  saved  them  from  the  thrall 
Of  death,  now  suffering.     Thus  the  vast  array 
Of  those  fraternal  bands  were  reconciled  that  day. 

XIV. 

Lifting  the  thunder  of  their  acclamation, 
Towards  the  City  then  the  multitude. 
And  I  arnong  them,  went  in  joy — a  nation 
Made  free  by  love,— a  mighty  brotherhood 
Link'd  by  a  jealous  interchange  of  good  ; 
A  glorious  pageant,  more  magnificent 
Than  kingly  slaves  array 'd  in  gold  and  blood.; 
When  they  return  from  carnage,  and  are  sent 
In  triumph  bright  beneath  the  populous  battlement 

XV. 
Afar,  the  City  walls  were  throng'd  on  high, 
And  myriads  on  each  giddy  turret  clung. 
And  to  each  spire  iar  lessening  in  the  sky, 
Bright  pemions  on  the  idle  winds  were  hung ; 
As  we  approach'ii  a  shout  of  joyance  sprung 
At  once  from  all  the  crowtl,  as  if  the  vast 
And  peopled  Earth  its  boundless  skies  among 
The  sudden  clamor  of  delight  had  cast, 
When  from  before  its  face  some  general  wreck  had 
past. 

XVI. 
Our  armies  through  the  City's  hundred  gates 
Were  pour'd,  like  brooks  which  to  the  rocky  lair 
Of  some  deep  lake,  whose  silence  them  awaits, 
Throng  from  the  mountains  when  the  storms  are 

there ; 
And  as  we  past  through  the  calm  sunny  air, 
A  thousand  flower-inwoven  crowns  were  shed, 
The  token  flowers  of  truth  and  freedom  fair, 
And  fairest  hands  bound  them  on  many  a  head, 
Tliose  angels  of  love's  heaven,  that  over  all  was 
spread. 

XVIL 
I  trod  as  one  tranced  in  some  rapturous  vision : 
Those  bloody  bands  so  lately  reconciled. 
Were,  ever  as  they  went,  by  the  contrition 
Of  anger  tum'd  to  love  from  ill  beguiled. 
And  every  one  on  them  more  gently  smiled, 
Because  they  had  done  evil : — the  sweet  awe 
Of  such  mild  looks  made  their  own  hearts  grow 

mild, 
And  did  with  soft  attraction  ever  draw 
Their  spirits  to  the  love  of  freedom's  equal  law. 
36  269 


22 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XVIII. 

And  they,  and  all,  in  one  loud  symphony 
My  name  which  Liberty,  commingling,  lifted 
"  The  friend  and  the  preserver  of  the  free  ! 
The  parent  of  ihis  joy  !"  and  fair  eyes  gifted 
With  feelings,  caught  from  one  who  had  uplifted 
The  light  of  a  great  spirit,  round  me  shone ; 
And  all  the  shapes  of  this  grand  scenery  shifted 
Like  restless  clouds  before  the  stedfast  sun, — 
Where  was  that  Maid  ?    I  ask'd,  but  it  was  known 
of  none. 

XIX. 

Laone  was  the  name  her  love  had  chosen, 
For  she  was  nameless,  and  her  birth  none  knew  : 
Where  was  Laone  now  ? — the  words  were  frozen 
Within  my  lips  with  fear  ;  but  to  subdue 
Such  dreadful  hope,  to  my  great  task  was  due, 
And  when  at  length  one  brought  reply,  that  she 
To-morrow  would  appear,  I  then  withdrew 
To  judge  what  need  for  that  great  throng  might 
be, 
For  now  the  stars  came  thick  over  the  twilight  sea 

XX. 

Yet  need  was  none  for  rest  or  food  to  care, 
Even  though  that  multitude  was  passing  great, 
Since  each  one  for  the  other  did  prepare 
All  kindly  succor — Therefore  to  the  gate 
Of  the  Imperial  House,  now  desolate, 
I  past,  and  Ihere  was  found  aghast,  alone, 
The  fallen  Tyrant ! — silently  he  sate 
Upon  the  footstool  of  lus  golden  throne, 
Which,  starr'd  with  sunny  gems,  in  its  own  lustre  shone. 

XXI. 

Alone,  but  for  one  child,  who  led  before  him 
A  graceful  dance :  the  only  living  thing 
Of  all  the  crowd,  which  thither  to  adore  him 
Flock'd  yesterday,  who  solace  sought  to  bring 
In  his  abandonment! — she  knew  the  King 
Had  praised  her  dance  of  yore,  and  now  she  wove 
Its  circles,  aye  weeping  and  murmuring 
'Mid  her  sad  task  of  unregarded  love, 
That  to  no  smiles  it  might  his  speechless  sadness  move. 

XXIL 
She  fled  to  him,  and  wildly  clasp'd  his  feet 
When  human  steps  were  heard  : — he  moved  nor 

spoke. 
Nor  changed  his  hue,  nor  raised  his  looks  to  meet 
The  gaze  of  strangers — our  loud  entrance  woke 
The  echoes  of  the  hall,  which  circling  broke 
The  calm  of  its  recesses, — like  a  tomb 
Its  sculptured  walls  vacantly  lo  the  stroke 
Of  footfalls  answered,  and  the  twilight's  gloom. 
Lay  like  a  charnel's  mist  within  the  radiant  dome. 

XXIII. 

The  little  child  stood  up  when  we  came  nigh ; 
Her  lips  and  cheeks  seem'd  very  pale  and  wan, 
But  on  her  forehead,  and  within  her  eye 
Lay  beauty,  which  makes  hearts  that  feed  thereon 
Sick  with  excess  of  sweetness ;  on  the  throne 
She  lean'd  ;— the  King  with  gather'd  brow  and  lips 
Wreathed  by  long  scorn,  did  inly  sneer  and  frown 
With  hue  like  tliat  when  some  great  painter  dips 
His  pencil  in  the  gloom  of  earthquake  and  eclipse. 


XXIV. 

She  stood  beside  him  like  a  rainbow  braided 
Within  some  storm,  when  scarce  its  shadow  vast 
From  the  blue  paths  of  the  swift  sun  have  faded 
A  sweet  and  solemn  smile,  like  Cythna's,  cast 
One  moment's  light,  which  made  my  heart  beat 

fast, 
O'er  that  child's  parted  lips — a  gleam  of  bliss, 
A  shade  of  vanish'd  days, — as  the  tears  past  ■ 
■\Vliich  wrapt  it,  even  as  with  a  father's  kiss 
I  press'd  those  softest  eyes  in  trembhng  tenderness. 

XXV. 
The  sceptred  wretch  then  from  that  solitude 
I  drew,  and  of  his  change  compassionate. 
With  words  of  sadness  soothed  his  rugged  mood. 
But  he,  while  pride  and  fear  held  deep  debate. 
With  sullen  guile  of  ill-dissembled  hate 
Glared  on  me  as  a  toothless  snake  might  glare: 
Pity,  not  scorn  I  felt,  though  desolate 
The  desolator  now,  and  unaware 
The  curses  which  he  mock'd  had  caught  him  by  the 
hair. 

XXVI. 

I  led  him  forth  from  that  which  now  might  seem 
A  gorgeous  grave  :  through  portals  sculptured  deep 
With  imagery  beautiful  as  dream 
We  went,  and  left  the  shades  which  tend  on  sleep 
Over  its  um-egarded  gold  to  keep 
Their  silent  watch. — The  child  trod  faintingly, 
And  as  she  went,  the  tears  w-hich  she  did  weep 
Glanced  in  the  starlight ;  wilder'd  seemed  she. 
And  when  I  spake,  for  sobs  she  could  not  answer  z  c. 

XXVIL 

At  last  the  tyrant  cried,  "  She  hungers,  slave  : 
Stab  her,  or  give  her  bread!" — It  was  a  tone 
Such  as  sick  fancies  in  a  new-made  grave 
Might  hear.    I  trembled,  for  the  truth  was  known, 
He  with  this  child  had  thus  been  left  alone, 
And  neither  had  gone  forth  for  food, — but  he 
In  mingled  pride  and  awe  cower'd  near  his  throne, 
And  she,  a  nursling  of  captivity. 
Knew  naught  beyond  those  walls,  nor  what  such 
change  might  be. 

XXVIII. 

And  she  was  troubled  at  a  charm  withdrawn 
Thus  suddenly ;  that  sceptres  ruled  no  more — 
That  even  from  gold  the  dreadful  strength  was 

gone. 
Which  once  made  all  things  subject  to  its  power — 
Such  wonder  seized  him,  as  if  hour  by  hour 
The  past  had  come  again  ;  and  the  swift  fall 
Of  one  so  great  and  terrible  of  yore. 
To  desolateness,  in  the  hearts  of  all 
Like  wonder  stirr'd,  who  saw  such  awful  change 

befall. 

XXIX. 
A  mighty  crowd,  such  as  the  wide  land  pours 
Once  in  a  thousand  years,  now  gather'd  round 
The  fallen  tyrant ; — like  the  rush  of  showers 
Of  hail  in  spring,  pattering  along  the  ground, 
Their  many  footsteps  fell,  else  came  no  sound 
From  the  wide  multitude  :  that  lonely  man 
Tlicn  knew  the  burthen  of  his  change,  and  found, 
Concealing  in  the  dust  his  visage  wan. 
Refuge  from  the  keen  loolis  which  thro'  his  bosom  ran. 
270 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


23 


XXX. 

And  he  was  faint  withal :  I  sate  beside  him 
Upon  the  earth,  and  took  that  cWld  so  lair 
From  his  weak  arms,  that  ill  might  none  betide  liim 
Or  her; — when  ibod  was  brought  to  them,  her  share 
To  his  averted  hps  the  child  did  bear, 
But  when  she  saw  he  had  enough,  she  ate 
And  wept  the  while  ; — the  lonely  man's  despair 
Hunger  then  overcame,  and  of  his  state 
Forgetlul,  on  the  dust  as  in  a  trance  he  sate. 

XXXI. 

Slowly  the  silence  of  the  multitudes 
Past,  as  when  far  is  heard  in  some  lone  dell 
The  gathering  of  a  wind  among  the  woods — 
And  he  is  fallen  I  they  cry,  he  who  did  dwell 
Like  famine  or  the  plague,  or  aught  more  fell 
Among  onr  homes,  is  fallen!  the  murderer 
VVho  slaked  his  thirsting  soul  as  from  a  well 
Of  blood  and  tears  with  ruin  I  he  is  here ! 
Sunk  in  a  gulf  of  scorn  from  which  none  may  him  rear ! 

XXXII. 

Then  was  heard — He  who  judged  let  him  be  brought 
To  judgment !  blood  for  blood  cries  from  the  soil 
On  which  his  crimes  have  deep  pollution  wrought! 
Shall  Othman  only  unavenged  despoil  ? 
Shall  they  who  by  the  stress  of  grinding  toil 
Wrest  from  the  unwilling  earth  his  luxuries. 
Perish  for  crime,  while  liis  foul  blood  may  boil, 
Or  creep  within  his  veins  at  will  ? — Arise  ! 
And  to  high  justice  make  her  chosen  sacrifice. 

XXXIII. 

"  ^Vhal  do  ye  seek  ?  what  fear  ye  ? "  then  I  cried, 
Suddenly  starting  forth,  "  that  ye  should  shed 
The  blood  of  Othman — if  your  hearts  are  tried 
In  the  true  love  of  freedom,  cease  to  dread 
This  one  poor  lonely  man — beneath  Heaven  spread 
In  purest  light  above  us  all,  through  earih. 
Maternal  earth,  who  doth  her  sweet  smiles  .shed 
For  all,  let  him  go  free ;  until  the  worth 
Of  human  nature  win  from  these  a  second  birth. 

XXXIV. 

"  What  call  ye  juslixx  ?  is  there  one  who  ne'er 
In  secret  thought  has  wish'd  another's  ill  ? — 
Are  ye  all  pure  ?  let  those  stand  forth  who  hear, 
And  tremble  not.    Shall  they  insult  and  kill. 
If  such  they  be  ?  their  mild  eyes  can  they  fdl 
With  the  false  anger  of  the  hypocrite  ? 
Alas,  such  were  not  pure — the  chasten'd  will 
Of  virtue  sees  that  justice  is  the  light 
Of  love,  and  not  revenge,  and  terror  and  despite." 

XXXV. 

The  murmur  of  the  people  slowly  dying, 
Paused  as  I  spake,  tlien  those  who  near  me  were, 
Cast  gentle  looks  where  the  lone  man  was  lying 
Shrouding  his  head,  which  now  that  infant  fair 
Clasp'd  on  her  lap  in  silence  ; — through  the  air 
Sobs  were  then  heard,  and  many  kiss'd  my  feet 
In  pity's  madness,  and  to  the  despair 
Of  him  whom  late  they  cursed,  a  solace  sweet 
His  very  victims  brought — soft  looks  and  speeches  meet 


XXXVI. 

Then  to  a  home  for  his  repose  assign'd, 
Accompanied  by  the  still  throng  he  went 
In  silence,  where  to  soothe  his  rankling  mind, 
Some  likeness  of  his  ancient  slate  was  lent ; 
And  if  his  heart  could  have  been  innocent 
As  those  who  pardon'd  him,  he  might  have  ended 
His  days  in  peace ;  but  his  strait  lips  were  bent, 
Men  said,  into  a  smile  which  guile  portended, 
A  sight  with  which  that  child-like  hope  with  fear 
was  blended. 

XX  XVII. 

'T  was  midnight  now,  the  eve  of  that  great  day 
Whereon  the  many  nations  at  whose  call 
The  chains  of  earth  like  mist  melted  away, 
Decreed  to  hold  a  sacred  Festival, 
A  rite  to  attest  the  eijualily  of  all 
Who  live.    So  to  their  homes,  to  dream  or  wake, 
All  went.    The  sleepless  silence  did  recall 
Laone  to  my  thoughts,  \vith  hopes  that  make 
The  flood  recede  from  which  their  thirst  they  seek  to 
slake. 

XXXVIII. 

The  dawn  flow'd  forth,  and  from  its  purple  fountains 
I  drank  those  hopes  which  make  the  spirit  quail , 
As  to  the  plain  between  the  misty  mountains 
And  the  great  City,  with  a  countenance  pale 
I  went : — it  was  a  sight  which  might  avail 
To  make  men  weep  exulting  tears,  for  whom 
Now  first  from  human  power  the  reverend  veil 
Was  torn,  to  see  Earth  from  her  general  womb 
Pour  forth  her  swarming  sons  to  a  fraternal  doom  : 

XXXIX. 

To  see,  far  glancing  in  the  misty  morning, 
The  signs  of  that  imiumerable  host. 
To  hear  one  sound  of  many  made,  the  warning 
Of  Earth  to  Heaven  from  its  free  children  tost, 
While  the  eternal  hills,  and  the  sea  lost 
In  wavering  light,  and  starring  the  blue  sky 
The  city's  myriad  spires  of  gold,  almost 
With  human  joy  made  mute  society. 
Its  witnesses  with  men  who  must  hereafter  be. 

XL. 

To  see  like  some  vast  island  from  the  Ocean, 
The  Altar  of  the  Federation  rear 
Its  pile  i'  the  midst ;  a  work,  which  the  devotion 
Of  millions  in  one  night  created  there, 
Sudden,  as  when  the  moonrise  makes  appear 
Strange  clouds  in  the  east ;   a  marble  pyramid 
Distinct  with  steps :  that  mighty  shape  did  wear 
The  hght  of  genius ;  its  still  shadow  hid 
Far  sliips :  to  know  its  height  the  morning  mists  forbid' 

XLI. 

To  hear  the  restless  multitudes  (or  ever 
Around  the  base  of  that  great  Altar  flow, 
As  on  some  luountain  islet  burst  and  shiver 
Atlantic  waves ;  and  solemnly  and  slow 
As  the  wind  bore  that  tumult  to  and  fro, 
To  feel  the  dreamlike  music,  which  did  swim 
Like  beams  through  floating  clouds  on  waves  below 
Falling  in  pauses,  from  tliat  Altar  dim. 
As  silver-soimding  tongues  breathed  an  aerial  hymQ 
271 


24 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XLII. 
To  hear,  to  see,  to  live,  was  on  that  mom 
Lethean  joy  !  so  tliat  all  those  assembled 
Cast  off  their  memories  of  the  past  outworn  ; 
Two  only  bosoms  with  their  own  life  trembled. 
And  mine  was  one, — and  we  had  both  dissembled ; 
So  with  a  beating  heart  I  went,  and  one. 
Who  having  much,  covets  yet  more,  resembled  ; 
A  lost  and  dear  possession,  which  not  won, 
He  walks  in  lonely  gloom  beneath  the  noonday  sun. 

XLIII. 

To  the  great  Pyramid  I  came :  its  stair 
With  female  quires  was  throng'd  :  the  loveliest 
Among  the  free,  grouped  with  its  sculptures  rare ; 
As  I  approach'd,  the  morning's  golden  mist. 
Which  now  the  wonder-stricken  breezes  kist 
With  their  cold  lips,  fled,  and  the  summit  shone 
Like  Athos  seen  from  Samothracia,  drest 
In  earliest  light  by  vintagers,  and  one 
Sate  there,  a  female  Shape  upon  an  ivory  throne. 

XLIV. 
A  Form  most  like  the  imagined  habitant 
Of  silver  exhalations  sprung  from  dawn, 
By  winds  which  feed  on  sunrise  woven,  to  enchant 
The  faiths  of  men :  all  mortal  eyes  were  drawn. 
As  famish'd  mariners  through  strange  seas  gone 
Gaze  on  a  burning  watch-tower,  by  the  light 
Of  those  divinest  lineaments — alone 
With  thoughts  which  none  could  share,  from  that 
fair  sight 
I  turn'd  in  siclcness,  for  a  veil  shrouded  her  coun- 
tenance bright. 

XLV. 

And,  neither  did  I  hear  the  acclamations. 
Which  from  brief  silence  bursting,  fdl'd  the  air 
With  her  strange  name  and  mine,  from  all  the  nations 
Which  we,  they  said,  in  strength  had  gather'd  there 
From  the  sleep  of  bondage ;  nor  the  vision  fair 
Of  that  bright  pageantry  beheld, — but  blind 
And  silent,  as  a  breathing  corpse  did  fare. 
Leaning  upon  my  friend,  till  like  a  wind 
To  fe  ver'd  cheeks,  a  voice  flow'd  o'er  my  troubled  mind. 

XLVL 

Like  music  of  some  minstrel  heavenly  gifted, 
To  one  whom  fiends  enthral,  this  voice  to  me  ; 
Scarce  did  I  wish  her  veil  to  be  uplifted, 
I  was  so  calm  and  joyous. — I  could  see 
The  platform  where  we  stood,  the  statues  three 
Which  kept  their  marble  watch  on  that  high  shrine, 
The  multitudes,  the  mountains,  and  the  sea; 
As  when  eclipse  hath  past,  things  sudden  shine 
To  men's  astonish'd  eyes  most  clear  and  crystalhne. 

XLvn. 

At  first  Laone  spoke  most  tremulously : 
But  soon  her  voice  the  calmness  which  it  shed 
Gather'd,  and — "  Thou  art  whom  I  sought  to  see, 
And  thou  art  our  first  votary  here,"  she  said : 
"  I  had  a  dear  friend  once,  but  he  is  dead ! — 
And  of  all  those  on  the  wide  earth  who  breathe, 
Thou  dost  resemble  him  alone — I  spread 
This  veil  between  us  two,  that  thou  beneath 
Shouldst  image  one  who  may  have  been  long  lost  in 
death. 


XLVIII. 
"  For  this  wilt  thou  not  henceforth  pardon  me  ? 
Yes,  but  those  joys  which  silence  will  requite 
Forbid  reply  ; — why  men  have  chosen  me, 
To  be  the  Priestess  of  this  holiest  rite 
I  scarcely  know,  but  that  the  floods  of  light 
Which  flow  over  the  world,  have  borne  me  hithei 
To  meet  thee,  long  most  dear ;  and  now  unite 
Thine  hand  with  mine,  and  may  all  comfort  wither 
From  botli  the  hearts  whose  pulse  in  joy  now  beat 
together. 

XLIX 

If  our  own  will  as  others'  law  we  bind. 
If  the  foul  worship  trampled  here  we  fear ; 
If  as  ourselves  we  cease  to  love  our  kind !" — 
She  paused  and  pointed  upwards — sculptured  there 
Three  shapes  around  lier  ivory  throne  appear  ; 
One  was  a  Giant,  like  a  child  asleep 
On  a  loose  rock,  whose  grasp  crush'd,  as  it  were 
In  dream,  sceptres  and  crowns ;  and  one  did  keep 
Its  watcliful  eyes  in  doubt  whether  to  smile  or  weep; 


A  Woman  sitting  on  the  sculptured  disk 
Of  the  broad  earth,  and  feeding  from  one  breast 
A  human  babe  and  a  young  basilisk  ; 
Her  looks  were  sweet  as  Heaven's  when  loveliest 
In  Autumn  eves : — The  third  Image  was  drest 
In  white  wings  swift  as  clouds  in  winter  skies, 
Beneath  his  feet,  'mongst  ghastliest  forms,  represt 
Lay  Faith,  an  obscene  worm,  who  sought  to  rise, 
While  calmly  on  the  Sun  he  turn'd  his  diamond  eyes 

LI. 

Beside  that  Image  then  I  sate,  wliile  she 
Stood,  'mid  the  throngs  which  ever  ebb'd  and  flow'd 
Like  light  amid  the  shadows  of  the  sea 
Cast  from  one  cloudless  star,  and  on  the  crowd 
That  touch  which  none  who  feels  forgets,  bestow'd ; 
And  whilst  the  sun  return'd  the  sledfast  gaze 
Of  the  great  Image  as  o'er  Heaven  it  glode. 
That  rite  had  place  ;  it  ceased  when  sunset's  blaze 
Burn'd  o'er  the  isles ;   all  stood  in  joy  and  deep 
amaze. 

When  in  the  silence  of  all  spirits  there 
Laone's  voice  was  felt,  and  through  the  air 
Her  thrilling  gestures  spoke,  most  eloquently  fair 


L 

"  Calm  art  thou  as  yon  sunset !  swift  and  strong 
As  new-fledged  Eagles,  beautiful  and  young. 
That  float  among  the  blinding  beams  of  morning ; 
And  underneath  thy  feet  writhe  Faith,  and  Folly, 
Custom,  and  Hell,  and  mortal  Melancholy — 
Hark !  the  Earth  starts  to  hear  the  mighty  warning 
Of  thy  voice  sublime  and  holy ; 
Its  free  spirits  here  assembled, 
See  thee,  feel  thee,  know  thee  now, — 
To  thy  voice  their  hearts  have  trembled, 
Like  ten  thousand  clouds  which  flow 
With  one  wide  wind  as  it  flies ! 
Wisdom  !  thy  irresistible  children  rise 
To  hail  thee,  and  the  elements  they  chain 
And  their  own  will  to  swell  the  glory  of  thy  train. 
272 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


25 


"  O  Spirit  vast  and  deep  as  Night  and  Heaven ! 
Mother  and  soul  of  all  to  which  is  given 
The  light  of  life,  the  loveliness  of  being, 
Lo !  thou  dost  reascend  the  human  heart. 
Thy  throne  of  power,  almighty  as  thou  wert. 
In  dreams  of  Poets  old  grown  pale  by  seeing 
The  shade  of  thee  : — now,  millions  start 
To  feel  thy  lightnings  through  them  burning: 
Nature,  or  God,  or  Love,  or  Pleasure, 
Or  Sympathy  the  sad  tears  turrdng 
To  mutual  smiles,  a  drainless  treasure. 
Descends  amidst  us; — Scorn  and  Hate, 
Revenge  and  Selfishness  are  desolate — 
A  hundred  nations  swear  that  there  shall  be 
Pity  and  Peace  and  Love,  among  the  good  and  free 


"Eldest  of  things,  divine  Equality! 
Wisdom  and  Love  are  but  the  slaves  of  thee, 
The  Angels  of  thy  sway,  the  poor  around  thee 
Treasures  from  all  the  cells  of  human  thought, 
And  from  the  Stars,  and  from  the  Ocean  brought, 
And  the  last  living  heart  whose  beatings  bound  thee: 
The  powerful  and  the  wise  had  sought 
Thy  coming,  thou  in  light  descending 
O'er  the  wide  land  which  is  thine  own 
Like  the  spring  whose  breath  is  blending 
All  blasts  of  fragrance  into  one, 
Comest  upon  the  paths  of  men ! — 
Earth  bares  her  general  bosom  to  thy  ken) 
And  all  her  children  here  in  glory  meet 
To  feed  upon  thy  smiles,  and  clasp  thy  sacred  feet. 


"  My  brethren,  we  are  free !  the  plains  and  mountains 
The  gray  sea-shore,  the  forests  and  the  fountains. 
Are  haunts  of  happiestdwellers; — manand  woman. 
Their  common  bondage  burst,  may  freely  borrow 
From  lawless  love  a  solace  for  their  sorrow; 
For  oft  we  still  must  weep,  since  we  are  human. 
A  stormy  night's  serenest  morrow. 
Whose  showers  are  pity's  gentle  tears, 
Whose  clouds  are  smiles  of  those  that  die 
Like  infants  without  hopes  or  fears. 
And  whose  beams  are  joys  that  lie 
In  blended  hearts,  now  holds  dominion  ; 
The  dawn  of  mind,  which  upwards  on  a  pinion 
Borne,  swift  as  sunrise,  far  illumines  space. 
And  clasps  this   barren  world  in  its  own  bright 
embrace ! 


"  My  brethren,  we  are  free  !  the  fruits  are  glowing 
Beneath  the  stars,  and  the  night-winds  are  flowing 
O'er  the  ripe  corn,  the  birds  and  beasts  are  dream- 
ing— 
Never  again  may  blood  of  bird  or  beast 
Stain  with  its  venomous  stream  a  human  feast ! 
To  the  pure  skies  in  accusation  steaming. 
Avenging  poisons  shall  have  ceased 
To  feed  disease  anrl  fear  and  madness, 
The  dwellers  of  the  earth  and  air 
Shall  throng  around  our  steps  with  gladness, 
Seeking  their  food  or  refuge  there. 
Our  toil  from  thought  all  glorious  forms  shall  cull, 
To  make  this  Earlli,  our  home,  more  beautiful, 
2  K 


And  Science,  and  her  sister  Poesy, 

Shall  clothe  in  hght  the  fields  and  cities  of  the  free  ! 

6. 

"  Victory,  Victory  to  tlie  prostrate  nations  ! 
Bear  witness  Night,  and  ye  mute  Constellations 
Who  gaze  on  us  from  your  crystalhne  cars  I 
Thoughts  have  gone  forth  whose  powers  can  sleep 

no  more ! 
Victory!  Victory!  Earth's  remotest  shore. 
Regions  which  groan  beneatli  the  Antarctic  stars, 
The  green  lands  cradled  in  the  roar 

Of  western  waves,  and  wildernesses 
Peopled  and  vast,  which  skirt  the  oceans 
Where  morning  dyes  her  golden  tresses. 
Shall  soon  partake  our  higli  emotions : 
Kings  shall  turn  pale!  Almighty  Fear, 
The  Fiend-God,  when  our  charmed  name  he  hear, 
Shall  fade  like  shadow  from  his  thousand  fanes. 
While  Truth  with  Joy  enthroned  o'er  his  lost  emplie 
reigns  I " 

LII. 

Ere  she  had  ceased,  the  mists  of  night  entwining 
Their  dim  woof  floated  o'er  the  infinite  throng  ; 
She,  like  a  spirit  through  the  darkness  sliining, 
In  tones  whose  sweetness  silence  did  prolong, 
As  if  to  lingering  winds  they  did  belong, 
Pour'd  forth  her  inmost  soul :  a  passionate  speech 
With  wild  and  thrilling  pauses  v^oven  among, 
Wliich  whoso  heard,  was  mute,  for  it  could  teach 
To  rapture  like  her  own  all  listening  hearts  to  reach. 

LIII. 

Her  voice  was  as  a  mountain  stream  which  sweeps 
The  wither'd  leaves  of  Aulumn  to  the  lake. 
And  in  some  deep  and  narrow  bay  then  sleeps 
In  the  shadow  of  the  shores;  as  dead  leaves  wak.- 
Under  the  wave,  in  flowere  and  herbs  which  make 
Those  green  depths  beautiful  when  skies  are  blue, 
The  multitude  so  moveless  did  partake 
Such  living  change,  and  kindling  murmurs  flew 
As  o'er  that  speechless  calm  delight  and  wonder  grew 

LIV. 
Over  the  plain  the  throngs  were  scatter'd  then 
In  groups  around  the  fires,  which  from  the  sea 
Even  to  the  gorge  of  the  first  mountain  glen 
Blazed  wide  and  far :  the  banquet  of  the  free 
Was  spread  beneath  many  a  dark  cypress-tree. 
Beneath  whose  spires,  which  sway'd  in  the  red  light 
Reclining  as  they  ate,  of  Liberty, 
And  Hope,  and  Justice,  and  Laone's  name. 
Earth's  children  did  a  woof  of  happy  converse  frame 

LV. 

Their  feast  was  such  as  Earth,  the  general  mother 
Pours  from  her  fairest  bosom,  when  she  smiles 
In  the  embrace  of  Autumn ; — to  each  other 
As  when  some  parent  fondly  reconciles 
Her  warring  children,  she  their  wrath  beguiles 
With  her  own  sustenance ;  they  relenting  weep. 
Such  was  this  Festival,  which  from  their  isles 
And  continents,  and  winds,  and  oceans  deep. 
All  shapes  might  throng  to  share,  that  fly,  or  walk, 
or  creep. 

273 


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SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


LVI. 
Might  share  in  peace  and  innocence,  for  gore 
Or  poison  none  this  festal  did  pollute, 
But  piled  on  high,  an  overflowing  store 
Of  pomegranates,  and  citrons,  fairest  fruit. 
Melons,  and  dates,  and  figs,  and  many  a  root; 
Sweet  and  sustaining,  and  bright  grapes  ere  yet 
Accursed  fire  their  mild  juice  could  transmute 
Into  a  mortal  bane,  and  brown  corn  set 
In  baskets ;  with  pure  streams  their  thirsting  lips 
they  wet. 

LVII. 

Laone  had  descended  from  the  shrine. 
And  every  deepest  look  and  hoUest  mind 
Fed  on  her  form,  though  now  those  tones  divine 
Were  silent  as  she  past ;  she  did  unwind 
Her  veil,  as  with  the  crowds  of  her  own  kind 
She  mix'd ;  some  impulse  made  my  heart  refrain 
From  seeking  her  that  night,  so  I  reclined 
Amidst  a  group,  where  on  the  utmost  plain 
A  festal  watch-fire  burn'd  beside  the  dusky  main. 

Lviri. 

And  joyous  was  our  feast ;  pathetic  talk, 
And  wit,  and  harmony  of  choral  strains, 
While  far  Orion  o'er  the  waves  did  walk 
That  flow  among  the  isles,  held  us  in  chains 
Of  sweet  captivity,  which  none  disdains 
Who  feels :  but  when  his  zone  grew  dim  in  mist 
Which  clothes  the  Ocean's  bosom,  o'er  the  plains 
The  multitudes  went  homeward,  to  their  rest. 
Which  that  delightful  day  with  its  own  shadow  blest. 


CANTO  VI. 


I. 


Beside  the  dimness  of  the  glimmering  sea. 
Weaving  swift  language  from  inipassion'd  themes, 
With  that  dear  friend  I  linger'd,  who  to  me 
So  late  had  been  restored,  beneath  the  gleams 
Of  the  silver  stars ;  and  ever  in  soft  dreams 
Of  future  love  and  peace  sweet  converse  lapt 
Our  willing  fancies,  till  the  pallid  beams 
Of  the  last  watch-fire  fell,  and  darkness  wrapt 
The  waves,  and  each   bright  chain  of  floating  fire 
was  snapt. 

II. 

And  till  we  came  even  to  the  City's  wall 
And  the  great  gate,  then,  none  knew  whence  orwhy. 
Disquiet  on  the  multitudes  did  fall  : 
And  first,  one  pale  and  breathless  past  us  by, 
And  stared  and  spoke  not; — then  with  piercing  cry 
A  troop  of  wild-eyed  women,  by  the  shrieks 
Of  their  own  terror  driven, — tumultuously 
Hither  and  thither  hurrying  with  pale  cheeks. 
Each  one  from  fear  unknown  a  sudden  refuge  seeks- 


III. 

Then,  rallying  cries  of  treason  and  of  danger 
Resounded:  and — "They  come!  to  arms!  to  arms 
The  Tyrant  is  amongst  us,  and  the  stranger 
Comes  to  enslave  us  in  his  name  !  to  arms ! " 
In  vain:  for  Panic,  the  pale  fiend  who  charms 
Strength  to  forswear  her  right,  those  millions  swept 
Like  waves  before  the  temjjest — those  alarms 
Came  to  me,  as  to  know  their  cause  I  leapt 
On  the  gate's  turret,  and  in  rage  and  grief  and  scorn 
I  wept! 

iv. 

For  to  the  North  I  saw  the  town  on  fire. 
And  its  red  light  made  morning  pallid  now, 
Which  burst  over  wide  Asia ; — louder,  higher, 
Tlie  yells  of  victory  and  tlie  screams  of  woe 
I  heard  approach,  and  saw  the  throng  below 
Stream    through    the    gates    like    foam-wrought 

water-iiills 
Fed  from  a  thousand  storms — the  fearful  glow 
Of  bombs  flares  ov^erhead — at  intervals 
The  red  artillery's  bolt  mangling  among  them  falls. 

V. 

And  now  the  horsemen  come — and  all  was  done 
Swifter  than  I  have  spoken — I  beheld 
Their  red  swords  flash  in  the  uprisen  sun. 
I  rush'd  among  the  rout  to  have  repell'd 
That  miserable  flight — one  moment  quell'd 
By  voice,  and  looks  and  eloquent  despair. 
As  if  reproach  from  their  own  hearts  withheld 
Their  steps,  they  stood ;  Imt  soon  came  pouring  there 
New  multitudes,  and  did  those  rallied  bands  o'erbear 

VI.  ;  . 

I  Strove,  as  drifted  on  some  cataract 
By  irresistible  streams,  some  wretch  might  strive 
Who  heare  its  fatal  roar : — the  files  compact 
Wiielm'd  me,  and  from  the  gate  avail'd  to  drive 
With  quickening  impulse,  as  each  bolt  did  rive 
Their  ranks  with  bloodier  chasm: — into  the  plain 
Disgorged  at  length  the  dead  and  the  alive. 
In  one  dread  mass,  were  parted,  and  the  stain 
Of  blood  from  mortal  steel  fell  o'er  the  fields  like  rain. 

VII. 

For  now  the  despot's  blood-hovmds  with  their  prey, 
Unarm'd  and  unaware,  were  gorging  deep 
Their  gluttony  of  death  ;  the  loose  array 
Of  jiorsemen  o'er  the  wide  fields  murdering  sweep, 
And  with  loud  laughter  for  their  tyrant  reap 
A  harvest  sown  with  other  hopes;  the  while, 
Far  overhead,  ships  from  Propontis  keep 
A  Idlling  rain  of  fire: — when  the  waves  smile 
As  sudden  earthquakes  light  many  a  volcano  isle. 

VIII. 
Thus  sudden,  unexpected  feast  was  spread 
For  the  carrion  fowls  of  Heaven. — I  saw  the  sight — 
I  moved — I  lived — as  o'er  the  heaps  of  dead, 
Whose  stony  eyes  glared  in  the  morning  light, 
1  trod  ; — to  me  there  came  no  thought  of  flight, 
But  with  loud  cries  of  scorn  which  whoso  heard 
That  dreaded  death,  felt  in  his  veins  the  might 
Of  virtuous  shame  return,  the  crowd  I  stirr'd 
And  desperation's  hope  in  many  hearts  recurr'd 
274 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


27; 


IX. 

A  band  of  brothers  gathering  round  me,  made, 
Although  unarm'd,  a  stedfast  front,  and  still 
Retreating,  witii  stern  looks  beneath  the  shade 
Of  gather'd  eyebrows,  did  the  victors  fdl 
With  doubt  even  in  success  ;  deliberate  will 
Inspired  our  growing  troop,  not  overthrown 
It  gain'd  the  shelter  of  a  grassy  hill. 
And  ever  still  our  comrades  were  hewn  down, 
And  their  defenceless    limbs  beneath  our  footsteps 
strown. 

X. 

Immovably  we  stood — in  joy  I,  found. 
Beside  me  then,  firm  as  a  giant  pine 
Among  the  mountain  vapors  driven  around, 
The  old  man  whom  I  loved — his  eyes  divine 
With  a  mild  look  of  courage  answer'd  mine. 
And  my  yomig  friend  was  near,  and  ardently 
His  hand  grasp'd  mine  a  moment — now  the  line 
Of  war  extended,  to  our  rallying  cry 
As  myriads  flock'd  in  love  and  brotherhood  to  die. 

XI. 
For  ever  while  the  sun  was  climbing  Heaven 
The  horsemen  hew'd  our  unarm'd  myriads  down 
Safely,  though  when  by  thirst  of  carnage  driven 
Too  near,  those  slaves  were  swiftly  overthrown 
By  hundreds  leaping  on  them : — flesh  and  bone 
Soon  made  our  ghastly  ramparts ;  then  the  shaft 
Of  the  artillery  from  the  sea  was  thrown 
More  fast  and  fiery,  and  the  conquerors  laugh'd 
In  pride  to  hear  the  wind  our  screams  of  torment  waft. 

XII. 

For  on  one  side  alooe  the  hill  gave  shelter, 

So  vast  that  plialanx  of  unconquer'd  men, 

And  there  the  living  in  llie  blood  did  welter 

Of  the  dead  and  dying,  which,  in  that  green  glen 

Like  stifled  torrents,  made  a  plashy  fen 

Under  the  feel — thus  was  the  butchery  waged 

While  the  sim  clomb  Heaven's  eastern  sleep — but 

when 
It  'gan  to  sink — a  fiercer  combat  raged. 
For  in  more  doubtful  strife  the  armies  were  engaged. 


XIII. 

Within  a  cave  upon  the  hill  were  found 
A  bundle  of  rude  pikes,  the  instrument 
Of  those  who  war  but  on  iheir  native  ground 
For  natural  rights  :  a  shout  of  joyance  sent 
Even  from  our  hearts  the  wide  air  pierced  and  rent, 
As  those  few  arms  the  bravest  .and  the  best 
Seized ;  and  each  sixth,  thus  arm'd,  did  now  present 
A  line  which  cover'd  and  suslain'd  the  rest, 
A  confident  phalanx,  which  foes  on  every  side  invest. 

XIV. 
That  onset  tum'd  the  foes  to  flight  almost; 
But  soon  they  saw  their  present  strength,  and  knew 
That  coming  night  would  to  our  resolute  host 
Bring  victory,  so  dismounting  close  they  drew 
Their  glittering  files,  and  then  the  combat  grew 
Unequal  but  most  horrible  ; — and  ever 
Our  myriads,  w  hom  the  swift  bolt  overthrew, 
Or  the  red  sword,  faifd  like  a  mountain  river 
Which  rushes  forth  in  foam  to  sinli  in  sands  for  ever. 


XV. 

Sorrow  and  shame,  to  see  with  their  own  kind 
Our  human  brethren  mix,  like  beasts  of  blood 
To  mutual  ruin  arm'd  by  one  behind 
Who  sits  and  scolls  I — That  friend  so  mild  and  good, 
Who  like  its  shadow  near  my  youth  hcid  stood, 
Was  stabb'd ! — my  old  preserver's  hoary  hair. 
With  the  flesh  clinging  to  its  roots,  was  strew'd 
Under  my  feet! — I  lost  all  sense  or  care, 
And  like  the  rest  I  grew  desperate  and  unaware. 

XVI. 

The  battle  became  ghastlier — in  the  midst 
I  paused,  and  saw,  how  ugly  and  how  fell, 

0  Hate  !  thou  art,  even  when  thy  life  thou  shedd'st 
For  love.    The  ground  in  many  a  little  dell 
Was  broken,  up  and  down  whose  steeps  befell 
Alternate  victory  and  defeat,  and  there 

The  combatants  with  rage  most  horrible 
Strove,  and  their  eyes  started  with  cracking  stare. 
And  impotent  their  tongues  they  loU'd  into  the  air. 

XVII. 

Flaccid  and  foamy,  like  a  mad  dog's  hanging ; 
Want, and  Moon-madness,  and  the  Pest's  swift  bane; 
When  its  shafts  smile — while  yet  its  bow  is  twang- 
ing— 
Have  each  their  mark  and  sign — some  ghastly  stain ; 
And  this"  was  thine,  O  War !  of  hate  and  pain 
Thou  lothed  slave.    I  saw  all  shapes  of  death 
And  rainister'd  to  many,  o'er  the  plain. 
While  carnage  in  the  sunbeam's  warmth  did  seethe, 
Till  twilight  o'er  the  east  wove  her  serenest  wreath. 

XVIII. 
The  few  who  yet  survived,  resolute  and  firm 
Around  me  fouglit.    At  the  decline  of  day 
Winding  above  the  momilain's  snowy  term 
New  banners  shone  :  they  quiver'd  in  the  ray 
Of  the  sun's  unseen  orb — ere  night  the  array 
Of  fresh  troOps  hemm'd  us  in — of  those  brave  bands 

1  soon  survived  alone — and  now  I  lay 
Vanquish'd  and  faint,  the  grasp  of  bloody  hands 

I  felt,  and  saw  on  high  llie  glare  of  falling  brands: 

XIX. 

When  on  my  foes  a  sudden  terror  came, 
And  ihey  fled,  scattering — lo !  with  reinless  speed 
A  black  Tartarian  horse  of  giant  frame 
Comes  trampling  o'er  the  dead,  the  living  bleed 
Beneath  the  hoofs  of  that  tremendous  steed, 
On  which,  like  lo  an  Angel,  robed  in  white. 
Sate  one  waving  a  sword  ; — the  hosts  recede 
And  fly,  as  through  their  ranks  with  awful  might, 
Sweeps  in  the  shadow  of  eve  that  Phantom  swifl 
and  bright  ; 


XX. 

And  its  path  made  a  solitude. — I  rose 
And  mark'd  its  coming:  it  relax'd  its  course 
As  it  approach'd  me,  and  the  wind  that  flows 
Through  night,  bore  accents  to  mine  ear  whose  force 
Might  create  smiles  in  death — the  Tartar  horse 
Paused,  and  I  saw  the  shape  its  might  which  sway'd. 
And  heard  her  musical  pants,  like  the  sweet  source 
Of  waters  in  the  desert,  as  she  said, 
■  Mount  with  me,  Laon,  now." — I  rapidly  obey 'A 
275 


28 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXI. 

Then :  "  Away !  away ! "  she  cried,  and  stretch'd 

her  sword 
As  'twere  a  scourge  over  the  courser's  head, 
And  lightly  shook  the  reins: — We  spake  no  word, 
But  Uke  the  vapor  of  the  tempest  fled 
Over  the  plain  ;  her  dark  hair  was  dispread 
Like  the  pine's  locks  upon  the  lingering  blast ; 
Over  mine  eyes  its  shadowy  strings  it  spread. 
Fitfully,  and  the  hills  and  streams  fled  fast, 
As   o'er  their  glimmering   forms  the   steed's  broad 

shadow  past. 

XXII. 

And  his  hoofs  ground  the  rocks  to  fire  and  dust, 
His  strong  sides  made  the  torrents  rise  in  spray ; 
And  turbulence,  as  of  a  whirlwind's  gust, 
Surrounded  us  ; — and  still  away  !  away  ! 
Through  the  desert  night  we  sped,  while  she  alway 
Gazed  on  a  mountain  which  we  near'd,  whose  crest 
Crown'd  with  a  marble  ruin,  in  the  ray 
Of  the  obscure  stars  gleam'd  ; — its  rugged  breast 
The  steed  strain'd  up,  and  then  his  impulse  did  arrest. 

XXIII. 

A  rocky  hill  which  overhung  the  Ocean : — 
From  that  lone  ruin,  when  the  steed  that  panted 
Paused,  might  be  heard  the  murmur  of  the  motion 
Of  waters,  as  in  spots  for  ever  haunted 
By    the    choicest    winds  of  Heaven,  which   are 

enchanted 
To  music,  by  the  wand  of  Solitude, 
That  wizard  wild,  and  the  far  tents  implanted 
Upon  the  plain,  be  seen  by  those  who  stood 
Thence  marking  the  dark  shore  of  Ocean's  curved  flood. 

XXIV. 

One  moment  these  were  heard  and  seen — another 
Past ;  and  the  two  who  stood  beneath  that  night. 
Each  only  heard,  or  saw,  or  felt  the  other; 
As  from  the  lofly  steed  she  did  alight, 
Cythna  (for,  from  the  eyes  whose  deepest  light 
Of  love  and  sadness  made  my  lips  feel  pale 
With  influence  strange  of  mournfullest  delight, 
My  own  sweet  Cythna  look'd),  with  joy  did  quail. 
And  felt  her  strength  in  tears  of  human  weakness  fail. 

XXV. 

And,  for  a  space  in  my  embrace  she  rested, 
Her  head  on  my  unquiet  heart  reposing, 
Wliile  my  faint  arms  her  languid  frame  invested : 
At  length  she  look'd  on  me,  and  half  unclosing 
Her  tremulous  lips,  said:  "  Friend,  thy  bands  were 

losing 
The  battle,  as  I  stood  before  the  King 
In  bonds. — I  burst  them  then,  and  swiftly  choosing 
The  time,  did  seize  a  Tartar's  sword,  and  spring 
Upon  his  horse,  and  swift  as  on  the  whirlwind's  wing, 

XXVI. 
"  Have  thou  and  I  been  borne  beyond  pursuer. 
And  we  are  here."— Then  turning  to  the  steed, 
She  press'd  the  white  moon  on  liis  front  with  pure 
And  rose-like  lips,  and  many  a  fragrant  weed 
From  the  green  ruin  i)luck'd,  that  he  might  feed ; — 
But  I  to  a  stone  seat  that  Maiden  led. 
And  kissing  her  fair  ryes,  said,  "Thou  hast  need 
Of  rest,"  and  I  heap'd  up  the  courser's  bed 
In  agreen  mossy  nook,  with  mountain  flowers  dispread. 


XXVII. 

Within  that  ruin,  where  a  shatter'd  portal 
Looks  to  the  eastern  stars,  abandon'd  now 
By  man,  t»  be  the  home  of  things  immortal, 
INIemories,  like  awful  ghosts  which  come  and  go. 
And  must  inherit  all  he  builds  below. 
When  he  is  gone,  a  hall  stood ;  o'er  whose  roof 
Fair  clinging  weeds  with  ivy  pale  did  grow, 
Clasping  its  gray  rents  with  a  verdurous  woof, 
A  hanging  dome  of  leaves,  a  canopy  moon-proof. 


XXVIII. 

The  autumnal  winds,  as  if  spell-bound,  had  made 
A  natural  couch  of  leaves  in  that  recess. 
Which  seasons  none  disturb'd,  but  in  the  shade 
Of  flowering  parasites,  did  spring  love  to  dress 
With  their  sweet  blooms  the  wintry  loneliness 
Of  thpse  dead  leaves,  shedding  their  stars,  whene'er 
The  wandering  wind  her  nurslings  might  caress ; 
Whose  intertvvining  fingers  ever  there. 
Made  music  wild  and  soft  that  fill'd  the  listening  air 

XXIX. 

We  know  not  where  we  go,  or  what  sweet  dream 
M,ay  pilot  us  through  caverns  strange  and  fair 
Of  far  and  pathless  passion,  while  the  stream 
Of  life  our  bark  doth  on  its  whirlpools  bear. 
Spreading  swift  wings  as  sails  to  the  dim  air ; 
Kor  should  we  seek  to  know,  so  the  devotion 
Of  love  and  gentle  thoughts  be  heard  still  there 
Louder  and  louder  from  the  utmost  Ocean 
Of  universal  lile,  attuning  its  commotion. 

XXX. 

To  the  pure  all  things  are  pure !  Oblivion  wrapt 
Our  spirits,  and  the  fearful  overthrow 
Of  public  hope  was  from  our  being  snapt, 
Though  linked  years  had  bound  it  there;  for  now 
A  power,  a  thirst,  a  knowledge,  which  below 
All  thoughts,  like  light  beyond  the  atmosphere, 
Clothing  its  clouds  with  grace,  doth  ever  flow, 
Came  on  us,  as  we  sate  in  silence  there, 
Beneath  the  golden  stars  of  the  clear  azure  air. 

XXXI. 

In  silence  which  doth  follow  talk  that  causes 
The  baflled  heart  to  speak  with  sighs  and  tears, 
Vv^ien  wildcring  passion  swallowelh  up  the  pauses 
Of  inexpressive  speech : — the  youthful  years 
Wliich  we  togelhor  past,  their  hopes  and  fears, 
The  blood  itself  which  ran  within  our  frames, 
That  likeness  of  the  features  which  endears 
The  thoughts  express'd  by  them,  our  very  names, 
And  all  the  winged  hours  which  speechless  memory 
claims, 

XXXII. 

Had  found  a  voice : — and  ere  that  voice  did  pass. 
The  night  grew  damp  and  dim,  and  through  a  rent 
Of  the  ruin  where  we  sate,  from  the  morass, 
A  wandering  meteor  by  some  wild  wind  sent, 
Hung  high  in  the  green  dome,  to  which  it  lent 
A  faint  and  pallid  lustre;  while  the  song 
Of  blasts,  in  which  its  blue  hair  quivering  bent, 
Strew'd  strangest  sounds  the  moving  leaves  among, 
A  wondrous  hght,  the  sound  as  of  a  spirit's  tongue. 
276 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


29 


XXXIII. 
The  meteor  show'd  the  leaves  on  which  we  sate, 
And  Cythna's  glowing  arms,  and  the  thick  ties 
Of  her  soft  hair,  which  bent  with  gather'd  weight 
My  neck  near  hers,  her  dark  and  deepening  eyes, 
Which,  as  twin  phantoms  of  one  star  that  lies 
O'er  a  dim  well,  move,  though  the  star  reposes. 
Swam  in  our  mute  and  liquid  ecstasies. 
Her  marble  brow,  and  eager  lips,  like  roses. 
With  their  own  fragrance  pale,  which  spring  but  half 
uncloses. 

XXXIV. 
The  meteor  to  its  far  morass  retum'd  : 
The  beating  of  our  veins  one  interval 
Made  still ;  and  then  I  felt  the  blood  that  bum'd 
Withm  her  frame,  mingle  with  mine,  and  fall 
Around  my  heart  like  fire  ;  and  over  all 
A  mist  was  spread,  the  sickness  of  a  deep 
And  speechless  swoon  of  joy,  as  might  befall 
Two  disunited  spirits  wlien  ihey  leap 
In  union  from  this  earth's  obscure  and  fading  sleep. 

XXXV. 

Was  it  one  moment  that  confounded  thus 
All  thought,  all  sense,  all  feeling,  into  one 
Unutterable  power,  which  shielded  us 
Even  frorn  our  own  cold  looks,  when  we  had  gone 
Into  a  wide  and  wild  oblivion 
Of  tumult  and  of  tenderness?  or  now 
Had  ages,  such  as  make  the  moon  and  sun. 
The  seasons,  and  mankind  their  changes  know. 
Left  fear  and  time  unfelt  by  us  alone  beloAv  ? 


XXXVI. 

I  know  not.  Wiiat  are  kisses  whose  fire  clasps 
The  failing  heart  in  languishment,  or  limb 
Twined  within  limb  I  or  the  quick  dying  gasps 
Of  the  life  meeting,  when  the  faint  eyes  swim 
Through  tears  of  a  wide  mist  boundless  and  dim, 
In  one  caress  ?  What  is  the  strong  control 
Which  leads  the  heart  that  dizzy  steep  to  climb, 
Wliere  far  over  the  world  those  vapors  roll, 
Which  blend  two  restless  frames  in  one  reposing  soul  ? 

XXXVIT. 

It  is  the  shadow  which  doth  float  unseen. 
But  not  unfelt,  o'er  blind  mortality,    , 
'WTiose  divine  darkness  fled  not,  from  that  green 
And  lone  recess,  where  lapt  in  peace  did  lie 
Our  linked  frames ;  till,  from  the  changing  sky, 
That  night  and  still  another  day  had  fled  ; 
And  then  I  saw  and  felt.    The  moon  was  high. 
And  clouds,  as  of  a  coming  storm,  were  spread 
Under  its  orb, — loud  winds  were  gathering  overhead. 

XXXVIII. 

Cythna's  sweet  lips  seem'd  lurid  in  the  moon. 
Her  fairest  limbs  with  the  night  wind  were  chill, 
And  her  dark  tresses  were  all  loosely  strewn 
O'er  her  pale  bosom  : — all  within  was  still. 
And  the  sweet  peace  of  joy  did  almost  fill 
The  depth  of  her  unfathomable  look  ; — 
And  we  sate  calmly,  though  that  rocky  hill. 
The  waves  contending  in  its  caverns  strook. 
For  they  foreknew  the  storm,  and  the  gray  ruin  shook. 


XXXIX. 

There  we  unheeding  sate,  in  the  communion 
Of  interchanged  vows,  which,  with  a  rite 
Of  faith  most  sweet  and  sacred,  stamp'd  our  union. — 
Few  were  the  living  hearts  which  could  unite 
Like  ours,  or  celebrate  a  bridal  night 
With  such  close  sympathies,  for  they  had  sprung 
From  linked  youth,  and  from  the  gentle  might 
Of  eariiest  love,  delay'd  and  cherish'd  long. 
Which  common  hopes  and  fears  made,  hke  a  tempest, 
strong. 

XL. 

And  such  is  Nature's  law  divine,  that  those 
Who  grow  together  cannot  clioose  but  love. 
If  faith  or  custom  do  not  interpose. 
Or  common  slavery  mar  what  else  might  move 
All  gentlest  thoughts  ;  as  in  the  sacred  grove 
Which  shades  the  springs  of  ^Ethiopian  Nile, 
That  living  tree,  which,  if  the  arrowy  dove 
Strike  with  her  shadow,  shrinks  in  fear  awliile, 
But  its  own  kindred  leaves  clasps  while  the  simbeams 
smile ; 

XLI. 

And  clings  to  them,  when  darkness  may  dissever 
The  close  caresses  of  all  duller  plants 
Which  bloom  on  the  wide  earth — thus  we  for  ever 
Were  link'd,  for  love  had  nurst  us  in  the  haimts 
Where  knowledge,  from  its  secret  source,  enchan*s 
Young  hearts  with  the  fresh  music  of  its  springing. 
Ere  yet  its  gather'd  flood  feeds  human  wants, 
As  the  great  Nile  feeds  Egypt ;  ever  fhnging 
Light  on  the  woven  boughs  which  o'er  its  waves  are 
swingmg. 

XLII. 

The  tones  of  Cj'thna's  voice  like  echoes  were 
Of  those  far  murmuring  streams;  they  rose  and  fell, 
Wix'd  with  mine  own  in  the  tempestuous  air, — 
And  so  we  sate,  until  our  talk  befell 
Of  the  late  ruin,  swift  and  horrible. 
And  how  those  seeds  of  hope  might  yet  be  sown 
Whose  fruit  is  evil's  mortal  poison :  well, 
For  us,  this  ruin  made  a  watch-tower  lone, 
But  Cythna's  eyes  look'd  faint,  and  now  two  days 
were  gone 

XLin. 

Since  she  had  food : — therefore  I  did  awaken 
The  Tartar  steed,  who,  from  his  ebon  mane. 
Soon  as  the  clinging  slumbers  he  had  shaken 
Bent  his  thin  head  to  seek  the  brazen  rein. 
Following  me  obecUently  ;  with  pain 
Of  heart,  so  deep  and  dread,  that  one  caress. 
When  lips  and  heart  refuse  to  part  again. 
Till  they  have  told  their  fill,  could  scarce  express 
The  anguish  of  her  mute  and  fearful  tenderness. 

XLW. 
Cylhna  beheld  me  part,  as  I  bestrode 
That  willing  steed — the  tempest  and  the  night, 
Wliich  gave  my  path  its  safety  as  I  rode 
Down  the  ra\-ine  of  rocks,  did  soon  unite, 
The  darkness  and  the  tumult  of  their  might 
Borne  on  all  winds. — Far  through  the  streaming  rain 
Floating  at  intervals  the  garments  white 
Of  Cythna  gleam'd,  and  her  voice  once  again 
Came  to  me  on  the  gust,  and  soon  I  reach'd  the  plaig 
37  277 


30 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XLV. 

1  dreaded  not  the  tempest,  nor  did  he 
Who  bore  me,  but  his  eyeballs  wide  and  red 
Tum'd  on  the  lightning's  cleft  exultingly  ; 
And  when  the  earth  beneath  his  tameless  tread, 
Shook  with  the  sullen  thunder,  he  would  spread 
His  nostrils  to  the  blast,  and  joyously 
Mock  the  fierce  peal  with  neighings ; — thus  we  sped 
O'er  the  lit  plain,  and  soon  I  could  descry 
Where  Death  and  Fire  had  gorged  the  spoil  of  victory. 

XLVI. 

There  was  a  desolate  village  in  a  wood, 
Whose  bloom-inwoven  leaves  now  scattering  fed 
The  hungry  storm ;  it  was  a  place  of  blood, 
A  heap  of  hearthless  walls  ; — the  flames  were  dead 
Within  those  dwellings  now, — the  life  had  fled 
From  all  those  corpses  now, — but  the  wide  sky 
Flooded  with  lightning  was  ribb'd  overhead 
By  the  black  rafters,  and  around  did  lie 
-Woxnen,  and  babes,  and  men,  slaughter'd  confusedly. 

XLVII. 

Beside  the  fountain  in  the  market-place 
Dismounting,  I  beheld  those  corpses  stare 
'With  horny  eyes  upon  each  other's  face, 
And  on  the  earth  and  on  the  vacant  air. 
And  upon  me,  close  to  the  waters  where 
I  stoop'd  to  slake  my  tliirst ; — I  shrank  to  taste, 
For  the  salt  bitterness  of  blood  was  there ; 
But  tied  the  steed  beside,  and  sought  in  haste 
If  any  yet  survived  amid  that  ghastly  waste. 

XLVIII. 
No  living  thing  was  there  beside  one  woman. 
Whom  I  found  wandering  in  the  streets,  and  she 
Was  wither'd  from  a  likeness  of  aught  human 
•  Into  a  fiend,  by  some  strange  misery  : 
Soon  as  she  heard  my  steps  she  leap'd  on  me. 
And  glued  her  burning  lips  to  mine,  and  laugh'd 
With  a  loud,  long,  and  frantic  laugh  of  glee. 
And  cried,  "  Now,  Mortal,  thou  hast  deeply  quaff'd 
Tlie  Plague's  blue  kisses — soon  millions  shall  pledge 
the  draught ! 

XLTX. 

"  My  name  is  Pestilence — this  bosom  dry. 
Once  fed  two  babes — a  sister  and  a  brother — 
When  I  came  home,  one  in  the  blood  did  lie 
Of  three  death- wounds — the  flames  had  ate  the  other! 
Since  then  I  have  no  longer  been  a  mother. 
But  I  am  Pestilence  ; — hither  and  thither 
I  flit  about,  tliat  I  may  slay  and  smother ; — 
All  lips  which  I  have  kiss'd  must  surely  wither. 
But  Death's — if  thou  art  he,  we'll  go  to  work  together! 


"  What  seek'st  thou  here?  the  moonlight  comes  in 

flashes, — 
The  dew  is  rising  dankly  from  the  dell — 
'T  will  moisten  her !  and  thou  shalt  see  the  gashes 
In  my  sweet  boy,  now  full  of  worms — but  tell 
First  what  thou  seek'st." — "  I  seek  for  food." — "  'Tis 

well, 
Thou  shalt  have  food  ;  Famine,  my  paramour. 
"Waits  for  us  at  the  feast — cruel  and  fell 
Is  Famine,  but  he  drives  not  from  his  door 
Those  whom  these  lips  have  kiss'd,  alone.  No  more, 

no  more ! " 


LI. 

As  thus  she  spake,  she  grasp'd  me  with  the  strength 
Of  madness,  and  by  many  a  ruin'd  hearth 
She  led,  and  over  many  a  corpse  : — at  length 
We  came  to  a  lone  hut,  where  on  the  earth 
Which  made  its  floor,  she  in  her  ghastly  mirth 
Gathering  from  all  those  homes  now  desolate, 
Had  piled  three  heaps  of  loaves,  making  a  dearth 
Among  the  dead — round  which  she  set  in  stale 
A  ring  of  cold,  stiff  babes  ;  silent  and  stark  they  sate. 

LII. 

She  leap'd  upon  a  pile,  and  lifted  high 
Her  mad  looks  to  the  lightning,  and  cried  :  "  Eat ! 
Share  the  great  feast — to-morrow  we  must  die  !" 
And  then  she  spurn'd  the  loaves  with  her  pale  feet, 
Towards  her  bloodless  guests  ; — that  sight  to  meet, 
Mine  eyes  and  my  lieart  ached,  and  but  that  she 
Who  loved  me,  did  with  absent  looks  defeat 
Despair,  I  might  have  raved  in  sympathy ; 
But  now  I  took  the  food  that  woman  oflfer'd  me ; 

LIII. 

And  vainly  having  with  her  madness  striven 
If  I  might  win  her  to  return  with  me. 
Departed.    In  the  eastern  beams  of  Heaven 
The  lightning  now  grew  pallid — rapidly. 
As  by  the  shore  of  the  tempestuous  sea 
The  dark  steed  bore  me,  and  the  mountain  gray 
Soon  echoed  to  his  hoofs,  and  I  could  see 
Cytlina  among  the  rocks,  where  she  alway 
Had  sate,  with  anxious  eyes  fix'd  on  the  lingering  day 

LIV. 

And  joy  was  ours  to  meet :  she  was  most  pale, 
Famish'd,  and  wet  and  weary,  so  I  cast 
My  arms  around  her,  lest  her  steps  should  fail 
As  to  our  home  we  went,  and  thus  embraced, 
Her  full  heart  seem'd  a  deeper  joy  to  taste 
Than  e'er  the  prosperous  know ;  the  steed  beliind 
Trod  peacefully  along  the  mountain  waste. 
We  reached  our  home  ere  morning  coidd  unbind 
Night's  latest  veil,  and  on  our  bridal  couch  reclined. 

LV. 

Her  chill'd  heart  having  cherish'd  in  my  bosom, 
And  sweetest  kisses  past,  we  two  did  share 
Our  peaceful  meal : — as  an  autumnal  blossom 
^Vhich  spreads  its  shrunk  leaves  in  llie  sunny  air. 
After  cold  showers,  like  rainbows  woven  there, 
Thus  in  her  lips  and  cheeks  the  vital  spirit 
Mantled,  and  in  her  eyes,  an  atmosphere 
Of  health,  and  hope  ;  and  sorrow  languish 'd  near  it 
And  fear,  and  all  that  dark  despondence  doth  inlieriU 
278 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


31 


CANTO  VII. 


1. 

So  we  sate  joyous  as  the  morning  ray 
Which  fed  upon  the  wrecks  of  night  and  storm 
Now  hngering  on  the  winds ;  light  airs  did  play 
Among  the  dewy  weeds,  the  sun  was  warm, 
And  we  sate  link'd  in  the  inwoven  charm 
Of  converse  and  caresses  sweet  and  deep, 
Speechless  caresses,  talk  that  might  disarm 
Time,  though  he  wield  the  darts  of  death  and  sleep, 
And  those  thrice  mortal  barbs  in  his  own  poison  steep. 

n. 

I  told  her  of  my  sufferings  and  my  madness, 
And  how,  awaken'd  from  that  dreamy  mood 
By  Liberty's  uprise,  the  strength  of  gladness 
Came  to  my  spirit  in  my  solitude  ; 
And  all  that  now  I  was,  while  tears  pursued 
Each  other  down  her  fair  and  listening  cheek 
Fast  as  the  thoughts  which  fed  them,  like  a  flood 
From  sunbright  dales  ;  and  when  I  ceased  to  speak, 
Her  accents  soft  and  sweet  the  passing  air  did  wake. 

III. 

She  told  me  a  strange  tale  of  strange  endurance, 
Like  broken  memories  of  many  a  heart 
Woven  into  one  ;  to  which  no  firm  assurance, 
So  wild  were  they,  could  her  own  faith  impart. 
She  said  that  not  a  tear  did  dare  to  start 
From  the  swoln  brain,  and  that  her  thoughts  were 

firm 
When  from  all  mortal  hope  she  did  depart, 
Borne  by  those  slaves  across  the  Ocean's  term, 
And  that  she  reach'd  the  port  without  one  fear  infirm. 

IV. 

One  was  she  among  many  there,  the  thralls 
Of  the  cold  Tyrant's  cruel  lust :  and  they 
Laugh'd  mournfully  in  those  polluted  halls; 
But  she  was  calm  and  sad,  musing  alway 
On  loftiest  enterprise,  till  on  a  day 
Tlie  Tyrant  heard  her  singing  to  her  lute 
A  wild,  and  sad,  and  spirit-thrilling  lay, 
Like  winds  that  die  in  wastes — one  moment  mute 
The  evil  thoughts  it  made,  which  did  his  breast  pollute. 


Even  when  he  saw  her  wondrous  loveliness. 
One  moment  to  great  Nature's  sacred  power 
He  bent,  and  was  no  longer  passionless  ; 
But  when  he  bade  her  to  his  secret  bower 
Be  borne  a  loveless  victim,  and  she  tore 
Her  locks  in  agony,  and  her  words  of  flame 
And  mightier  looks  avail'd  not ;  then  he  bore 
Again  his  load  of  slavery,  and  became 
A  king,  a  hearllcss  beast,  a  pageant  and  a  name. 


VL 

She  told  me  what  a  lothesome  agony 
la  that  when  selfishness  mocks  love's  delight. 
Foul  as  in  dreams  most  learful  imagery 
To  dally  with  the  moving  dead — that  night 
All  torture,  fear,  or  horror  made  seem  light, 
Which  the  soul  dreams  or  knows,  and  when  the  day 
Shone  on  her  awful  frenzy,  from  the  sight 
Where  like  a  Spirit  in  fleshly  chains  she  lay 
Struggling,  aghast  and  pale  the  Tyrant  fled  away 

VII 

Her  madness  was  a  beam  of  light,  a  power 
Which  dawn'd  through  the  rent  soul;  and  words  it 

gave, 
Gestures  and  loolis,  such  as  in  whirlwinds  bore 
Which  might  not  be  withstood,  whence  none  could 

save 
All  who  approach'd  their  sphere,  like  some-  calm 

wave 
Vex'd  into  whirlpools  by  the  chasms  beneath ; 
And  sympathy  made  each  attendant  slave 
Fearless  and  free,  and  they  began  to  breathe 
Deep  curses,  like  the  voice  of  flames  far  underneath- 

VIII. 

The  King  felt  pale  upon  his  noonday  throne : 
At  night  two  slaves  he  to  her  chamber  sent, 
One  was  a  green  and  wrinkled  eunuch,  grown 
From  human  shape  into  an  instrument 
Of  all  things  ill — distorted,  bovv'd  and  bent. 
The  other  was  a  wretch  from  infancy 
Made  dumb  by  poison  ;  who  naught  knew  or  meant 
But  to  obey  :  from  the  fire-isles  came  he, 
A  diver  lean  and  strong,  of  Oman's  coral  sea. 

IX. 

Tliey  bore  her  to  a  bark,  and  the  swift  stroke 
Of  silent  rowers  clove  the  blue  moonlight  seas, 
Until  upon  their  path  the  morning  broke ; 
They  anchor'd  then,  where,  be  there  calm  or  breeze, 
The  gloomiest  of  the  drear  Symplegades 
Shakes  with  the  sleepless  surge ; — the  yEthiop  there 
Wound  his  long  arms  around  her,  and  with  knees 
Like  iron  clasp'd  her  feet,  and  plunged  with  her 
Among  the  closing  waves  out  of  the  boundless  air. 


"  Swift  as  an  eagle  stooping  from  the  plain 
Of  morning  light,  into  some  shadowy  wood. 
He  plunged  through  the  green  silence  of  the  main, 
Through  many  a  cavern  which  the  eternal  h  -od 
Had  scoop'd,  as  dark  lairs  for  its  monster  brooJ ; 
And  among  mighty  shapes  which  fled  in  wonder. 
And  among  mightier  shadows  which  ptirsued 
His  heels,  he  wound  :  until  the  dark  rocks  under 
He  touch'd  a  golden  chain — a  sound  arose  like  thunder 

XI. 

"  A  stunning  clang  of  massive  bolts  redoubling 
Beneath  the  deep — a  burst  of  waters  driven 
As  from  the  roots  of  the  sea,  raging  and  bubbling 
And  in  that  roof  of  crags  a  space  was  riven 
Through  which  there  shone  the  emerald  beams  ot 

heaven. 
Shot  through  the  lines  of  many  waves  inwoven, 
Like  sunlight  through  acacia  woods  at  even, 
Through  which,  his  way  the  diver  having  cloven. 
Past  like  a  spark  sent  up  out  of  a  burning  oven. 
279 


32 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XII. 
■"  And  then,"  she  said,  "  he  laid  me  in  a  cave 
Above  the  waters,  by  tliat  chasm  of  sea, 
A  fountain  round  and  vast,  in  which  the  wave 
Imprison'd,  boil'd  and  leap'd  perpetually, 
Down  which,  one  moment  resting,  he  did  flee, 
Winning  the  adverse  depth  ;  that  spacious  cell 
Like  an  upaithric  temple  wide  and  high, 
Whose  aery  dome  is  inaccessible. 
Was  pierced  with  one  round  cleft  through  which  the 
simbeams  fell. 

XIII. 

"  Below,  the  fountain's  brink  was  richly  paven 
With  the  deep's  wealth,  coral,  and  pearl,  and  sand 
Like  spangling  gold,  and  purple  shells  engraven 
With  mystic  legends,  by  no  mortal  hand 
Left  there,  when  thronging  to  the  moon's  command, 
The  gathering  waves  rent  the  Hesperian  gate 
Of  mountains,  and  on  such  bright  floor  did  stand 
Columns,  and  shapes  like  statues,  and  the  state 

Of  kingless  thrones,  which  Earth  did  in  her  heart 
create. 

XIV. 
"  The  fiend  of  madness  which  had  made  its  prey 
Of  my  poor  heart,  was  lull'd  to  sleep  awhile  : 
There  was  an  interval  of  many  a  day, 
And  a  sea-eagle  brought  me  food  the  while, 
Whose  nest  was  built  in  that  untrodden  isle. 
And  who,  to  be  the  jailor  had  been  taught. 
Of  that  strange  dungeon  ;  as  a  friend  whose  smile 
Like  light  and  rest  at  mom  and  even  is  sought, 

That  wild  bird  was  to  me,  till  madness  misery  brought 

XV. 

"  The  misery  of  a  madness  slow  and  creeping. 
Which  made  the  earth  seem  fire,  the  sea  seem  air. 
And  the  white  clouds  of  noon  which  oft  were 

sleeping. 
In  the  blue  heaven  so  beautiful  and  fair. 
Like  hosts  of  ghastly  shadows  hovering  there ; 
And  the  sea-eagle  look'd  a  fiend,  who  bore 
Thy  mangled  limbs  for  food  ! — thus  all  things  were 
Transform'd  into  the  agony  which  I  wore 
Even  as  a  poison'd  robe  around  my  bosom's  core 

XVI. 

"  Again  I  knew  the  day  and  night  fast  fleeing, 
The  eagle,  and  tlie  fountain,  and  the  air ; 
A  .lother  frenzy  came — there  seem'd  a  being 
■^Yithin  me — a  strange  load  my  heart  did  bear, 
As  if  some  living  thing  had  made  its  lair 
Even  in  the  fountains  of  my  life : — a  long 
And  wondrous  vision  wrought  from  my  despair. 
Then  grew,  like  sweet  reality  among 
Dim  visionary  woes,  an  unreposing  throng. 

XVII. 

"  Methought  I  was  about  to  be  a  mother — 
Month  alter  month  went  by,  and  still  I  dream'd 
That  we  should  soon  be  all  to  one  another, 
I  and  my  child  ;  and  still  new  pulses  seem'd 
To  beat  beside  my  heart,  and  still  I  deem'd 
There  was  a  babe  vvitiiin — and  when  the  rain 
Of  winter  through  the  rifled  cavern  stream'd, 
Methought,  after  a  lapse  of  lingering  pain, 
I  saw  that  lovely  shape,  which  near  my  heart  had 
lain. 


XVIII. 
"  It  was  a  babe,  beautiful  from  its  birth. — 
It  was  hke  thee,  dear  love !  its  eyes  were  thino. 
Its  brow,  its  lips,  and  so  upon  the  earth 
It  laid  its  fingers,  as  now  rest  on  mine 
Thine  own  beloved  : — 'twas  a  dream  divine  ; 
Even  to  remember  how  it  fled,  how  swift. 
How  utterly,  might  make  the  heart  repine, — 
Though  'twas  a  dream." — Then  Cythna  did  uplift 

Her  loolis  on  mine,  as  if  some  doubt  she  sought  to 
shift: 

XIX. 
A  doubt  which  would  not  flee,  a  tenderness 
Of  questioning  grief  a  sOurce  of  thronging  tears 
Which,  having  past,  as  one  whom  sobs  opprest, 
She  spoke  :  "  Yes,  in  the  wilderness  of  years 
Her  memory,  aye,  like  a  green  home  appears. 
She  suck'd  her  fill  even  at  this  breast,  sweet  Ibve, 
For  many  months.     I  had  no  mortal  fears  ; 
Methought  I  felt  her  lips  and  breath  approve,^ 

It  was  a  human  thing  which  to  my  bosom  clove. 

XX. 

"  I  watch'd  the  dawn  of  her  first  smiles,  and  soon 
When  zenith-stars  were  trembling  on  the  wave, 
Or  when  the  beams  of  the  invisible  moon, 
Or  sun,  from  many  a  prism  within  the  cave, 
Their  gem-born  shadows  to  the  water  gave. 
Her  looks  would  hunt  them,  and  with  outspread 

hand. 
From  the  swift  lights  which  might  that  fountain 

pave. 
She  would  mark  one,  and  laugh,  when  that  com- 
mand 
Slighting,  it  linger'd  there,  and  could  not  understand 

XXI. 

"  Methought  her  looks  began  to  talk  with  me  ; 
And  no  articulate  sounds,  but  something  sweet 
Her  lips  would  frame, — so  sweet  it  could  not  be, 
That  it  was  meaningless :  her  touch  would  meet 
Mine,  and  our  pulses  calmly  flow  and  beat 
In  response  wliile  we  slept ;  and  on  a  day 
When  I  was  happiest  in  that  strange  retreat. 
With  heaps  of  golden  shells  we  two  did  play, — 
Both  infants,  weaving  wings  for  time's  perpetual  way. 

XXII. 

"  Ere  night,  methought,  her  waning  eyes  were 

grown 
Weary  with  joy,  and,  tired  with  our  delight. 
We,  on  the  earth,  like  sister  twins  lay  down 
On  one  fair  mother's  bosom  ; — from  that  night 
She  fled  ; — like  those  illusions  clear  and  bright, 
Which  dwell  in  lakes,  when  the  red  moon  on  high 
Pause  ere  it  wakens  tempest ; — and  her  flight, 
Though  'twas  the  death  of  brainless  phantasy, 
Yet  smote  my  lonesome  heart  more  than  all  misery 

XXIII. 

"It  seem'd  that  in  the  dreary  night,  the  diver 
Who  brought  nie  thither,  came  again,  and  bore 
My  child  away.    I  saw  the  waters  quiver. 
When  he  so  swiftly  sunk,  as  once  before : 
Then  morning  came — it  shone  even  as  of  yore, 
But  I  was  changed — the  very  life  was  gone 
Out  of  my  heart — I  wasted  more  and  more. 
Day  after  day,  and  sitting  there  alone, 
Vex'd  the  inconstant  waves  with  my  perpetual  moan 
280 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


33 


XXIV. 

"  I  -vvas  no  longer  mad,  and  yet  methought 
My  breasts  were  swolnand  changed : — ^in  every  vein 
The  lilood  stood  still  one  inomonl,  while  that  thought 
Was  passing — with  a  gush  of"  sickening  pain 
It  ebb'd  even  to  its  wither'd  springs  again : 
When  my  wan  eyes  in  stern  resolve  i  turn'd 
From  that  most  strange  delusion,  wh'ich  would  fain 
Have  waked  the  dream  lor  which  my  spirit  yearn'd 
With  more  than  huiiian  love, — then  left  it  unrcturn'd. 

XXV. 

"  So,  now  my  reason  was  restored  to  me, 

I  struggled  with  that  dream,  which,  like  a  beast 

Most  fierce  and  beauteous,  in  my  memory 

Had  made  its  lair,  and  on  my  heart  did  feast  ; 

But  all  that  cave  and  all  its  shapes  possest 

By  thoughts  which  could  not  fade,  renew'd  each  one 

Some  smile,  some  look,  some  gesture  which  had 

blest 
Me  heretofore  :  I,  sitting  there  alone, 
Ve\'d  tlie  inconstant  waves  with  my  perpetual  moan. 

XXVI. 
"  Time  past,  I  know  not  whether  months  or  years; 
For  day,  nor  night,  nor  change  of  seasons  made 
Its  note,  but  thoughts  and  unavailing  tears: 
And  I  became  at  last  even  as  a  shade, 
A  smoke,  a  cloud  on  which  the  winds  have  prey'd. 
Till  it  be  thin  as  air;  imtil,  one  even, 
A  Nautilus  upon  the  fountain  play'd, 
Spreading  his  azure  sail  where  breath  of  Heaven 
Descended    not,  among  the   waves  and   whirlpools 
driven. 

XXVII. 
"  And  when  the  Eagle  came,  that  lovely  thing, 
Oaring  with  rosy  feet  its  silver  boat, 
Fled  near  me  as  for  shelter ;  on  slow  wing. 
The  Eagle,  hovering  o'er  his  prey,  did  (loat ; 
But  when  he  saw  that  I  with  fear  did  note 
His  purpose,  proffering  my  own  food  to  him, 
The  eager  plumes  subsided  on  his  throat — 
He  came  where  that  bright  child  of  sea  did  swim. 
And  o'er  it  cast  in  peace  his  shadow  broad  and  dim. 

XXVIII. 

"  This  waken'd  me,  it  gave  me  human  strength ; 
And  hope,  I  know  not  whence  or  wherefore,  rose, 
But  I  resumed  my  ancient  powers  at  length ; 
My  spirit  felt  again  like  one  of  those, 
Like  thine,  whose  fate  it  is  to  make  the  woes 
Of  human-kind  their  prey — what  was  lliis  cave  ? 
Its  deep  foundation  no  firm  purpose  knows, 
Immutable,  resistless,  strong  to  save, 
Like  mind  while  yet  it  mocks  the  all-devouring  grave. 

XXIX. 

"  And  where  was  Laon  ?  might  my  heart  be  dead, 
While  that  far  dearer  heart  could  move  and  be  ? 
Or  whilst  over  the  earth  the  pall  was  spread. 
Which  I  had  sworn  to  rend  ?  I  might  be  free, 
Could  I  but  win  that  friendly  bird  to  me. 
To  bring  me  ropes ;  and  long  in  vain  I  sought 
By  intercourse  of  mutual  imagery 
Of  objects,  if  such  aid  he  could  be  taught ; 
But  fruit,  and  flowers,  and  boughs,  yet  never  ropes 
he  brought. 

2L 


XXX. 

"  We  live  in  our  own  world,  and  mine  was  made 
From  glorious  phantasies  of  hope  departed  : 
Aye,  we  are  darken'd  with  their  floating  shade, 
Or  cast  a  lustre  on  iheni — time  imparted 
Such  power  to  me,  I  became  fearless-hearted. 
My  eye  and  voice  grew  firm,  calm  was  my  mind, 
And  piercing,  like  the  morn,  now  it  has  darted 
Its  lustre  on  all  hidden  things,  behind 
Yon  dim  and  fading  clouds  which  load  the  weary  wind. 

XXXI. 

"  My  mind  became  the  book  through  which  I  grev? 
Wise  in  all  human  wisdom,  and  its  cave, 
Wliich  like  a  mine  I  rifled  through  and  through, 
To  me  the  keeping  of  its  secrets  gave — 
One  mind,  the  type  of  all,  the  moveless  wave 
Whose  calm  reflects  all  moving  things  that  are, 
Necessity,  and  love,  and  life,  the  grave, 
And  sympathy,  foimtains  of  hope  and  fear; 
Justice,  and  truth,  and  time,  and  the  world's  naiural 
sphere. 

XXXII. 

"  And  on  the  sand  would  I  make  signs  to  range 
These  woofs,  as  they  were  woven,  of  my  thought  ; 
Clear,  elemental  shapes,  whose  smallest  change 
A  subtler  language  within  language  wrought : 
The  key  of  truths  which  once  were  dimly  taught 
In  old  Crotona ; — and  sweet  melodies 
Of  love,  in  that  lone  solitude  I  caught 
From  mine  own  voice  in  dream,  when  thy  dear  eyes 
Shone  through  my  sleep,  and  did  that  utterance  har- 
monize. 

XXXIII. 

"  Thy  songs  were  winds  whereon  I  fled  at  will, 
As  in  a  winged  chariot,  o'er  the  plain 
Of  crystal  youth  :  and  thou  wert  there  to  fill 
My  heart  with  joy,  and  there  we  sate  again 
On  the  gray  margin  of  the  glimmering  main, 
Happy  as  then,  but  wiser  far,  for  we 
Smiled  on  the  flowery  grave  in  which  were  lain 
Fear,  Faith,  and  Slavery ;  and  mankind  was  free, 
Equal,  and  pure  and  wise,  in  wisdom's  prophecy. 

XXXIV. 

"  For  to  my  will  my  fancies  were  as  slaves 
To  do  their  sweet  and  subtile  ministries ; 
And  oft  from  that  bright  fountain's  shadowy  waves 
Tiiey  would  make  hinnan  throngs  gather  and  rise 
To  combat  with  my  overflowing  eyes, 
And  voice  made  deep  with  passion — thus  I  grew 
Familiar  with  the  shock  and  the  surprise 
And  war  of  earthly  minds,  from  which  I  drew 
The  power  which  has  been  mine  to  frame  their 
thoughts  anew. 

XXXV. 

"  And  thus  my  prison  was  the  populous  earth- - 
Where  I  saw — even  as  misery  dreams  of  mom 
Before  the  east  has  given  its  glory  birth — 
Religion's  pomp  made  desolate  by  the  scorn 
Of  Wisdom's  faintest  smile,  and  thrones  uptoni 
And  dwellings  of  mild  people  interspersed 
With  undivided  fields  of  ripening  corn, 
And  love  made  free, — a  hope  \\  hich  we  have  nursl 
Even  with  our  blood  and  tears, — until  its  glory  burst 
281 


34 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXXVI. 

"  All  is  not  lost !  there  is  some  recompense 
For  hope  whose  fountain  can  be  thus  profound, 
Even  throned  Evil's  splendid  impotence, 
Girt  by  its  hell  of  power,  the  secret  sound 
Of  hyrnns  to  truth  and  freedom — the  dread  bound 
Of  life  and  death  past  fearlessly  and  well. 
Dungeons  wherein  the  high  resolve  is  found. 
Racks  which  degraded  woman's  greatness  tell. 
And  what  rnay  else  be  good  and  irresistible. 

XXXVII. 

"  Such  are  the  thoughts  which,  like  the  fires  that  flare 
In  storm-encompass'd  isles,  we  cherish  yet 
In  this  dark  ruin — such  were  mine  even  there  ; 
As  in  its  sleep  some  odorous  violet. 
While  yet  its  leaves  with  nightly  dews  are  wet. 
Breathes  in  prophetic  dreams  of  day's  uprise, 
Or,  as  ere  Scythian  frost  in  fear  has  met 
Spring's  messengers  descending  from  the  skies. 
The  buds  foreknew  their  life — this  hope  must  ever  rise. 

XXXVIII. 

"  So  years  had  past,  when  sudden  earthquake  rent 
The  depth  of  ocean,  and  the  cavern  crackt 
With  sound,  as  if  the  world's  wide  continent 
Had  fallen  in  universal  ruin  wrackt  ; 
And  through  the  cleft  stream'd  in  one  cataract, 
The  stifling  waters : — when  I  woke,  the  flood 
Whose  Ijanded  waves  that  crystal  cave  had  sack'd 
Was  ebbing  round  me,  and  my  bright  abode 
Before  me  yawn'd — a  chasm,  desert,  and  bare,  and 
broad. 

XXXIX. 

"  Above  me  was  the  sky,  beneath  the  sea : 
I  stood  upon  a  point  of  shatter'd  stone, 
And  heard  loose  rocks  rushing  tumultuously 
With  splash  and  shock  into  the  deep — anon 
All  ceased,  and  there  was  silence  wide  and  lone. 
I  felt  that  I  was  free !  the  Ocean-spray 
Quiver'd  beneath  my  feet,  the  broad  Heaven  shone 
Around,  and  in  my  hair  the  winds  did  play 
Lingering  as  tliey  pursued  their  unimpeded  way. 

XL. 

"  My  spirit  moved  upon  the  sea  like  wind 
Wliieh  round  some  thymy  cape  will  lag  and  hover. 
Though  it  can  wake  the  still  cloud,  and  unbind 
The  strength  of  tempest :  day  was  almost  over. 
When  through  the  fading  light  I  could  discover 
A  ship  approaching — its  white  sails  were  fed 
With  the  north  wind — its  moving  shade  did  cover 
The  twilight  deep ; — the  mariners  in  dread 
Cast  anchor  when  they  saw  new  rocks  around  them 
spread. 

XLI. 

"  And  when  they  saw  one  sitting  on  a  crag. 
They  sent  a  boat  to  me  ;  the  sailors  row'd 
In  awe  through  many  a  new  and  fearful  jag 
Of  overhanging  rock,  through  which  there  flow'd 
The  foam  of  streams  that  cannot  make  abode. 
They  came  and  question'd  me,  but  when  they  heard 
My  voice,  they  became  silent,  and  they  stood 
And  moved  as  men  in  whom  new  love  had  stirr'd 
Deep  thoughts :   so  to  the  ship  we  past  without  a 
word. 


CANTO  VIIL 


I. 


"  I  SATE  beside  the  steersman  then,  and  gazing 
Upon  tlie  west,  cried,  '  Spread  the  sails !  behold ! 
The  sinking  moon  is  like  a  watch-tower  blazing 
Over  the  moimtains  yet ; — the  City  of  Gold 
Yon  Cape  alone  does  from  the  sight  withhold ; 
The  stream  is  fleet — the  north  breathes  steadily 
Beneath  the  stars,  they  tremble  with  the  cold  ! 
Ye  cannot  rest  upon  the  dreary  sea  I — 
Haste,  haste  to  the  warm  home  of  happier  destiny! 

II. 

"  The  IMariners  obey'd — the  Captain  stood 
Aloof,  and  whispering  to  the  Pilot,  said, 
'  Alas,  alas !  I  fear  we  are  pursued 
By  wicked  ghosts:  a  Phantom  of  the  Dead, 
The  night  before  we  sail'd,  came  to  my  bed 
In  dream,  like  that!' — The  Pilot  then  replied, 
'  It  cannot  be — she  is  a  human  Maid — 
Her  low  voice  makes  you  weep — she  is  some  bride, 
Or  daughter  of  high  birth — she  can  be  naught  beside.' 

III. 

"  We  past  the  islets,  borne  by  wind  and  stream, 
And  as  we  sail'd,  the  Mariners  came  near 
And  throng'd  around  to  listen ; — in  the  gleam 
Of  the  pale  moon  I  stood,  as  one  whom  fear 
May  not  attaint,  and  my  calm  voice  did  rear : 
Ye  all  are  human — yon  broad  moon  gives  light 
To  millions  who  the  self-same  likeness  wear. 
Even  while  I  speak — beneath  this  very  night. 
Their  thoughts  flow  on  like  ours,  in  sadness  or  dehght 

IV. 

"  What  dream  ye  ?   Your  own  hands  have  built  a 

home. 
Even  for  yourselves  on  a  beloved  shore : 
For  some,  fond  eyes  are  pining  till  they  come. 
How  they  will  greet  him  when  his  toils  are  o'er. 
And  laughing  babes  rush  from  the  well-known  door! 
Is  this  your  care  ?  ye  toil  for  your  own  good — 
Ye  feel  and  think — has  some  immortal  Power 
Such  purposes?  or  in  a  human  mood. 
Dream  ye  some  Power  thus  builds  for  man  in  solitude? 


"  'What  is  that  Power?  ye  mock  yourselves,  and  give 
A  human  heart  to  what  ye  cannot  know : 
As  if  the  cause  of  life  could  think  and  live ! 
'T  were  as  if  man's  own  works  should  feel,  and  show 
The  hopes,  and  fears,  and  thoughts  from  wliich  they 

flow. 
And  he  be  like  to  them.    Lo !  Plague  is  free 
To  waste.  Blight,  Poison,  Earthquake,  Hail,  and 

Snow, 
Disease,  and  Want,  and  worse  Necessity 
Of  hate  and  ill,  and  Pride,  and  Fear,  and  Tyranny. 
282 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


35 


VI. 

"  What  is  that  Power  ?  Some  moon-struck  sophist 

stood 
Watching  tlie  shade  from  his  own  soul  upthrown 
Fill  Heaven  and  darken  Earth,  and  in  such  mood 
The  Form  he  saw  and  worshipp'd  was  his  own, 
His  likeness  in  the  world's  vast  mirror  sljown ; 
And  'twere  an  innocent  dream,  but  that  a  faith 
Nursed  by  fear's  dew  of  poison,  grows  thereon. 
And  that  men  say,  that  Power  has  chosen  Death 
On  all  who  scorn  its  laws,  to  wreak  immortal  wrath. 

VH. 

"  Men  say  that  they  themselves  have  heard  and 

seen. 
Or  known  from  others  who  have  known  such  things, 
A  Shade,  a  Form,  which  Earth  and  Heaven  between 
Wields  an  invisible  rod — that  Priests  and  lUngs, 
Custom,  domestic  sway,  ay,  all  that  brings 
Man's  free-born  soul  beneath  the  oppressor's  heel, 
Are  his  strong  ministers,  and  that  the  stings 
Of  deallr  will  make  the  wise  his  vengeance  feel, 

Though  truth  and  virtue  arm  their  hearts  with  ten- 
fold steel. 

VIII. 
"  And  it  is  said,  this  Power  will  punish  wrong; 
Yes,  add  despair  to  crime,  and  pain  to  pain  I 
And  deepest  hell,  and  deathless  snakes  among, 
Will  bind  the  wretch  on  wliom  is  fix'd  a  stain. 
Which,  like  a  plague,  a  burthen,  and  a  bane. 
Clung  to  him  while  he  lived ; — for  love  and  hate, 
Virtue  and  vice,  they  say,  are  difference  vain — 
The  will  of  strength  is  right — this  human  state 

Tyrants,  that  they  may  rule,  with  lies  thus  desolate. 

IX. 

"  Alas,  what  strength  ?  opinion  is  more  frail 
Than  yon  dim  cloud  now  fading  on  the  moon 
Even  while  we  gaze,  though  it  awhile  avail 
To  hide  the  orb  of  truth — and  every  throne 
Of  Earth  or  Heaven,  though  shadows  rest  thereon. 
One  shape  of  many  names  : — for  this  ye  plow 
The  barren  waves  of  ocean,  hence  each  one 
Is  slave  or  t)-rant ;  all  betray  and  bow. 
Command,  or  kill,  or  fear,  or  wreak,  or  suffer  woe. 


"  Its  names  are  each  a  sign  which  maketh  holy 
All  power — ay,  the  ghost,  the  dream,  the  shade. 
Of  power — lust,  falsehood,  liate,  and  pride,  and 

folly  ; 
Tlie  pattern  whence  all  fraud  and  wrong  is  made, 
A  law  to  which  mankind  has  been  betray'd ; 
And  human  love  is  as  the  name  well  Ivnown 
Of  a  dear  mother,  whom  the  murderer  laid 
In  bloody  grave,  and  into  darkness  thrown, 
tiather'd  her  wilder'd  babes  around  him  as  liis  own. 

XI. 

"  O  love  !  who  to  the  hearts  of  wandering  men 

Art  as  the  calm  to  Ocean's  w  eary  waves ! 

Justice,  or  truth,  or  joy !  thou  only  can 

From  slavery  and  religion's  labyrinth  caves 

Guide  us,  as  one  clear  star  the  seaman  saves. 

To  give  to  all  an  equal  share  of  good. 

To  track  the  steps  of  freedom  though  through 

graves 
She  pass,  to  suffer  all  in  patient  mood. 
To  weep  for  crime,  though  stain'd  with  thy  friend's 

dearest  blood. 


XII. 
"To  feel  the  peace  of  self-contentment's  lot, 
To  own  all  sympathies,  and  outrage  none, 
And  in  the  inmost  powers  of  sense  and  thought. 
Until  life's  sunny  day  is  quite  gone  down. 
To  sit  ami  smile  with  Joy,  or,  not  alone. 
To  kiss  salt  tears  from  the  worn  cheek  of  Woo  ; 
To  live,  as  if  to  love  and  Uve  were  one, — 
This  is  not  faith  or  law,  nor  those  who  bow 
To  thrones  on  Heaven  or  Earth,  such  destiny  may 
know. 

XHI. 

"  But  children  near  their  parents  tremble  now, 
Because  they  must  obey — one  rules  another, 
And  as  one  Power  rules  both  iiigh  and  low, 
So  man  is  made  the  captive  of  his  brother. 
And  Hate  is  tliconed  on  high  with  Fear  her  mother. 
Above  the  Highest — and  those  fountain-cells. 
Whence  love  yet  flow'd  when  faith  had  choked  all 

other. 
Are  darken'd — Woman  as  the  bond=slave,  dwells 
Of  man,  a  slave  ;  and  life  is  poison'din  its  wells. 

XIV. 

"  Man  seeks  for  gold  in  mines,  that  he  may  weave 

A  lasting  chain  for  his  owii  slavery ; 

In  fear  and  restless  care  that  he  may  live 

He  toils  for  others,  wlio  must  ever  be 

Tlte  joyless  thralls  of  like  captivity  ; 

He  murders,  for  his  chiefs  delight  in  ruin  ; 

He  builds  the  altar,  that  its  idol's  fee 

May  bo  his  very  blood  ;  he  is  pursuing 

O,  blind  and  willing  wretch  !  his  own  obscure  undo- 
ing. 

XV. 
"  Woman ! — she  is  his  slave,  she  has  become 
A  thing  I  weep  to  speak — the  child  of  scorn. 
The  outcast  of  a  desolated  home. 
Falsehood,  and  fear,  and  toil,  like  waves  have  worn 
Channels  upon  her  clieeks,  which  smiles  adorn. 
As  calm  decks  the  false  Ocean : — well  ye  know 
What  Woman  is,  for  none  of  Woman  l)orn 
Can  choose  but  drain  tlie  bitter  dregs  of  woo. 

Which  ever  from  the  oppress'd  to  the  oppressors  flow. 

XVI. 

"  This  need  not  be  ;  ye  might  arise,  and  will 
That  gold  should  lose  its  power,  and  thrones  their 

glory ; 
That  love,  which  none  may  bind,  be  free  to  fill 
The  world,  like  light ;  and  evil  liiith,  grown  hoary 
With  crime,  be  quench'd  and  die. — Yon  promon- 
tory 
Even  now  eclipses  the  descending  moon  I — - 
Dungeons  and  ])alaces  are  transitory — 
High  temples  fade  like  vapor — Man  alone 
Remains,  whose  will  has  power  when  all  beside  i.s 
gone. 

XVII. 

"  Let  all.be  free  and  equal  I — from  your  hearts 
I  feel  an  echo ;  through  my  inmost  frame 
Like  sweetest  sound,  seeking  its  m.ale,  it  darts — 
Whence  come  ye,  friends  ?  alas,  I  cannot  name 
All  that  1  read  of  sorrow,  toil,  and  shame, 
On  your  w  orn  faces ;  as  in  legends  old 
Wliich  make  immortal  the  disastrous  fame 
Of  conquerors  and  impostors  false  and  bold, 
The  discord  of  your  hearts,  I  in  your  looks  behold. ' 
283 


36 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XVIII. 

"  Whence  come  ye,  friends  ?  from  pouring  human 

blood 
Forth  on  the  earth  ?  or  bring  ye  steel  and  gold, 
That  Kings  may  dupe  and  slay  the  multitude  ? 
Or  from  the  famish'd  poor,  pale,  weak,  and  cold. 
Bear  ye  the  earnings  of  their  toil  ?  unfold  ! 
Speak !  are  your  hands  in  slaughters  sanguine  hue 
Stain'd  freshly  ?  have  your  hearts  in  guile  grown 

old? 
Know  yourselves  thus !  ye  shall  be  pure  as  dew, 
And  I  will  be  a  friend  and  sister  unto  you. 

XIX. 

"  Disguise  it  not — we  have  one  human  heart — 
AH  mortal  thoughts  confess  a  common  home  : 
Blush  not  for  what  may  to  thyself  impart 
Stains  of  inevitable  crime :  the  dooiT 
Is  this,  which  has,  or  may,  or  must  bt-come 
Thine,  and  all  human-kind's.     Ye  are  the  spoil 
Which  Time  thus  marks  lor  the  devouring  tomb, 
Thou  and  thy  thoughts,  and  they,  and  all  the  toil 
Wherewith  ye  twine  the  rings  of  life's  perpetual  coil. 

XX. 

Disguise  it  not — ye  blush  for  what  ye  hate, 
And  Enmity  is  sister  unto  Shame  ; 
Look  on  your  mind — it  is  the  book  of  fate — 
Ah !  it  is  dark  with  many  a  blazon'd  name 
Of  misery — all  are  mirrors  of  the  same  ; 
But  the  dark  fiend  who  wdth  his  iron  pen 
Dipp'd  in  scorn's  fiery  poison,  makes  his  fame 
Enduring  there,  would  o'er  the  heads  of  men 

Pass  harmless,  if  they  scorn'd  to  make   their  hearts 
his  den. 

XXI. 
"  Yes,  it  is  Hate,  that  shapeless  fiendly  thing 
Of  many  names,  all  evil,  some  divine, 
Whom  self-contempt  arms  with  a  mortal  sting ; 
Which,  when  the  heart  its  snaky  folds  entwine, 
Is  wasted  quite,  and  when  it  doih  repine 
To  gorge  such  bitter  prey,  on  all  beside 
It  turns  with  ninefold  rage,  as  with  its  twine 
When  Amphisbajna  some  fair  bird  has  tied. 

Soon  o'er  the  putrid  mass  he  threats  on  every  side. 

XXII. 

"  Reproach  not  thine  own  soul,  but  know  thyself. 
Nor  hate  another's  crime,  nor  lothe  thine  own. 
It  is  the  dark  idolatry  of  self. 
Which,  when  our  thoughts  and  actions  once  are 

gone, 
Demands  that  man  should  weep,  and  .bleed,  and 

groan ; 
O  vacant  expiation !  be  at  rest. — 
The  past  is  Death's,  the  future  is  thine  own ; 
And  love  and  joy  can  make  the  foulest  breast 
A  paradise  of  flowers,  where  Peace  might  build  her 

nest. 

XXIII. 
"'Speak  thou!    whence  come   ye?' — A  Youth 

made  reply, 
'  Wearily,  wearily  o'er  the  boundless  deep 
We  sail ; — thou  readest  well  the  misery 
Told  in  these  faded  eyes,  but  much  doth  sleep 
Within,  which  there  the  poor  heart  loves  to  keep, 
Or  dare  not  write  on  the  dishonor'd  brow ; 
Even  from  our  childhood  have  we  leani'd  to  steep 
The  bread  of  slavery  in  the  tears  of  woe, 
•  And  never  dream'd  of  hope  or  refuge  until  now. 


XXIV. 
"  '  Yes — I  must  speak — my  secret  should  have  per- 

ish'd 
Even  with  the  heart  it  wasted,  as  a  brand 
Fades  in  the  dying  flame  whose  life  it  cherish'd, 
But  that  no  human  bosom  can  withstand 
Thee,  wondrous  Lady,  and  tlie  mild  command 
Of  thy  keen  eyes : — yes,  we  are  wretched  slaves 
Who  from  their  wonted  loves  and  native  land 
Are  reft,  and  bear  o'er  the  dividing  waves 
The  unregarded  prey  of  calm  and  happy  graves. 

XXV. 

"  '  We  drag  afar  from  pastoral  vales  the  fairest, 
Among  the  daughters  of  those  mountains  lone. 
We  drag  them  there,  where  all  things  best  and 

rarest 
Are  stain'd  and  trampled  : — years  have  come  and 

gone 
Since,  like  the  ship  which  bears  me,  I  have  known 
No  thought; — but  now  the  eyes  of  one  dear  Maid 
On  mine  with  light  of  mutual  love  have  shone — 
She  is  my  Life, — I  am  but  as  the  shade 
Of  her, — a  smoke  sent  up  fi-om  ashes,  soon  to  fade. 

XXVI. 

"  '  For  she  must  perish  in  the  tyrant's  hall — 
Alas,  alas! ' — He  ceased,  and  by  the  sail 
Sate  cowering — but  his  sobs  were  heard  by  all, 
And  still  before  the  ocean  and  the  gale 
The  ship  fled  fast  till  the  stars  'gan  to  fail. 
And  round  me  gather'd  with  mute  countenance, 
The  Seamen  gazed,  the  Pilot,  worn  and  pale 
With  toil,  the  Captain  with  gray  locks,  whose  glance 
Met  mine  in  restless  awe — they  stood  as  in  a  trance. 

XXVII. 

"  Recede  not  I  pause  not  now  !  thou  art  grown  old, 
But  Hope  will  make  thee  young,  for  Hope  and 

Youth 
Are  children  of  one  mother,  even  Love — behold ! 
The  eternal  stars  gaze  on  us  I — is  the  trulh 
Within  your  soul  I  care  for  your  own,  or  ruth 
For  other's  sufferings  ?  do  ye  thirst  to  bear 
A  heart  which  not  the  serpent  custom's  tooth 
May  violate  ? — be  free  !  and  even  here. 
Swear  to  be  firm  till  death !  they  cried,  '  we  swear! 
we  swear!' 

XXVIII. 
"  The  very  darkness  shook,  as  with  a  blast 
Of  subterranean  thunder  at  tlie  cry ; 
The  hollow  shore  its  thousand  eclioes  cast 
Into  the  night,  as  if  the  sea,  and  sky, 
And  earth,  rejoiced  with  new-born  Liberty, 
For  in  that  name  they  swore  !  Bolts  were  undrawn, 
And  on  the  deck,  with  unaccustom'd  eye. 
The  captives  gazing  stood,  and  every  one 
Shrank  as  the  inconstant  torch  upon  her  countenance 
shone. 

XXIX. 
"They  were  earth's  purest  children,  young  and  fair 
With  eyes  the  shrines  of  unawaken'd  thought, 
And  brows  as  bright  as  spring  or  morning,  ere 
Dark  time  had  there  its  evil  legend  wrought 
In  characters  of  cloud  which  wither  not. — 
The  change  was  like  a  dream  to  them ;  but  soon 
They  knew  the  glory  of  their  alter'd  lot, 
In  the  bright  wisdom  of  youth's  breathless  noon. 
Sweet  talk,  and   smiles,  and  sighs,  all  bosoi^^s  did 
attune 

284 


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37 


XXX. 

''  But  one  was  mute,  her  cheeks  and  lips  most  fair, 
Changing  their  hue  hke  hlies  newly  blown, 
Benealh  a  bright  acacia's  shadowy  hair, 
Waved  by  the  wind  amid  tiie  sunny  noon, 
Sliow'd  that  her  soul  was  quivering  ;  and  full  soon 
That  youih  arose,  and  breathlessly  did  look 
On  her  and  me,  as  for  some  speechless  boon : 
I  smiled,  and  both  their  hands  in  mine  I  took. 
And  felt  a  soft  delight  from  what  their  spirits  shook. 


CANTO  IX. 


I. 


"  That  night  we  anchor'd  in  a  woody  bay, 
And  sleep  no  more  around  us  dared  to  hover 
Than,  when  all  doubt  and  fear  has  past  away, 
It  shades  the  couch  of  some  unresting  lover. 
Whose  iieart  is  now  at  rest :  thus  night  past  over 
In  mutual  joy  : — around,  a  forest  grew 
Of  poplars  and  dark  oaks,  whose  shade  did  cover 
The  waning  stars  prankt  in  the  walers  blue. 
And  trembled  in  the  wind  which  from  the  morning  flew. 

II. 

"  The  joyous  mariners,  and  each  free  maiden, 
Now  brought  from  tiie  deep  forest  many  a  bough, 
With  woodland  spoil  most  innocently  laden; 
Soon  wreaihs  of  budding  foliage  seem'd  to  flow 
Over  the  mast  and  sails,  the  stern  and  prow 
Were  canopied  with  blooming  boughs, — tlie  while 
On  the  slant  sun's  path  o'er  the  waves  we  go 
Rejoicing,  like  the  dwellers  of  an  isle 
Doom'd  to  pursue  those  waves  that  cannot  cease  to 
smile. 

III. 

"  The  many  ships  spotting  the  dark-blue  deep 
With  snowy  sails,  fled  fast  as  ours  came  nigh, 
In  fear  and  wonder ;  and  on  every  steep 
Thousands  did  gaze,  they  heard  the  startling  cry. 
Like  earth's  own  voice  lifted  unconquerably 
To  all  her  children,  the  unbounded  mirth, 
The  glorious  joy  of  thy  name — Liberty  I 
They  heard  ! — As  o'er  the  mountains  of  the  earth 
From  peak  to  peak  leap  on  the  beams  of  morning's  birth : 


IV. 

"  So  from  that  cry  over  the  boundless  hills, 
Sudden  was  caught  one  universal  sound, 
Like  a  volcano's  voice,  whose  thunder  fills 
Remotest  skies, — such  glorious  madness  found 
A  path  through  human  hearts  with  stream  which 

drowii'd 
Its  struggling  fears  and  cares,  dark  custom's  brood. 
They  knew  not  whence  it  came,  but  lelt  around 
A  wide  contagion  pour'd — they  call'd  aloud 
On  Liberty — that  name  lived  on  the  sumiy  flood. 


"  We  reach'd  the  jwrt — alas !  from  many  spirits 
The  wisdom  which  had  waked  that  cry,  was  fled 
Like  the  brief  glory  which  dark  Heaven  inherits 
From  the  ialse  dawn,  which  fades  ere  it  is  spread, 
Upon  the  nigiit's  devouring  darkness  shed  : 
Yet  soon  bright  d.ay  will  burst — even  like  a  chasm 
Of  fire,  to  burn  the  shrouds  outworn  and  dead, 
Which  wrap  the  world  ;  a  wide  enthusiasm, 
To  cleanse  the  fever'd  world  as  with  an  earlhquake'a 
spasm ! 

VI 

"  I  walk'd  through  the  great  City  then,  but  free 
From  shame  or  fear ;  those  toil-worn  Mariners 
And  happy  Maidens  did  encompass  me ; 
And  like  a  subterranean  wind  that  stirs 
Some  forest  among  caves,  the  hopes  and  fears 
From  every  human  soul,  a  murmur  strange 
Made  as  I  past ;  and  many  wept,  with  tears 
Of  joy  and  awe,  and  winged  thoughts  did  range, 

And  half-extinguish'd  words,  which  prophesied  of 
change. 

VII. 
"  For,  with  strong  speech  I  tore  the  veil  that  hid 
Nature,  and  Truth,  and  Liberty,  and  Love, — 
As  one  who  from  some  mountain's  pyramid. 
Points  to  the  unrisen  sun  ! — the  shades  approve 
His  truth,  and  flee  from  every  stream  and  grove 
Thus,  gentle  thoughts  did  many  a  bosom  fill, — 
Wisdom,  the  mail  of  tried  affections  wove 
For  many  a  heart,  and  tameless  scorn  of  ill. 

Thrice  steep'd  in  molten  steel  the  unconquerable  will. 

VIII. 

"  Some  said  I  w  as  a  maniac  wild  and  lost  ; 
Some,  that  I  scarce  had  risen  from  the  grave 
The  Prophet's  virgin  bride,  a  heavenly  ghost : — 
Some  said,  I  was  a  fiend  from  my  weird  cave. 
Who  had  stolen  human  shape,  and  o'er  the  wave. 
The  forest,  and  the  mountain  came ; — some  said 
I  was  the  child  of  God,  sent  down  to  save 
Women  from  bonds  and  death,  and  on  my  head 
The  burthen  of  their  sins  would  frightfully  be  laid. 

IX. 

"  But  soon  my  human  words  found  sympathy 
In  human  hearts :  the  purest  and  the  best. 
As  Iriend  with  friend,  made  common  cause  with  me, 
And  they  were  few,  but  resolute  ; — the  rest. 
Ere  yet  success  the  enterprise  had  blest, 
Leagued  with  me  in  their  hearts ; — their  meals, 

their  slumber. 
Their  hourly  occupations  were  possest 
By  hopes  which  I  had  arm'd  to  overnumber, 
Those  hosts  of  meaner  cares,  which  life's  strong  wings 

encumber. 

X. 

"  But  chiefly  women,  whom  my  voice  did  waken 
From  their  cold,  careless,  willing  slavery, 
Sought    me :    one   truth    their  dreary  prison    has 

shaken, — 
They  look'd  around,  and  lo  !  they  became  free ! 
Their  many  tyrants  sitting  desolately 
In  slave-deserted  halls,  could  none  restrain ; 
For  wrath's  red  fire  had  wilher'd  in  the  eye. 
Whose  lightningonce  was  death, — nor  fear,  nor  gain 
Could  tempt  one  captive  now  to  lock  another's  chain. 
38  285 


38 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XI. 

"  Those  wlio  were  sent  to  bind  me,  wept,  and  felt 
Their  minds  outsoar  the  bonds  which  clasp'd  them 

round, 
Even  as  a  waxen  shape  may  waste  and  melt 
In  the  white  furnace ;  and  a  vision'd  swound, 
A  pause  of  hope  and  awe  the  City  bound. 
Which,  like  tlie  silence  of  a  tempest's  birth, 
When  in  its  awful  shadow  it  has  wound 
The  sun,  the  wind,  the  ocean,  and  the  earth. 
Hung  terrible,  ere  yet  the  lightnings  have  leapt  forth. 

XII. 

"  Like  clouds  inwoven  in  the  silent  sky, 
By  winds  from  distant  regions  meeting  there, 
In  the  high  name  of  truth  and  liberty 
Around  the  City  millions  gather'd  were, 
By  hopes  which  sprang  from  many  a  hidden  lair ; 
Words,  which  the  lore  of  truth  in  hues  of  grace 
Array'd,  thine  own  vi'ild  songs  which  in  the  air 
Like  homeless  odors  floated,  and  the  name 
Of  thee,  and  many  a  tongue  which  thou  hadst  dipp'd 
in  flame. 

xin. 

"  The  Tyrant  knew  his  power  was  gone,  but  Fear, 
The  nurse  of  Vengeance,  bade  him  wait  the  event — 
That  perfidy  and  custom,  gold  and  prayer, 
And  whatsoe'er,  when  force  is  impotent, 
To  fraud  the  sceptre  of  the  world  has  lent. 
Might,  as  he  judged,  confirm  his  failing  sway. 
Therefore  throughout  the  streets  the  Priests  he  sent 
To  curse  the  rebels. — To  their  gods  did  they 

For  Earthquake,  Plague,  and  Want,  lineel  in  the 
public  way. 

XIV. 
"  And  grave  and  hoary  men  were  bribed  to  tell 
From  seats  where  law  is  made  the  slave  of  wrong, 
How  glorious  Athens  in  her  splendor  fell, 
Because  her  sons  were  free, — and  that  among 
Mankind,  the  many  to  the  few  belong. 
By  Heaven,  and  Nature,  and  Necessity. 
They  said,  that  age  was  truth,  and  that  the  young 
Marr'd  with  wild  hopes  the  peace  of  slavery, 

With  which  old  times  and  men  had  quell'd  the  vain 
and  free. 

XV. 
"  And  with  the  falsehood  of  their  poisonous  lips 
They  breathed  on  the  enduring  memory 
Of  sages  and  of  bards  a  brief  eclipse  ; 
There  was  one  teacher,  who,  necessity 
Had  arm'd,  with  strength  and  wrong  against  man- 
kind, 
His  slave  and  his  avenger  aye  to  be ; 
That  we  were  weak  and  sinful,  frail  and  blind. 
And  that  the  will  of  one  was  peace,  and  we 

Should  seek  for  naught  on  earth  but  toil  and  misery. 

XVI. 

" '  For  thus  we  might  avoid  the  hell  hereafter.' 
So  spake  tlie  hypocrites,  who  cursed  and  lied  ; 
Alas,  their  sway  was  past,  and  tears  and  laughter 
Clung  to  their  hoary  hair,  withering  the  pride 
Which  in  their  hollow  hearts  dared  still  abide ; 
And  yet  obscener  slaves  with  smoother  brow, 
And  sneers  on  their  strait  lips,  thin,   blue  and 

wide, 
Said,  that  the  rule  of  men  was  over  now. 
Am'  hence,  the  subject  world  to  woman's  will  must 

bow  J 


XVII. 

"  And  gold  was  scatter'd   through  the  streets,  and 

wine 
Flow'd  at  a  hundred  feasts  within  the  wall. 
In  vain !  the  steady  towers  in  Heaven  did  shine 
As  they  were  wont,  nor  at  the  priestly  call. 
Left  Plague  her  banquet  in  the  --Ethiop's  hall, 
Nor  famine  from  the  rich  man's  portal  came, 
Where  at  her  ease  she  ever  preys  on  all 
Who  throng  to  kneel  for  food  :  nor  fear  nor  shame, 

Nor  faith,  nor  discord,  dimni'd  hope's  newly-ldndled 
flame. 

XVIII. 
"  For  gold  was  as  a  god  whose  faith  began 
To  fade,  so  that  its  worshippers  were  few. 
And  Faith  itself,  which  in  the  heart  of  man 
Gives  shape,  voice,  name,  to  spectral  Terror,  knew 
Its  downfall,  as  the  altars  lonelier  grew. 
Till  tlie  Priests  stood  alone  within  the  fane ; 
The  shafts  of  falsehood  unpolluting  flew, 
And  the  cold  sneere  of  calumny  were  vain 

The  union  of  the  free  with  discord's  brand  to  stain. 

XIX. 

"  The  Test  thou  knowest — Lo  1  we  two  are  here — • 
We  have  survived  a  ruin  wide  and  deep — 
Strange  thoughts  are  mine. — I  cannot  grieve  or  fear 
Sitting  with  thee  upon  this  lonely  steep 
I  smile,  though  human  love  should  make  me  weep. 
We  have  survived  a  joy  tliat  knows  no  sorrow. 
And  I  do  feel  a  mighty  calmness  creep 
Over  my  heart,  which  can  no  longer  borrow 

Its  hues  i'roin  chance  or  change,  dark  children  of 
to-morrow. 

XX. 
"  We  know  not  what  will  come — yet  Laon,  dearest, 
Cythna  shall  be  the  prophetess  of  love. 
Her  lips  shall  rob  ihee  of  the  grace  thou  wearest, 
To  hide  thy  heart,  and  clothe  the  shapes  which  rovo 
Within  the  homeless  future's  wintry  grove : 
For  I  now,  sitting  thus  beside  thee,  seem 
Even  with  thy  breath  and  blood  to  live  and  move 
And  violence  and  wrong  are  as  a  dream 

Which  rolls  from  stedfast  truth  an  unreturning  stream 

XXL 

"The  blasts  of  Autumn  drive  the  winged  seeds 
Over  the  earth, — next  come  the  snows,  and  rain, 
And  frost,  and  stoims,  which  dreary  Winter  lead» 
Out  of  his  Scythian  cave,  a  savage  train. 
Behold !  Spring  sweeps  over  the  world  again. 
Shedding  soft  dews  from  her  ethereal  wings  ; 
Flowers  on  the  mountains,  fruits  over  the  plain, 
And  music  on  the  waves  and  woods  she  flings. 
And  love  on  all  that  lives,  and  calm  on  lifeless  things 


XXII. 

"0  Spring !  of  hope,  and  love,  and  youth,  and  gladness 
Wind-winged  emblem !  brightest,  best  and  fairest  i 
Wlience  coinest  thou,  when,  with  dark  Winter's 

sadness 
The  tears  that  fade  in  sunny  smiles  thou  sharest  ? 
Sister  of  joy  !  thou  art  the  child  who  wearest 
Thy  motlier's  dying  smile,  tender  and  sweet ; 
Thy  mother  Autumn,  for  whose  grave  thou  bearest 
Fresh  flowers,  and  beams  like  flowers,  with  gentle 
feet, 
Disturbing  not  the  leaves  which  are  her  w  inding-sheet 
286 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


39 


XXIII. 

"  Virtue.and  Hope,  and  Love;like  light  and  Heaven, 
Surround  the  world. — We  are  their  chosen  slaves. 
Has  not  the  whirlwind  of  our  sjiirit  driven 
Truth's  deathless  germs  to  thought's  remotest  caves  ? 
Lo,  Winter  comes ! — the  grief  of  many  graves, 
The  frost  of  death,  the  tempest  of  the  sword. 
The  flood  of  tyranny,  w  hose  sanguine  waves 
Stagnate  like  ice  at  Faith,  the  enchanter's  word, 
And  bind  all  human  hearts  in  its  repose  abhorr'd. 

XXIV. 

"  The  seeds  are  sleeping  in  the  soil :  meanwliile 
The  tyrant  peoples  dungeons  with  his  prey. 
Pale  victims  on  the  guarded  scaffold  smile 
Because  they  cannot  speak ;  and,  day  by  day, 
The  moon  of  wasting  Science  wanes  away 
Among  her  stars,  and  in  that  darkness  vast 
The  sons  of  earth  to  their  foul  idols  pray. 
And  gray  Priests  triumph,  and  like  blight  or  blast 
A  shade  of  selfish  care  o'er  human  looks  is  cast. 

XXV. 

"  This  is  the  winter  of  the  world ; — and  here 
We  die,  even  as  the  winds  of  Autumn  fade. 
Expiring  in  the  frore  and  foggy  air. — 
Behold  I  Spring  comes,  though  we  must  pass,  who 

made 
The  promise  of  its  birth, — even  as  the  shade 
Which  Irom  our  death,  as  from  a  mountain,  flings 
The  future,  a  broad  sunrise  ;  thus  array'd 
As  with  the  plumes  of  overshadowing  wings. 
From  its  dark  gulf  of  chains,  Earth  like  an  eagle  springs. 

XXVI. 

"  O  dearest  love !  we  shall  be  dead  and  cold 
Before  this  morn  may  on  the  world  ari.se; 
Wouldst  thou  the  glory  of  its  dawn  behold  ? 
Alas!  gaze  not  on  me,  but  turn  thine  eyes 
On  tliine  own  heart — it  is  a  paradise 
Which  everlasting  Spring  has  made  its  owTi, 
And  while  drear  Winter  fills  the  naked  skies. 
Sweet  streams  of  sunny  thought,  and  flowers  fresh 
blown. 
Are  there,  and  weave  their  sounds  and  odc-rs  into  one. 

XXVII. 

"  In  their  own  hearts  the  earnest  of  the  hope 
Which  made  them  great,  the  good  will  ever  find  ; 
And  though  some  envious  shade  may  interlope 
Between  the  effect  and  it,  one  comes  behind, 
Who  aye  the  future  to  the  past  will  bind — 
Necessity,  whose  sightless  strength  for  ever 
Evil  with  evil,  good  with  good  must  wind 
In  bands  of  union,  which  no  power  may  sever : 
They  must  bring  forth  their  kind,  and  be  divided  never ! 

XXVIII. 
■'  The  good  and  mighty  of  departed  ages 
Are  in  their  graves,  the  innocent  and  free, 
Heroes,  and  Poets,  and  prevailing  Sages, 
Who  leave  the  vesture  of  their  majesty 
To  adorn  and  clothe  this  naked  world  ; — and  we 
Are  like  to  them — such  perish,  but  they  leave 
All  hope,  or  love,  or  truth,  or  liberty, 
Whose  forms  their  mighty  spirits  could  conceive 
To  be  a  rule  and  law  to  ages  that  survive. 


XXIX. 

"  So  be  the  turf  heap'd  over  our  remains 
Even  in  our  happy  youth,  and  that  strange  lot, 
Whate'er  it  be,  when  in  these  mingling  veins 
The  blood  is  still,  be  ours;  let  sense  and  thought 
Pass  from  our  being,  or  be  numbrr'd  not 
Among  the  things  that  are ;  let  those  who  come 
Behind,  for  whom  our  sledfast  will  has  brought 
A  calm  inheritance,  a  glorious  doom. 
Insult,  with  careless  tread,  our  undivided  tomb. 

XXX. 

"  Our  many  thoughts  and  deeds,  our  life  and  love. 
Our  happiness,  and  all  that  we  have  been, 
Immortally  must  live,  and  burn  and  move, 
When  we  shall  be  no  more ; — the  world  has  seen 
A  type  of  peace ;  and  as  some  most  serene 
And  lovely  spot  to  a  poor  maniac's  eye. 
After  long  year.^,  some  sweet  and  moving  scene 
Of  youthful  hope  returning  suddenly, 
Quells  his  long  madness — thus'  man  shall  remember 
thee. 

XXXI. 

"  And  Calumny  meanwhile  shall  feed  on  ns 
As  worms  devour  the  dead,  and  near  the  throne 
And  at  the  altar,'  most  accepted  thus 
Shall  sneers  and  curses  be  ; — what  we  have  done 
IVone  shall  dare  vouch,  though  it  be  truly  known, 
That  record  shall  remain,  when  they  must  pass 
Who  built  their  pride  on  its  oblivion  ; 
And  fame,  in  human  hope  which  sculptured  was, 
Survive  the  perish'd  scrolls  of  unenduring  brass. 

XXXII. 

"  The  while  we  two,  beloved,  rnust  depart, 
And  Sense  and  Reason,  those  enchanters  fair, 
Whose  w  and  of  power  is  hope,  would  bid  the  heart 
That  gazed  beyond  the  wormy  grave  despair : 
These  eyes,  these  lips,  this  blood,  seem  darkly  there 
To  fade  in  hideous  ruin;  no  calm  sleep. 
Peopling  with  golden  dreams  the  stagnant  air, 
Seems  our  obscure  and  rotting  eyes  to  steep 
In  joy ; — but  senseless  death — a  ruin  dark  and  deep .' 

XXXIII. 

"  These  are  blind  fancies — reason  cannot  know 
What  sense  can  neither  feel,  nor  thought  conceive , 
There  is  delusion  in  the  world — and  woe, 
And  fear,  and  pain — we  know  not  whence  we  live, 
Or  why,  or  how,  or  what  mule  Power  may  give 
Their  being  to  each  plant,  and  star,  and  beast, 
Or  even  these  thoughts : — Come  near  me !  I  do  weave 
A  chain  I  cannot  break — I  am  possest 
With  thoughts  too  swift   and   strong   for  one    lono 
human  breast. 

XXXIV. 

"  Yes,  yes — thy  kiss  is  sweet,  thy  lips  are  warm — 
O I  willingly  beloved,  would  these  eyes. 
Might  they  no  more  drink  being  from  thy  form, 
Even  as  to  sleep  whence  we  again  arise, 
Close  their  faint  orbs  in  death :  I  fear  nor  prize 
Aught  that  can  now  betide,  unshared  by  thee — 
Yes,  Love  W'hen  wisdom  fails  makes  Cythna  wise  . 
Darkness  and  death,  if  death  be  true,  must  be 
Dearer  dian  life  and  hope,  if  unenjoy'd  with  thee. 
287 


40 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXXV. 

"Alas,  our  thoughts  flow  on  with  stream,  whose 

waters 
Return  not  to  their  fountain — Earth  and  Heaven, 
The  Ocean  and  the  Sun,  the  clouds  their  daughters, 
Winter,  and  Spring,  and  Morn,  and  Noon,  and  Even, 
All  that  we  are  or  luiow,  is  darkly  driven 
Towards  one  gulf — Lo!  what  a  change  is  come 
Since  1  first  spake — hut  time  shall  be  forgiven. 
Though  it  change   all  but  thee  ! " — She  ceased  : 
night's  gloom 
Meanwhile  had  fallen  on  earlh  from  the  sky's  sun- 
less dome. 

XXXVI. 

Though  she  had  ceased,  her  countenance  uplifted 
To'  Heaven,  still  spake,  with  solemn  glory  bright ; 
Her  dark  deep  eyes,  her  lips,  whose  motions  gifted 
The  air  they  breatlied  with  love,  her  locks  undight; 
"  Fair  star  of  life  and  love.! "  I  cried,  "  my  soul's 

delight! 
Why  lookest  thou  on  the  crystalline  skies  ? 
O,  that  my  spirit  were  yon  Heaven  of  night, 
Which  gazes  on  ihee  with  its  thousand  eyes ! " 
She  turn'd  to  me  and  smiled — that  smile  was  Paradise ! 


CANTO  X. 


T. 


Was  there  a  human  spirit  in  the  steed, 
That  thus  with  his  proud  voice,  ere  night  was  gone, 
He  broke  our  linked  rest?  or  do  indeed 
All  living  things  a  common  nature  own, 
And  thought  erect  a  universal  throne. 
Where  many  shapes  one  tribute  ever  bear  ? 
And  Earth,  their  mutual  mother,  does  she  groan 
To  see  her  sons  contend  ?  and  makes  she  bare 
Her  breast,  that  all  in  peace  its  draiiiless  stores  may 
share  ? 

n. 

I  have  heard  friendly  sounds  from  many  a  tongue, 
Which  was  not  human — the  lone  Nightingale 
Has  answer'd  me  with  her  most  soothing  song, 
Out  of  her  ivy  bower,  when  I  sate  pale 
With  grief,  and  sigh'd  beneath;  from  many  a  dale 
The  Antelopes  who  flock'd  for  food  have  spoken 
With  happy  sounds,  and  motions,  that  avail 
Like  man'sown  speech ;  and  such  was  now  the  token 
Of  waning  night,  whose  calm  by  that  proud  neigh 
was  broken. 

in. 

Each  night,  that  mighty  steed  bore  me  abroad, 
And  I  return'd  with  food  to  our  retreat. 
And  dark  intelligence  ;  the  blood  which  flow'd 
Over  the  fields,  had  stain'd  the  courser's  feet ; — 
Soon  the  dust  drinks  that  bitter  dew, — then  meet 
The  vulture,  and  the  wild-dog,  and  the  snake, 
The  wolf,  and  the  hyena  gray,  and  eat 
The  dead  in  horrid  truce :  their  throngs  did  make 
Behind  the  steed,  a  chasm  like  waves  in  a  ship's  wake. 


IV. 
For,  from  the  utmost  realms  of  earth,  came  pouring 
The  banded  slaves  whom  every  despot  sent 
At  that  throned  traitor's  summons;  like  the  roarmg 
Of  fire,  whose  floods  the  wild  deer  circumvent 
In  the  scorch'd  pastures  of  the  South ;  so  bent 
The  armies  of  the  leagued  kings  around 
Their  files  of  steel  and  flame  ; — the  continent 
Trembled,  as  with  a  zone  of  ruin  bound, 
Beneath  their  feet,  the  sea  shook  with  their  Navies' 
sound. 


From  every  nation  of  the  earth  they  came, 
The  multitude  of  moving  heartless  things. 
Whom  slaves  call  men :  obediently  they  came, 
Like  sheep  whom  from  the  fold  the  shepherd  brings 
To  the  stall,  red  with  blood ;  their  many  kings 
Led  them,  thus  erring,  from  their  native  home; 
Tartar  and  Frank,  and  millions  whom  the  wings 
Of  Indian  breezes  lull,  and  many  a  band 
The  Arctic  Anarch  sent,  and  Idumea's  sand, 

VI. 

Fertile  in  prodigies  and  lies ; — so  there 
Strange  natures  made  a  brotherhood  of  ill. 
The  desert  savage  ceased  to  grasp  in  fear 
His  Asian  shield  and  bow,  when,  at  the  will 
Of  Europe's  subtler  son,  the  bolt  would  kill 
Some  shepherd  sitting  on  a  rock  secure ; 
But  smiles  of  wondering  joy  his  face  would  fill. 
And  savage  sympathy:   those  slaves  impure, 
Each  one  the  othej  thus  from  ill  to  ill  did  lure. 

VII. 

For  traitorously  did  that  foul  Tyrant  robe 
His  countenance  in  lies, — even  at  the  hour 
When  he  was  snatch'd  from  death,  then  o'er  th.4 

globe, 
With  secret  signs  frOm  many  a  mountain  tower, 
With  smoke  by  day,  and  fire  by  night,  the  power 
Of  kings  and  priests,  those  dark  conspirators 
He   call'd : — -they  knew  his  cause  their  own,  and 

swore 
Like  wolves  and  serpents,  to  their  mutual  wars 
Strange  truce,  with  many  a  rite  which  Earth  and 

Heaven  abhors. 

vin. 

Myriads  had  come — millions  were  on  their  way ; 
The  Tyrant  past,  surrounded  by  the  steel 
Of  hired  assassins,  through  the  public  way, 
Choked  with  his  country's  dead : — his  footsteps  reel 
On  the  fresh  blood — he  smiles,  "  Ay,  now  I  feel 
I  am  a  King  in  truth  !"  he  said,  and  took 
His  royal  seat,  and  bade  the  torturing  wheel 
Be  brought,  and  fire,  and  pincers,  and  the  hook. 
And  scorpions;  that  his  soul  on  its  revenge  might  look. 

IX. 

"  But  first,  go  slay  the  rebels — why  return 
The  victor  bands?"  he  said,  "millions  yet  live, 
Of  whom  the  weakest  with  one  word  might  turn 
The  scales  of  victory  yet ; — let  none  survive 
But  those  within  the  walls — each  fifth  shall  give 
The  expiation  for  his  brethren  here. — 
Go  forth,  and  waste  and  kill!" — "O  king,  forgive 
My  speech,"  a  soldier  answer'd — "  but  we  fear 
The  spirits  of  the  night,  and  morn  is  drawing  near, 
288 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


41 


X. 

"  For  we  were  slaying  still  without  remorse, 
And  now  that  dreadful  chief  beneath  my  hand 
Defenceless  lay,  when,  on  a  hell-black  horse, 
An  Angel  bright  as  day,  waving  a  brand 
Which  tlash'd  among  the  stars,  past." — "  Dost  thou 

stand 
Parleying  with  me,  thou  wretch  ?"  the  king  replied ; 
"  Slaves,  bind  him  to  the  wheel ;  and  of  tliis  band. 
Whoso  will  drag  that  woman  to  his  side 
That  scared  him  thus,  may  burn  his  dearest  foe  be- 
side ; 

XL 
"  And  gold  and  glory  shall  be  his. — Go  forth!" 
They  rush'd  into  the  plain — Loud  was  the  roar 
Of  their  career  :  the  horsemen  shook  the  earth  ; 
The  whecl'd  artillery's  speed  the  pavement  tore  ; 
The  infantry,  file  after  file,  did  pour 
Their  clouds  on  the  utmost  hills.    Five  days  they 

slew 
Among  the  wasted  fields ;  the  sixth  saw  gore 
Stream  through  the  city ;  on  the  seventh,  the  dew 
Of  slaughter  became  stiff;  and  there  was  peace  anew : 

XIL 
Peace  in  the  desert  fields  and  villages. 
Between  the  glutted  beasts  and  mangled  dead ! 
Peace  in  the  silent  streets !  save  when  the  cries 
Of  victims  to  their  fiery  judgment  led, 
Made  pale  their  voiceless  lips  who  seem'd  to  dread 
Even  in  their  dearest  kindred,  lest  some  tongue 
Be  faithless  to  the  fear  yet  unbetray'd ; 
Peace  in  the  Tyrant's  palace,  where  the  throng 
Waste  the  triumphal  hours  in  festival  and  song ! 

XIIL 

Day  after  day  the  buniing  Sun  roll'd  on 
Over  the  death-polluted  land — it  came 
Out  of  the  east  like  fire,  and  fiercely  shone 
A  lamp  of  Autumn,  ripening  with  its  flame 
The  few  lone  ears  of  corn ; — the  sky  became 
Stagnate  with  heat,  so  that  each  cloud  and  blast 
Languish'd  and  died, — the  thirsting  air  did  claim 
All  moisture,  and  a  rotting  vapor  past 
From  the  unburied  dead,  invisible  and  fast. 

XIV. 
First  Want,  then  Plague  came  on  the  beasts  ;  their 

food 
Fail'd,  and  they  drew  the  breath  of  its  decay. 
Millions  on  millions,  whom  the  scent  of  blood 
Had  lured,  or  who,  from  regions  far  away, 
Had  track'd  the  hosts  in  festival  array. 
From  their  dark  deserts  ;  gaunt  and  wasting  now, 
Stalk'd  like  fell  shades  among  their  perish'd  prey  ; 
In  their  green  eyes  a  strange  disease  did  glow. 
They  sank  in  hideous  spasm,  or  pains  severe  and  slow. 

XV. 

The  fish  were  poison'd  in  the  streams ;  the  birds 
In  the  green  woods  perish'd ;  the  insect  race 
Was  wither'd  up;  the  scalter'd  flocks  and  herds 
Who  had  survived  the  wild  beasts'  hungry  chase 
Died  moaning,  each  upon  the  other's  face 
In  helpless  agony  gazing;  roimd  the  City 
All  night,  the  lean  hyenas  their  sad  case 
Like  starving  infants  wail'd  ;  a  woful  ditty! 
And  many  a  mother  wept,  pierced  with  uimatural 
pity 

2M 


XVL 

Amid  the  aerial  minarets  on  high. 
The  .(Ethiopian  vultures  fluttering  fell 
From  their  long  line  of  brethren  in  the  sky, 
Startling  the  concourse  of  mankind. — Too  well 
These  signs  the  coming  mischief  did  foretell : — 
Strange  panic  first,  a  deep  and  .sickening  dread 
Within  each  heart,  hke  ice,  did  sink  and  swell, 
A  voiceless  thought  of  evil,  which  did  spread 
With  the  quick  glance  of  eyes,  like  withering  light- 
nings shed. 

XVII. 
Day  after  day,  when  the  year  wanes,  the  frosts 
Strip  its  green  crown  of  leaves,  till  all  is  bare ; 
So  on  those  strange  and  congregated  hosts 
Came  Famine,  a  swift  shadow,  and  the  air 
Groan'd  with  the  burthen  of  a  new  despair ; 
Famine,  than  whom  Misrule  no  deadlier  daughter 
Feeds  from  her  thousand  breasts,  though  sleeping 

there    ' 
With  lidless  eyes,  lie  Faith,  and  Plague,  and  Slaugh- 
ter, 
A  ghastly  brood  ;  conceived  of  Lethe's  sullen  water 
XVIII. 
There  was  no  food,  tlie  corn  was  trampled  down, 
The  flocks  and  herds  had  perish'd  ;  on  the  shore 
The  dead  and  putrid  fish  were  ever  thrown  : 
The  deeps  were  foodless,  and  the  winds  no  more 
Creak'd  with  the  weight  of  birds,  but  as  before 
Those  winged  things  sprang  forth,  w'ere  void  of 

shade  ; 
The  vines  and  orchards.  Autumn's  golden  store. 
Were   burn'd  ; — so  that  the  meanest    food    was 
weigh'd 
With  gold,  and  Avarice  died  before  the  god  it  made. 
XIX. 
There  was  no  com — in  the  wide  market-place 
All  lotheliest  things,  even  human  flesh,  was  sold ; 
They  weighM  it  in  small  scales — and  many  a  fac« 
Was  fix'd  in  eager  horror  then :  his  gold 
The  miser  brought,^the  tender  maid,  grown  bold 
Through  hunger,  bared  her  scorned  charms  in  vain  . 
The  mother  brought  her  eldest  born,  conlroU'd 
By  instinct  blind  as  love,  but  tnrn'd  again 
And  bade  her  infant  suck,  and  died  in  silent  pain. 
XX. 
Then  fell  blue  Plague  upon  the  race  of  man. 
"  O,  for  the  sheathed  steel,  so  late  which  gave 
Oblivion  to  the  dead,  when  the  streets  ran 
With    brother's  blood  I    O,  that  the  earthquake's 

grave 
Would  gape,  or  Ocean  lift  its  stifling  wave!" 
Vain  cries — throughout  the  streets,  thousands  pur- 
sued 
Each  by  his  fiery  torture  howl  and  rave. 
Or  sit  in  frenzy's  unimagined  mood. 
Upon  fresh  heaps  of  dead  ;  a  ghastly  multitude. 
XXI. 
It  was  not  hunger  now,  but  thirst.     Each  well 
Was  choked  with  rotting  corpses,  and  became 
A  caldron  of  green  mist  made  visible 
At  sunrise.     Thither  still  the  myriads  came. 
Seeking  to  quench  the  agony  of  the  flame 
Which  raged  like  poison  through  their  bursting 

veins ; 
Naked  they  were  from  torture,  without  shame, 
Spotted  with  nameless  scars  and  lurid  blains. 
Childhood,  and  youth,  and  age,  writhing  in  savnge 
pains. 

289 


42 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXII. 

It  was  not  thirst,  but  madness !  many  saw 
Their  own  lean  image  everywhere,  it  went 
A  ghastlier  self  beside  them,  till  the  awe 
Of  that  dread  sight  to  self-destruction  sent 
Those  shrieking  victims  ;  some,  ere  life  was  spent. 
Sought,  with  a  horrid  sympathy,  to  shed 
Contagion  on  the  sound  ;  and  otliers  rent 
Their  malted  hair,  and  cried  aloud,  "  We  tread 
■3n  fire !  the  avenging  Power  his  hell  on  earth  has 
spread." 

XXIII. 

Sometimes  the  living  by  the  dead  were  hid. 
Near  the  great  fountain  in  the  public  square. 
Where  corpses  made  a  crumbling  pyramid 
Under  the  sun,  was  heard  one  stifled  prayer 
For  life,  in  the  hot  silence  of  the  air ; 
And  strange  'twas,  amid  that  hideous  heap  to  see 
Some  shrouded  in  their  long  and  golden  hair, 
As  if  not  dead,  but  slumbering  quietly. 
Like  forms  which  sculptors  carve,  then  love  to  agony. 

XXIV. 

Famine  had  spared  the  palace  of  the  king  : — 

He  rioted  in  festival  the  while. 

He  and  his  guards  and  priests  ;  but  Plague  did 

fling 
One  shadow  upon  all.     Famine  can  smile 
On  him  who  brings  it  food,  and  pass,  with  guile 
Of  thankful  falsehood,  like  a  courtier  gray. 
The  house-dog  of  the  throne  ;  but  many  a  mile 
Comes  Plague,  a  winged  wolf,  who  lothes  alvvay 
The  garbage  and  the  scum  that  strangers  make  her 

prey. 

XXV. 

So,  near  the  throne,  amid  the  gorgeous  feast, 
Sheathed  in  resplendent  arms,  or  loosely  dight 
To  luxury,  ere  the  mockery  yet  had  ceased 
That  linger'd  on  his  lips,  the  warrior's  might 
Was  loosen'd,  and  a  new  and  ghastlier  night 
In  dreams  of  frenzy  lapp'd  his  eyes ;  he  fell 
Headlong,  or  with  stiff  eyeballs  sate  upright 
Among  the  guests,  or  raving  mad,  did  tell 
Strange  truths ;  a  dpng  seer  of  dark  oppression's  hell. 

XXVI. 
The  Princes  and  the  Priests  were  pale  with  terror ; 
That  monstrous  faith  wherewith  they  ruled  man- 
kind, 
Fell,  like  a  shaft  loosed  by  the  bowman's  error. 
On  their  own  hearts ;  they  sought  and  they  could 

find. 
No  refuge — 'twas  the  blind  who  led  the  blind ! 
So,  through  the  desolate  streets  to  the  high  fane, 
The  many-tongued  and  endless  armies  wind 
In  sad  procession :  each  among  the  train 
To  his  own  Idol  lifts  his  supplications  vain. 

XXVII. 
"  O  God ! "  they  cried,  "  we  know  our  secret  pride 
Has  scorn'd  thee,  and  thy  worship,  and  thy  name  ; 
Secure  in  human  power  we  have  defied 
Thy  fearful  might ;  we  bend  in  fear  and  shame 
Before  thy  presence  ;  with  the  dust  we  claim 
Kindred  ;  be  merciful,  O  King  of  Heaven ! 
Most  justly  have  we  sufTer'd  for  thy  fame 
Made  dim,  but  be  at  length  our  sins  forgiven. 
Ere  to  despair  and  death  thy  worshippers  be  driven. 


XXVIII. 
''  O  King  of  Glory  !  thou  alone  hast  power ! 
Wha  can  resist  thy  will  ?  who  can  restrain 
Thy  wrath,  when  on  the  guilty  thou  dost  shower 
The  shafts  of  thy  revenge,  a  blistering  rain  ? 
Greatest  and  best,  be  merciful  again ! 
Have  we  not  stabb'd  thine  enemies,  and  made 
The  Earth  an  altar,  and  the  Heavens  a  fane. 
Where  thou  wert  worshipp'd  with  their  blood,  and 

laid 
Those  hearts  in  dust  which  would    thy  searchless 

works  have  weigh'd  ? 

XXIX. 

"  Well  didst  thou  loo^^en  on  this  impious  City 
Thine  angels  of  revenge  :  recall  them  now  ; 
Thy  worshippers,  abased,  here  kneel  for  pity, 
And  bind  their  souls  by  an  immortal  vow : 
We  swear  by  thee !  and  to  our  oath  do  thou 
Give  sanction,  from  thine  hell  of  fiends  and  flame 
That  we  will  kill  with  fire  and  torments  slow. 
The  last  of  those  who  mock'd  thy  holy  name. 

And  scorn'd  the  sacred  laws  thy  prophets  did  pro- 
claim." 

XXX. 
Thus  they  with  trembling  limbs  and  pallid  lips 
Worshipp'd  their  own  hearts'  image,  dim  and  vast. 
Scared  by  the  shade  wherewith  they  would  eclipse 
The  light  of  other  minds  ; — troubled  they  past 
From  the  great  Temple  ; — fiercely  still  and  fast 
The  arrows  of  the  ])lague  among  them  fell, 
And  they  on  one  another  gazed  aghast. 
And  through  the  hosts  contention  wild  befell, 

As  each  of  his  own  god  the  wondrous  works  did  tell. 

XXXI. 

And  Oromazev  Joshua,  and  IMahomet, 
Moses,  and  Buddh,  Zerdusht,  and  Brahm,  and  Fob, 
A  tumult  of  strange  names,  which  never  met 
Before,  as  watch-words  of  a  single  woe. 
Arose  ;  each  raging  votary  'gan  to  throw 
Aloft  his  armed  hands,  and  each  did  howl 
"  Our  God  alone  is  God  !  "  and  slaughter  now 
Would  have  gone  forth,  when  from  beneath  a  cowl 
A  voice  came  forth,  which  pierced  like  ice  through 
every  soul. 

XXXII. 

'T  was  an  Iberian  Priest  from  whom  it  came, 

A  zealous  man,  who  led  the  legion'd  west 

With  words  which  faith  and  pride  had  steep'd  in 

flame, 
To  quell  the  unbelievers ;  a  dire  guest 
Even  to  his  friends  was  he,  for  in  his  breast 
Did  hate  and  guile  lie  watchful,  intertwined. 
Twin  serpents  in  one  deep  and  winding  nest  ; 
He  lothed  all  faith  beside  his  own,  and  pined 
To  wreak  his  fear  of  Heaven  in  vengeance  on  man- 
kind. 

XXXIII. 
But  more  he  lothed  and  hated  the  clear  light 
Of  wisdom  and  free  thought,  and  more  did  fear. 
Lest,  kindled  once,  its  beams  might  pierce  the  night, 
Even  where  his  Idol  stood  ;  for,  far  and  near 
Did  many  a  heart  in  Europe  leap  to  hear 
That  faitli  and  tyranny  were  trampled  down  ; 
Many  a  pale  victim,  doom'd  for  truth  to  share 
The  murderer's  cell,  or  see,  with  helpless  groan. 
The  priests  his  children  drag  for  slaves  to  serve  their 
own. 

290 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


43 


XXXIV. 

He  dared  not  kill  the  infidels  with  fire 
Qr  steel,  in  Europe  :  the  slow  agonies 
Of  legal  torture  mock'd  his  keen  desire  : 
So  he  made  truce  with  those  who  did  despise 
The  expiation  and  the  sacrifice, 
That,  though  detested,  Islam's  kindred  creed 
Might  crush  for  him  those  deadlier  enemies; 
For  fear  of  God  did  in  his  bosom  breed 
A  jealous  hate  of  man,  an  unreposing  need. 

XXXV. 

"Peace I  Peace!"  he  cried,  " when  we  are  dead, 

the  day 
Of  judgment  comes,  and  all  shall  surely  know 
Whose  God  is  God,  each  fearfully  shall  pay 
The  errors  of  his  faith  in  endless  woe ! 
But  there  is  sent  a  mortal  vengeance  now 
On  earth,  because  an  impious  race  had  spurn'd 
Him  whom  we  all  adore, — a  subtile  foe, 
By  whom  for  ye  this  dread  reward  was  eam'd, 
And  kingly  lhrones,which  rest  on  faith,  nigh  overturn'd. 

XXXVI. 

"Think  ye,  because  ye  weep,  and  kneel,  and  pray. 
That  God  will  lull  the  pestilence  ?  it  rose 
Even  from  beneath  his  throne,  where,  many  a  day 
His  mercy  soothed  it  to  a  dark  repose : 
It  walks  upon  the  earth  to  judge  his  foes. 
And  what  are  thou  and  I,  that  he  should  deign 
To  curb  his  ghastly  minister,  or  close 
The  gates  of  death,  ere  they  receive  the  twain 
Who  shook  with  mortal  spells  his  undefended  reign ! 

XXXVII. 
"  Ay,  there  is  famine  in  the  gulf  of  hell. 
Its  giant  worms  of  fire  for  ever  yawn, — 
Their  lurid  eyes  are  on  us  I  those  who  fell 
By  the  swift  shaft  of  pestilence  ere  dawn, 
Arc  in  their  jaws  !  they  hunger  for  the  spawn 
Of  Satan,  their  own  brethren,  who  were  sent 
To  make  our  souls  their  spoil.  See !  see  !  ihey  fawn 
Like  dogs,  and  they  will  sleep  with  luxury  spent, 
When  those  detested  hearts  their  iron  fangs  have  rent ! 

XXXVIII. 

"  Our  God  may  then  lull  Pestilence  to  sleep : 
Pile  high  the  pyre  of  expiation  now ! 
A  forest's  spoil  of  boughs,  and  on  the  heap 
Pour  venomous  gums,  which  sullenly  and  slow. 
When  touch'd  by  flame,  shall  burn,  and  melt,  and 

flow, 
A  stream  of  clinging  fire, — and  fix  on  high 
A  net  of  iron,  and  spread  forth  below 
A  couch  of  snakes,  and  scorpions,  and  the  fry 
Of  centipedes  and  worms,  earth's  hellish  progeny ! 

XXXIX. 

"  Let  Laon  and  Laone  on  that  pyre, 
Link'd  fight  with  burning  brass,  perish  I — then  pray 
That,  with  this  sacrifice,  the  withering  ire 
Of  Heaven  may  be  appeased."  He  ceased,  and  they 
A  space  stood  silent,  as  far,  far  away 
The  echoes  of  his  voice  among  them  died  ; 
And  he  knelt  down  upon  the  dust,  alway 
Muttering  the  curses  of  his  speechle.«s  pride, 
Whilst  shame,  and  fear,  and  awe,  the  armies  did  divide. 


XL. 

His  voice  was  like  a  blast  that  burst  the  portal 
Of  fabled  hell ;  and  as  he  spake,  each  one 
Saw  gape  beneath  the  chasms  of  fire  immortal, 
And  Heaven  above  seem'd  cloven,  where,  on  a 

throne 
Girt  round  with  slorms  and  shadows,  sate  alone. 
Their  King  and  Judge — tear  kill'd  in  every  breast 
All  natural  pity  then,  a,  fear  unknown 
Before,  and  with  an  inward  fire  pos.sest, 

They   raged  like   homeless    beasts    whom    burning 
woods  invest. 

XLI. 
'Twas  morn — at  noon  the  public  crier  went  forth. 
Proclaiming  through  the  living  and  the  dead, 
"  The  Monarch  saith,  that  this  great  Empire's  worth 
Is  set  on  Laon  and  Laone's  head  : 
He  who  but  one  yet  living  here  can  lead. 
Or  who  the  life  from  both  their  hearts  can  wring'. 
Shall  be  the  kingdom's  heir,  a  glorious  meed ! 
But  he  who  both  ahve  can  hither  bring. 

The  Princess  shall  espouse,  and  reign  an  equal  King." 

XLII. 

Ere  night  the  pyre  was  piled,  the  net  of  iron 
Was  spread  above,  the  fearful  couch  below. 
It  overtopp'd  the  towers  that  did  environ 
That  spacious  square  ;  for  Fear  is  never  slow 
To  build  the  thrones  of  Hate,  her  mate  and  foe, 
So,  she  scourged  forth  the  maniac  multitude 
To  rear  this  pyramid — tottering  and  slow. 
Plague-stricken,  foodless,  like  lean  herds  pursued 
By  gad-flies,  they  have  piled  the  heath,  and  gums, 
and  wood. 

XLItl. 
Night  came,  a  starless  and  a  moonless  gloom. 
Until  the  dawn,  those  host.s  of  many  a  nation 
Stood  round  that  pile,  as  near  one  lover's  tomb 
Two  gentle  sisters  mourn  their  desolation ; 
And  in  the  silence  of  that  expectation, 
Wa-s  heard  on  high  the  reptiles'  hiss  and  crawl — 
It  was  so  deep,  save  when  the  devastation 
Of  the  swift  pest  with  fearful  interval. 
Marking  its   paths  with  shrieks,  among  the  crowd 
would  fall. 

XLIV. 

Morn  came, — among  those  sleepless  mulritudes. 
Madness,  and  F'ear,  and  Plague,  and  Famine  still 
Ileap'd  corpse  on  corpse,  as  in  autumnal  woods 
The  frosts  of  many  a  wind  w  ith  dead  leaves  fill 
Earth's  cold  and  sullen  hror)ks ;  in  silence,  still 
The  pale  survivors  stood;  ere  noon,  the  fear 
Of  Hell  became  a  panic,  which  did  kill 
Like  hunger  or  disease,  with  whispers  drear. 
As  "Hush!  hark!    Come  they  yet  ^    Just  Heaven.' 
thine  hour  is  near ! " 

XLV. 

And    Priests   nish'd    through    their   ranks,   some 

counterfeiting 
The  rage  they  did  inspire,  some  mad  indeed 
With  their  own  lies ;  they  said  their  god  was  waiting 
To  see  his  enemies  writhe,  and  burn,  and  bleed, — 
And  that,  till  then,  the  snakes  of  Hell  had  need 
Of  human  souls  : — three  hundred  furnaces 
Soon  blazed  through  the  wide  City,  W'here  with 

speed. 
Men  brought  their  infidel  kindred  to  appease 
God's  wrath,  and  while  they  burn'd,  knelt  round  on 

quivering  knees. 

291 


44 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XLVI. 

The  noontide  sun  was  darken'd  with  that  smoke, 
The  winds  of  eve  dispersed  those  ashes  gray, 
The  madness  which  these  rites  had  hill'd,  awoke 
Again  at  sunset. — Who  shall  dare  to  say 
The  deeds  which  night  and  fear  brought  forth,  or 

weigh 
In  balance  just  the  good  and  evil  there  ? 
He  might  man's  deep  and  searchless  heart  display, 
And  cast  a  light  on  those  dim  labyrinths,  where 
Hope,  near  imagined  chasms,  is  struggling  with  despair. 

XLVII. 

'Tis  said,  a  mother  dragg'd  three  children  then, 
To  those  fierce  flames  which  roast  the  eyes  in  the 

head, 
And  laugh'd  and  died  ;  and  that  unholy  men. 
Feasting  like  fiends  upon  the  infidel  dead, 
Look'd  from  their  meal,  and  saw  an  Angel  tread 
The  visible  floor  of  Heaven,  and  it  Vi'as  she ! 
And,  on  that  night,  one  without  doubt  or  dread 
Came  to  tlie  fire,  and  said,  "  Stop,  I  am  he ! 
Kill  me!"  they  burn'd  them  both  with  hellish  mockery. 

XLVIII. 

And,  one  by  one,  that  night,  young  maidens  came. 
Beauteous  and  calm,  like  shapes  of  living  stone 
Clothed  in  the  light  of  dreams,  and  by  the  flame 
Which  shrank  as  overgorged,  they  laid  them  down, 
And  sung  a  slow  sweet  song,  of  which  alone 
One  word  was  heard,  and  that  was  Liberty ; 
And  that  some  kiss'd  their  marble  feet,  with  moan 
Like  love,  and  died,  and  then  that  they  did  die 
With  happy  smiles,  which  sunk  in  white  tranquillity. 


CANTO  XL 


I. 


She  saw  me  not — she  heard  me  not — alone 
Upon  the  mountain's  dizzy  brink  she  stood  ; 
She  spake  not,  breathed  not,  moved  not — there 

was  thrown 
Over  her  look,  the  shadow  of  a  mood 
Which  only  clothes  the  heart  in  solitude, 
A  thought  of  voiceless  depth ; — she  stood  alone ; 
Above,  the  Heavens  were  spread  ; — below,  the  flood 
Was  murmuring  in  its  caves; — the  wind  had  blown 
Her  hair  apart,  through  which  her  eyes  and  forehead 
shone. 

n. 

A  cloud  was  hanging  o'er  the  western  mountains  ; 
Before  its  blue  and  moveless  depth  were  flying 
Gray  mists  pour'd  forth  from  the  unresting  fountains 
Of  darkness  in  the  North  : — ihe  day  was  dying: — 
Sudden,  the  sun  shone  forth,  its  beams  were  lying 
Like  boiling  gold  on  Ocean,  strange  to  see. 
And  on  the  shatter'd  vapors,  which  dt-fying 
The  power  of  light  in  vain,  toss'd  restlessly 
In  the  red  Heaven,  like  wrecks  in  a  tempestuous  sea. 


m. 

It  was  a  stream  of  living  beams,  whose  bank  . 
On  either  side  by  the  cloud's  cleft  was  made; 
And  where  its  chasms  that  flood  of  glory  drank, 
Its  waves  gush'd  forth  like  fire,  and  as  if  sway'd 
By  some  mute  tempest,  roll'd  on  her ;  the  shade 
Of  her  bright  image  floated  on  the  river 
Of  liquid  light,  which  then  did  end  and  fade — 
Her  radiant  shape  upon  its  verge  did  shiver; 
Aloft,  her  flowing  hair  like  strings  of  flame  did  quiver 


IV. 

I  stood  beside  her,  but  she  saw  me  not — 
She  look'd  upon  the  sea,  and  ski&s,  and  earth; 
Rapture,  and  love,  and  admiration  wrought 
A  passion  deeper  far  than  tears,  or  mirth. 
Or  speech,  or  gesture,  or  whate'er  has  birth 
From  common  joy;  which,  with  the  speechless  feeling 
That  led  her  there  united,  and  shot  forth 
From  her  far  eyes,  a  light  of  deep  revealing, 
All  but  her  dearest  self  from  my  regard  concealing. 


V. 

Her  lips  were  parted,  and  the  measured  breath 
Was  now  heard  there ; — her  dark  and  intricate  eyes 
Orb  within  orb,  deeper  than  sleep  or  death, 
Absorb'd  the  glories  of  the  burnuig  skies, 
Which,  mingling  with  her  heart's  deep  ecstasies, 
Burst  from  her  looks  and  gestures  ; — and  a  light 
Of  liquid  tenderness  like  love,  did  rise 
From  her  whole  frame,  an  atmosphere  which  quito 
Array'd  her  in  its  beams,  tremulous  and  soft  and  bright 

VI. 

She  would  have  clasp'd  me  to  her  glowing  frame ; 
Those  warm  and  odorous  lips  might  soon  have  shed 
On  mine  the  fragrance  and  the  invisible  flame 
Which  now  the  cold  winds  stole ; — she  would  have 

laid 
Upon  my  languid  heart  her  dearest  head  ; 
I  might  have  heard  her  voice,  tender  and  sweet ; 
Her  eyes  mingling  with  mine,  might  soon  have  fed 
My  soul  with  their  own  joy. — One  moment  yet 
I  gazed — we  parted  then,  never  again  to  meet ! 

VII. 
Never  but  once  to  meet  on  Earth  again ! 
She  heard  me  as  I  fled — her  eager  tone 
Sunk  on  my  heart,  and  almost  wove  a  chain 
Around  my  will  to  link  it  with  her  own. 
So  that  my  stern  resolve  was  almost  gone. 
"  I  cannot  reach  thee  !  whither  dost  thou  fly  ? 
My  steps  are  faint — Come  back,  thou  dearest  one^ 
Return,  ah  me !  return" — the  wind  past  by 
On  which  those  accents  died,  faint,  far,  and  lingeringly. 

VIII. 

Woe!  woe!  that  moonless  midnight — Want  and  Pest 
Were  horrible,  but  one  more  fell  doth  rear, 
As  in  a  hydra's  swarming  lair,  its  crest 
Eminent  among  those  victims — even  the  Fear 
Of  Hell:  each  girt  by  the  hot  atmosphere 
Of  his  blind  agony,  like  a  scorpion  stung 
By  his  own  rage  upon  his  burning  bier 
Of  circling  coals  of  fire  ;  but  still  there  clung 
One  hope,  like  a  keen  sword  onstarting  threads  uphung: 
292 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


45 


IX. 
Not  death — death  was  no  more  refuge  or  rest  ; 
Not  life — it  was  despair  to  be ! — not  sleep, 
For  fiends  and  chasms  of  fire  had  dispossest 
All  natural  dreams :  to  wake  was  not  to  weep, 
But  to  gaze,  mad  and  pallid,  at  the  leap 
To  which  the  Future,  like  a  snaky  scourge. 
Or  like  some  tyrant's  eye,  which  aye  doth  keep 
Its  withering  beam  upon  his  slaves,  did  urge 
Their  steps ;  ihey  heard  die  roar  of  Hell's  sulphure- 
ous surge. 

X. 

Each  of  that  multitude  alone,  and  lost 
To  sense  of  outward  things,  one  hope  yet  knew ; 
As  on  a  foam-girt  crag  some  seaman  tost. 
Stares  at  the  rising  tide,  or  like  the  crew 
Whilst  now  the  ship  is  splitting  through  and  through ; 
Each,  if  the  tramp  of  a  far  steed  was  heard. 
Started  from  sick  despair,  or  if  there  flew 
One  murmur  on  the  wind,  or  if  some  word 
Which  none  can  gather  yet,  the  distant  crowd  has 
stirr'd. 

XI. 

Why  became  cheeks  wan  with  the  kiss  of  death 
Paler  from  hope  ?  they  had  sustain'd  despair. 
Why  watch'd  those  myriads  with  suspended  breath 
Sleepless  a  second  night  ?  they  are  not  here 
The  victims,  and  hour  by  hour,  a  vision  drear, 
Warm  corpses  fall  upon  the  clay-cold  dead  ; 
And  even  in  death  their  lips  are  wreathed  with 

fear. — 
The  crowd  is  mute  and  moveless — overhead 
Silent  Arcturus  shines — ha !  hear'st  thou  not  the  tread 

XII. 

Of  rushing  feet  ?  laughter  ?  the  shout,  the  scream. 
Of  triumph  not  to  be  contain'd  ?  see  !  hark  ! 
They  come,  they  come,  give  \\ay  !  alas,  ye  deem 
Falsely — 'tis  but  a  crowd  of  maniacs  stark 
Driven,  like  a  troop  of  spectres,  through  the  dark. 
From  the  choked  well,  whence  a  bright  death-fire 

sprung, 
A  lurid  earlh-star,  which  dropp'd  many  a  spark 
From  its  blue  train,  and  spreading  widely,  clung 
To  their  wild  hair,  like  mist  the  topmost  pines  among. 

XIII. 
And  many  irom  the  crowd  collected  there, 
Join'd  that  strange  dance  in  fearful  sympathies ; 
There  was  the  silence  of  a  long  despair, 
When  the  last  echo  of  those  terrible  cries 
Came  from  a  distant  street,  like  agonies 
Stifled  afar. — Before  ihe  Tyrant's  throne 
All  night  his  aged  Senate  sale,  their  eyes 
In  stony  expectation  fix'd  ;  when  one 
Sudden  before  them  stood,  a  Stranger  and  alone. 


XIV. 
Dark  Priests  and  haughty  Warriors  gazed  on  him 
With  baffled  wonder,  for  a  hermit's  vest 
Conceal'd  his  face ;  but  when  he  spake,  his  tone, 
Ere  yet  the  matter  did  their  thoughts  arrest, 
Earnest,  benignant,  calm,  as  from  a  breast 
Void  of  all  hale  or  terror,  made  them  start; 
For  as  with  gentle  accents  he  address'd 
His  speech  lo  them,  on  each  unwilling  heart 
Unusual  awe  did  fall — a  spirit-quelling  dart. 


XV. 
"  Ye  Princes  of  the  Earlh,  ye  sit  aghast 
Amid  the  ruin  which  yourselves  have  made  ; 
Yes,  desolation  heard  your  trumpet's  blast. 
And  sprang  from  sleep ! — dark  Terror  has  obey'd 
Your  bidding— O,  that  I  whom  ye  have  made 
Your  foe,  could  set  my  dearest  enemy  free 
From  pain  and  fear!  but  evil  casts  a  shade, 
Which  cannot  pass  so  soon,  and  Hate  must  be 
The  nurse  and  parent  still  of  an  ill  progeny. 

XVI. 
"  Ye  turn  to  Heaven  for  aid  in  your  distress  ; 
Alas,  that  ye,  though  mighty  and  the  wise, 
Who,  if  ye  dared,  might  not  aspire  to  less 
Than  ye  c-onceive  of  power,  should  fear  the  lies 
Which  thou,  and  thou,  didst  frame  for  mysteries 
To  blind  your  slaves  : — consider  your  own  thought, 
An  empty  and  a  cruel  sacrifice 
Ye  now  prepare,  for  a  vain  idol  wrought 
Out  of  the  fears  and  hate  which  vain  desires  have 
brought. 

XVII. 
"  Ye  seek  for  happiness — alas,  the  day ! 
Ye  find  it  not  in  luxury  nor  in  gold, 
Nor  in  the  fame,  nor  in  the  envied  sway 
For  which,  O  willing  slaves  to  Custom  old ! 
Severe  task-mistress  !  ye  your  hearts  have  sold 
Ye  seek  for  peace,  and  when  ye  die,  to  dream 
No  evil  dreams :  all  mortal  things  are  cold 
And  senseless  then;  if  aught  survive,  I  deem. 
It  must  be  love  and  joy,  for  they  immortal  seem 

XVIII. 
"  Fear  not  the  future,  weep  not  for  the  past. 
O,  could  I  win  your  ears  to  dare  be  now 
Glorious,  and  great,  and  calm  I  that  ye  would  cast. 
Into  the  dust  those  symbols  of  your  woe, 
Purple,  ami  gold,  and  steel !  that  ye  would  go 
Proclaiming  to  the  nations  whence  ye  came, 
That  Want,  and  Plague,  and  Fear,  from  slavery. 

flow ; 
And  that  mankind  is  free,  and  that  the  shame 
Of  royalty  and  faiih  is  lost  in  freedom's  fame. 

XIX. 

"  If  thus,  'tis  well — if  not,  I  come  to  say 

That  Laon" — while  the  Stranger  spoke,  among 

The  Council  sudden  tumult  and  affray 

Arose,  for  many  of  those  warriors  young 

Had  on  his  eloquent  accents  fed  and  hung 

Like  bees   on    mountain-flowers ;  they  knew  die 

truth, 
And  from  their  thrones  in  vindication  sprung ; 
The  men  of  failh  and  law  then  without  ruth 

Drew  forth  their  secret  steel,  and  stabb'd  each  aideiit 
youth. 

XX. 
They  stabb'd  them  in  the  back  and  sneer'd — a  slave 
Who  stood  behind  the  throne,  those  corpses  drew 
Each  to  its  bloody,  dark,  and  secret  grave ; 
And  one  more  daring  raised  his  steel  anew 
To  pierce  the  Stranger :  "  What  hast  thou  to  do 
With  me,  poor  viretch  ?" — Calm,  solemn, and  severe. 
That  voice  unstrung  his  sinews,  and  he  threw 
His  dagger  on  the  ground,  and  pale  with  fear, 

Sate  silently — his  voice  then  did  the  Stranger  rear 
39  293 


46 


SHELl^EY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXI. 

"  It  doth  avail  not  that  I  weep  for  ye — 
Ye  cannot  change,  since  ye  are  old  and  gray, 
And  ye  have  chosen  your  lot — your  fame  must  be 
A  book  of  blood,  whence  in  a  milder  day 
Men  shall  learn  truth,  when  ye  are  wrapt  in  clay : 
Now  ye  shall  triumph.    I  am  Laon's  friend, 
And  him  to  your  revenge  will  I  betray, 
So  you  concede  one  easy  boon.    Attend  ! 
For  now  I  speak  of  things  which  ye  can  apprehend. 

XXII. 

"  There  is  a  People  mighty  in  its  youth, 
A  land  beyond  the  Oceans  of  the  West, 
Where,  though  with  rudest  rites,  Freedom  and  Truth 
Are  worshipp'd ;  from  a  glorious  mother's  breast. 
Who,  since  high  Athens  fell,  among  the  rest 
Sate  like  the  Queen  of  Nations,  but  in  woe, 
By  inbred  monsters  outraged  and  oppress'd. 
Turns  to  her  chainless  child  for  succor  now. 
It  draws  the  milk  of  Power  in  Wisdom's  fullest  flow. 

xxra. 

"  That  land  is  like  an  Eagle,  whose  young  gaze 
Feeds  on  the  noontide  beam,  whose  golden  plume 
Floats  moveless  on  the  storm,  and  in  the  blaze 
Of  sunrise  gleams  when  Earth  is  wrapt  in  gloom ; 
An  epitaph  of  glory  for  the  tomb 
Of  murder'd  Europe  may  thy  fame  be  made. 
Great  People  :  as  the  sands  shalt  thou  become  ; 
Thy  growth  is  swift  as  mom,  when  night  must  fade ; 
The  multitudinous  Earth  shall  sleep  beneath  thy  shade. 

XXIV. 
"  Yes,  in  the  desert  there  is  built  a  home 
For  Freedom.    Genius  is  made  strong  to  rear 
The  monuments  of  man  beneath  the  dome 
Of  a  new  Heaven,  myriads  assemble  there, 
Whom  the  proud  lords  of  man,  in  rage  or  fear. 
Drive  from  their  wasted  homes :  the  boon  I  pray 
Is  this, — that  Cythna  shall  be  convoy 'd  there — 
Nay,  start  not  at  the  name — America ! 
•  And  then  to  you  this  night  Laon  will  I  betray. 

XXV. 
"  With  me  do  what  ye  will.    I  am  your  foe ! " 
The  light  of  such  a  joy  as  makes  the  stare 
Of  hungry  snakes  like  living  emeralds  glow, 
Shone  in  a  hundred  human  eyes — "  Where,  where 
Is  Laon  ?  haste  !  fly  !  drag  him  swiftly  here  ! 
We  grant  thy  boon." — "  I  put  no  trust  in  ye  : 
Swear  by  the  Power  ye  dread." — "  We  swear,  we 

swear ! " 
The  Stranger  threw  his  vest  back  suddenly, 
/And  smiled  in  gentle  pride,  and  said,  "Lo!  I  am  he!" 


CANTO  XII. 


I. 


The  transport  of  a  fierce  and  monstrous  gladness 
Spread  through  the  multitudinous  streets,  fast  flying 
Upon  the  wings  of  fear ;  from  his  dull  madness 
The  starveling  waked,  and  died  in  joy  ;  the  dying, 
Among  the  corpses  in  stark  agony  lying. 
Just  heard  the  happy  tidings,  and  in  hope 
Closed  their  faint  eyes ;  from  house  to  house  replying 
With  loud  acclaim,  the  living  shook  Heaven's  cope 
And  fiU'd  the  startled  Earth  with  echoes :  mom  did 


ope 


II. 


Its  pale  eyes  then  ;  and  lo !  the  long  array 
Of  guards  in  golden  arms,  and  priests  beside. 
Singing  their  bloody  hymns,  whose  garbs  betray 
The  blackness  of  the  faith  it  seems  to  hide ; 
And  see,  the  tyrant's  gem-wrought  chariot  glide 
Among  the  gloomy  cowls  and  glittering  spears — 
A  shape  of  light  is  sitting  by  his  side, 
A  child  most  beautiful.    I'  the  midst  appears 
Laon, — exempt  alone  from  mortal  hopes  and  fears. 

in. 

His  head  and  feet  are  bare,  his  hands  are  bound 
Behind  with  heavy  chains,  yet  none  do  wreak 
Their  scoffs  on  him,  though  myriads  throng  around  ; 
There  are  no  sneers  upon  his  lip,  which  speak 
That  scorn  or  hate  hath  made  him  bold  ;  his  cheek 
Resolve  has  not  turn'd  pale, — his  eyes  are  mild 
And  calm,  and  like  the  mom  about  to  break, 
Smile  on  mankind — his  heart  seems  reconciled 
To  all  things  and  itself,  like  a  reposing  cliild 

IV. 

Tumult  was  in  the  soul  of  all  beside, 
111  joy,  or  doubt,  or  fear  ;  but  those  who  saw 
Their  tranquil  victim  pass,  felt  wonder  glide 
Into  their  brain,  and  became  calm  with  awe. 
See,  the  slow  pageant  near  the  pile  doth  draw. 
A  thousand  torches  in  the  spacious  square. 
Borne  by  the  ready  slaves  of  ruthless  law. 
Await  the  signal  round  :  the  morning  fair 
Is  changed  to  a  dim  night  by  that  unnatural  glare. 


And  see !  beneath  a  sun-bright  canopy. 
Upon  a  platform  level  with  the  pile. 
The  anxious  Tyrant  sit,  enthroned  on  high. 
Girt  by  the  chieftains  of  the  host ;  all  smile 
In  expectation,  but  one  child  ;  the  while 
I,  Laon,  led  by  mutes,  ascend  my  bier 
Of  fire,  and  look  around  ;  each  distant  isle 
Is  dark  in  the  bright  dawn ;  towers  far  and  near 
Pierce  hke  reposing  flames  the  tremulous  atmosphere, 
294 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


47i 


VI. 

There  was  such  silence  through  the  host,  as  when 
An  earthquake  tramphng  on  some  populous  town 
Has  erush'd  ten  thousand  with  one  tread,  and  men 
Expect  the  second  !  all  were  mute  but  one, 
That  faijest  child,  who,  bold  with  love,  alone 
Stood  up  before  the  king,  without  avail. 
Pleading  for  Laon's  Ufe — her  stilled  groan 
Was  heard — she  trembled  like  one  aspen  pale 
Among  the  gloomy  pines  of  a.  Norwegian  vale. 

vn. 

What  were  his  thoughts  link'd  in  the  morning  sun, 
Among  those  reptiles,  stingless  with  delay. 
Even  like  a  tyrant's  wrath  ? — the  signal-gun 
Roar'd — hark,  again !  in  that  dread  pause  he  lay 
As  in  a  quiet  dream — the  slaves  obey — 
A  thousand  torches  drop, — and  hark,  the  last 
Bursts  on  that  awful  silence ;  far  away 
Millions,  with  hearts  that  beat  both  loud  and  fast. 
Watch  for  the  springing  flame  expectant  and  aghast. 

vni. 

They  fly — the  torches  fall — a  cry  of  fear 
Has  startled  the  triumphant ! — they  recede ! 
For  ere  the  cannon's  roar  has  died,  they  hear 
The  tramp  of  hoofs  like  earthquake,  and  a  steed 
Dark  and  gigantic,  with  the  tempest's  speed. 
Bursts  through  their  ranks :  a  woman  sits  thereon, 
Fairer  it  seems  than  aught  that  earth  can  breed, 
Calm,  radiant,  Uke  the  phantom  of  the  dawn, 
A  spirit  from  the  caves  of  daylight  wandering  gone. 

IX. 
All  thought  it  was  God's  Angel  come  to  sweep 
The  lingering  guilty  to  their  fiery  grave  ; 
The  tyrant  from  his  throne  in  dread  did  leap, — 
Her  innocence  his  child  from  fear  did  save  ; 
Scared  by  the  faith  they  feign'd,  each  priestly  slave 
Knelt  for  his  mercy  whom  they  served  with  blood, 
And,  like  the  refluence  of  a  mighty  wave 
Suck'd  into  the  loud  sea,  the  multitude 
With  crushing  panic,  fled  in  terror's  alter'd  mood. 


They  pause,  they  blush,  they  gaze, — a  gathering 

shout 
Bursts  like  one  sound  from  the  ten  thousand  streams 
Of  a  tempestuous  sea  : — that  sudden  rout 
One  check'd  who,  never  in  his  mildest  dreams 
Felt  awe  from  grace  or  loveliness,  the  seams 
Of  his  rent  heart  so  hard  and  cold  a  creed 
Had  sear'd  with  blistering  ice — but  he  misdeems 
That  he  is  wise,  whose  wounds  do  only  bleed 
Inly  for  self,  thus  thought  the  Iberian  Priest  indeed, 

XI. 

And  others,  too,  thought  he  was  wise  to  see, 
In  pain,  and  fear,  and  hate,  something  divine  : 
In  love  and  beauty — no  divinity. — 
Now  with  a  bitter  smile,  whose  light  did  shine 
Like  a  fiend's  hope  upon  his  lips  and  eyne, 
He  said,  and  the  persuasion  of  that  sneer 
Rallied  his  trembling  comrades — "  Is  it  mine 
To  stand  alone,  when  kings  and  soldiers  fear 
A  woman  ?  Heaven  has  sent  its  other  victim  here." 


XII. 

"  Were  it  not  impious,"  said  the  King,  "  to  break 
Our  holy  oath  ?" — "  Impious  to  keep  it,  say!" 
Shriek'd  the  exulting  Priest — "  Slaves,  to  the  stake 
Bind  her,  and  on  my  head  the  burthen  lay 
Of  her  just  torments  : — at  the  Judgment  Day 
Will  I  stand  up  before  the  golden  throne 
Of  Heaven,  and  cry.  To  thee  did  I  betray 
An  Infidel ;  but  for  me  she  would  have  known 
Another  moment's  joy !  the  glory  be  thine  own." 

XIII. 
They  trembled,  but  replied  not,  nor  obey'd, 
Pausing  in  breathless  silence.     Cythna  sprung 
From  her  gigantic  steed,  who,  like  a  shade 
Chased  by  the  winds,  those  vacant  streets  among 
Fled  tameless,  as  the  brazen  rein  she  flung 
Upon  his  neck,  and  kiss'd  his  mooned  brow. 
A  piteous  sight,  that  one  so  fair  and  young. 
The  clasp  of  such  a  fearful  death  should  woo 
With  smiles  of  tender  joy  as  beam'd  from  Cythna 
now. 

XIV. 
The  warm  tears  burst  in  spite  of  faith  and  fear, 
From  many  a  tremulous  eye,  but  like  soft  dews 
Which  feed  spring's  earliest  buds,  hung  gather'd 

there. 
Frozen  by  doubt, — alas,  they  could  not  choose 
But  weep ;  for  when  her  faint  Umbs  did  refuse 
To  climb  the  pyre,  upon  the  mutes  she  smiled ; 
And  with  her  eloquent  gestures,  and  the  hues 
Of  her  quick  lips,  even  as  a  weary  child 
Wins  sleep  from  some  fond  nurse  with  its  caresses 

mild. 

XV. 
She  won  them,  though  unwilling,  her  to  bind 
Near  me,  among  the  .snakes.    When  then  had  fled 
One  soft  reproach  that  was  most  thrilling  kind, 
She  smiled  on  me,  and  nothing  then  we  said. 
But  each  upon  the  other's  countenance  fed 
Looks  of  insatiate  love ;  the  mighty  veil 
Which  doth  divide  the  living  and  the  dead 
Was  almost  rent,  the  world  grew  dim  and  pale — 
All  light  in  Heaven  or  Earth  beside  our  love  did  fail. 

XVI. 

Yet, — yet — one  brief  relapse,  like  the  last  beam 
Of  dying  flames,  the  stainless  air  around 
Hung  silent  and  serene — a  blood-red  gleam 
Burst  upwards,  hurling  fiercely  from  the  ground 
The  globed  smoke, — I  heard  the  mighty  sound 
Of  its  uprise,  like  a  tempestuous  ocean  ; 
And,  through  its  chasms  I  saw,  as  in  a  swound, 
The  tyrant's  child  fall  without  life  or  motion 
Before  his  throne,  subdued  by  some  unseen  emotion. 

XVII. 

And  is  this  death  ?  the  pyre  has  disappear'd, 
The  Pestilence,  the  Tyrant,  and  the  throng ; 
The  flames  grow  silent — slowly  there  is  heard 
The  music  of  a  breath-suspending  song, 
AVhich,  like  the  kiss  of  love  when  life  is  young. 
Steeps  the  faint  eyes  in  darkness  sweet  and  deep 
With  ever-changing  notes  it  floats  along. 
Till  on  my  passive  soul  there  seeni'd  to  creep 
A  melody,  Uke  waves  on  wrinkled  sands  that  leap. 
295 


48 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XVIII. 

The  warm  touch  of  a  soft  and  tremulous  hand 

Waken'd  me  then ;  lo,  Cythna  sate  recHned 

Beside  me,  on  the  waved  and  golden  sand 

Of  a  clear  pool,  upon  a  bank  o'ertwined 

With  strange  and  star-bright  flowers,  which  to  the 

wind 
Breathed  divine  odor ;  high  above,  was  spread 
The  emerald  heaven  of  trees  of  unknown  kind. 
Whose  moonlike  blooms  and  bright  fruit  overhead 
A  shadow,  which  was  light,  upon  the  waters  shed. 

XIX. 

And  round  about  sloped  many  a  lawny  mountain 
With  incense-bearing  forests,  and  vast  caves 
Of  marble  radiance  to  that  mighty  fountain  ; 
And  where  the  flood  its  own  bright  margin  laves, 
Their  echoes  talk  with  its  eternal  waves. 
Which,  from  the  depths  whose  jagged  caverns 

breed 
Their  unreposing  strife,  it  lifts  and  heaves, — 
Till  through  a  chasm  of  hills  they  roll,  and  feed 
A  river  deep,  which  flies  with  smooth  but  arrowy 


XX. 

As  we  sate  gazing  in  a  trance  of  wonder, 
A  boat  approach'd,  borne  by  the  musical  air 
Along  the  waves  which  sung  and  sparkled  under 
Its  rapid  keel — a  winged  shape  sate  there, 
A  child  with  silver-shining  wings,  so  fair, 
That  as  her  bark  did  through  the  waters  glide, 
The  shadow  of  the  lingering  waves  did  wear 
Light,  as  from  starry  beams ;  from  side  to  side. 

While  veering  to  the  wind,  her  plumes  the  bark  did 
guide. 

XXI. 
The  boat  was  one  curved  shell  of  hollow  pearl. 
Almost  translucent  with  the  light  divine 
Of  her  within ;  the  prow  and  stern  did  curl 
Horned  on  high,  like  the  young  moon  supine, 
When  o'er  dim  twilight  mountains  dark  with  pine, 
It  floats  upon  the  sunset's  sea  of  beams, 
Whose  golden  waves  in  many  a  purple  line 
Fade  fast,  till  borne  on  sunlight's  ebbing  streams. 

Dilating,  on  earth's  verge  the  sunken  meteor  gleams. 

XXII. 
Its  keel  has  struck  the  sands  beside  Our  feet ; — 
Then  Cythna  turn'd  to  me,  and  from  her  eyes 
Which  swam  with  unshed  tears,  a  look  more  sweet 
Than  happy  love,  a  wild  and  glad  surprise. 
Glanced  as  she  spake ;  "  Ay,  tliis  is  Paradise 
And  not  a  dream,  and  we  are  all  united ! 
Lo,  that  is  mine  own  child,  who  in  the  guise 
Of  madness  came,  like  day  lo  one  benighted 

In  lonesome  woods :  my  heart  is  now  too  well  re- 
quited!" 

XXIII. 
And  then  she  wept  aloud,  and  in  her  arms 
Clasp'd  that  bright  Shape,  less  marvellously  fair 
Than  her  own  human  hues  and  living  charms; 
Which,  as  she  lean'd  in  passion's  silence  there. 
Breathed  warmth  on  the  cold  bosom  of  the  air, 
Which  seem'd  to  blush  and  tremble  with  delight: 
The  glossj'  darkness  of  her  streaming  hair 
Fell  o'er  that  snowy  child,  and  wrapt  from  sight 

The  fond  and  long  embrace  which  did  their  hearts 
xinite. 


XXIV. 
Then  the  bright  child,  the  plumed  Seraph  came. 
And  fix'd  its  blue  and  beaming  eyes  on  mine, 
And  said,  "  I  was  disturb'd  by  tremulous  sharae 
When  once  we  met,  yet  knew  that  I  was  thine 
From  the  same  hour  in  which  thy  hps  divine 
Kindled  a  clinging  dream  within  my  brain, 
Which  ever  waked  when  I  might  sleep,  to  twine 
Thine  image  with  her  memory  dear — again 
We  meet,  exempted  now  from  mortal  fear  or  pain. 

XXV. 

"  When  the  consuming  flames  had  wrapt  ye  rovuid. 

The  hope  which  I  had  cherish'd  went  away ; 

I  fell  in  agony  on  the  senseless  ground. 

And  hid  mine  eyes  in  dust,  and  far  astray 

My  mind  was  gone,  when  bright,  like  dawning 

day. 
The  Spectre  of  the  Plague  before  me  flew. 
And  breathed  upon  my  lips,  and  seem'd  lo  say, 
'  They  wait  for  thee,  beloved  ;' — then  I  knew 
The  death-mark  on  my  breast,  and  became  calm  anew. 

XXVI. 
"  It  was  the  calm  of  love — for  I  was  dpng. 
I  saw  the  black  and  half-extinguish'd  pyre 
In  its  own  gray  and  shrunken  ashes  lying  ; 
The  pitchy  smoke  of  the  departed  fire 
Still  hung  in  many  a  hollow  dome  and  spire 
Above  the  towers  like  night ;  beneath  whose  shade 
Awed  by  the  ending  of  their  own  desire 
The  armies  stood  ;  a  vacancy  was  made 
In  expectation's  depth,  and  so  they  stood  dismay'd. 

XXVII. 

"  The  frightful  silence  of  that  alter'd  mood, 
The  tortures  of  the  dying  clove  alone. 
Till  one  uprose  among  the  multitude, 
And  said — '  The  flood  of  time  is  rolling  on. 
We  stand  upon  its  brink,  whilst  they  are  gone 
To  glide  in  peace  down  death's  mysterious  stream. 
Have  ye  done  well  ?  they  moulder  flesh  and  bone, 
Who  might  have  made  this  life's  envenom'd  dream 
A  sweeter  draught  than  ye  will  ever  taste,  I  deem. 

XXVIII. 

"  '  These  perish  as  the  good  and  great  of  yore 
Have  perish'd,  and  their  murderers  will  repent. 
Yes,  vain  and  barren  tears  shall  flow,  before 
Yon  smoke  has  faded  from  the  firmament. 
Even  for  this  cause,  that  ye  who  must  lament 
The  death  of  those  that  made  this  world  so  fair 
Cannot  recall  them  now ;  but  then  is  lent 
To  man  the  wisdom  of  a  high  despair. 
When  such  can  die,  and  he  live  on  and  linger  here 

XXIX. 

"  '  Ay,  ye  may  fear  not  now  the  Pestilence, 
From  fabled  hell  as  by  a  charm  withdrawn. 
All  power  and  faith  must  pass,  since  calmly  hence 
In  pain  and  fire  have  unbelievers  gone  ; 
And  ye  must  sadly  turn  away,  and  moan 
In  secret,  to  his  home  each  one  returning. 
And  to  long  ages  shall  this  hour  be  known; 
And  slowly  shall  its  memory,  ever  burning. 
Fill  this  dark  night  of  things  with  an  eternal  morning. 
296 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ISLAM. 


40 


XXX. 

" '  For  me  the  world  is  grown  too  void  and  cold, 
Since  hope  pursues  immorial  desiiny 
Willi  sieps  thus  slow — therefore  shall  ye  behold 
How  those  who  love,  yet  fear  not,  dare  to  die ; 
Tell  to  your  children  this!'  then  suddenly 
He  sheathed  a  dagger  in  his  heart,  and  fell; 
My  brain  grew  dark  in  death,  and  yet  to  me 
There  came  a  murmur  from  the  crowd,  to  tell 
Of  deep  and  mighty  change  which  suddeidy  befell. 

XXXI. 

'  Then  suddenly  I  stood  a  winged  Thought 
Before  the  immortal  Senate,  and  the  seat 
Of  that  star-shining  spirit,  whence  is  wrought 
The  strength  of  its  dominion,  good  and  great, 
The  better  Genius  of  this  world's  estate. 
His  realm  around  one  mighty  Fane  is  spread, 
Elysian  islands  bright  and  fortunate. 
Calm  dwellings  of  the  free  and  happy  dead. 
Where  I  amsenttoleadi"  these  winged  words  she  said, 

XXXII. 
And  with  the  silence  of  her  eloquent  smile, 
Bade  us  embark  in  her  divine  canoe; 
Then  at  the  helm  we  took  our  seat,  the  while 
Above  her  head  those  plumes  of  dazzling  hue 
Into  the  winds'  invisible  stream  she  threw. 
Sitting  beside  the  prow :  like  gossamer, 
On  the  swift  breath  of  morn,  the  vessel  flew 
O'er  the  bright  whirlpools  of  that  fountain  fair. 
Whose  shores  receded  fast,  whilst  we  seem'd  linger- 
ing there ; 

XXXIII. 
Till  down  that  mighty  stream  dark,  calm,  and  fleet, 
Between  a  cha.sm  of  cedar  mountains  riven. 
Chased  by  the  thronging  winds  whose  viewless  feet 
As  swift  as  twinkling  beams,  had,  under  Heaven, 
From  woods  and  waves  wild  sounds  and  odorsdriven, 
The  boat  fled  visibly — three  nights  and  days. 
Borne  like  a  cloud  through  morn,  and  noon,  and  even, 
We  sail'd  along  the  winding  watery  ways 
Of  the  vast  stream,  a  long  and  labyrinthine  maze. 

XXXIV. 
A  scene  of  joy  and  wonder  to  behold 
That  river's  shapes  and  shadows  changing  ever. 
Where  the  broad  sunrise,  fill'd  with  deepening  gold. 
Its  whirlpools,  where  all  hues  did  spread  and  quiver. 
And  where  melodious  falls  did  burst  and  shiver 
Among  rocks  clad  with  flowers,  the  foam  and  spray 
Sparkled  like  stars  upon  the  sunny  river. 
Or  when  the  moonlight  pour'd  a  holier  day, 
One  vast  and  glittering  lake  around  green  islands  lay. 

XXXV. 

Mom,  noon,  and  even,  that  boat  of  pearl  outran 
The  streams  which  bore  it,  like  the  arrowy  cloud 
Of  tempest,  or  the  speedier  thought  of  man. 
Which  flieth  forth  and  cannot  make  abode. 
Sometimes  through  forests,  deeplike  night,  we  glode, 
Between  the  walls  of  mighty  mountains  crown'd 
With  Cyclopean  piles,  whose  turrets  proud. 
The  homes  of  the  departed,  dimly  frown'd 
O'er  the  bright  waves  which  girt  their  dark  founda- 
tions round. 

2N 


XXXVI. 
Sometimes    between    the    wide    and    flowering 

meadows. 
Mile  after  mile  we  sail'd,  and  'twas  delight 
To  see  far  otf  the  sunbeams  chase  the  shadows 
Over  the  grass  ;  sometimes  beneath  the  night 
Of  wide  and  vaulted  caves,  whose  roofs  were  bright 
With  starry  gems,  we  fled,  whilst  from  their  deep 
And  dark-green  chasms,  shades  beautiful  and  white, 
Amid  sweet  sounds  across  our  path  would  sweep, 
Like  swift  and  lovely  dreams  that  walk  the  waves 
of  sleep. 

XXXVII. 
And  ever  as  we  sail'd,  our  minds  were  full 
Of  love  and  wisdom,  which  would  overflow 
In  converse  wild,  and  sweet,  and  wonderful ; 
And  in  quicksmiles  whose  light  would  come  and  go, 
Like  music  o'er  wide  waves,  and  in  the  flow 
Of  sudden  tears,  and  in  the  mute  caress — 
For  a  deep  shade  was  cleft,  and  we  did  know, 
That  virtue,  though  obscured  on  Earth,  not  less 
Survives  all  mortal  change  in  lasting  loveliness. 

XXXVIII. 

Three  days  and  nights  we  sail'd,  as  thought  and 

feeling 
Number  delightful  hours — for  through  the  sky 
The  sphered  lamps  of  day  and  night,  revealing 
New  changes  and  new  glories,  roU'd  on  high, 
Sini,  Moon,  and  moonlike  lamps,  the  progeny 
Of  a  diviner  Heaven,  serene  and  fair : 
On  the  fourth  day,  wild  as  a  wind-wrought  sea 
The  stream  became,  and  fast  and  faster  bare 
The  spirit-winged  boat,  steadily  speeding  there. 

XXXIX. 

Steadily  and  swift,  where  the  waves  roll'd  like 

mountains 
Within  the  vast  ravine,  whose  rifts  did  pour 
Tumultuous  floods  from  their  ten  thousand  fountains, 
The  thunder  of  whose  earth-uplifting  roar 
Made  the  air  sweep  in  whirlwinds  from  the  shore. 
Calm  as  a  shade,  the  boat  of  that  fair  child 
Securely  fled,  that  rapid  stress  before, 
Amid  the  topmost  spray,  and  sunbows  wild, 
Wreathed  in  the  silver  mist:  in  joy  and  pride  we  smiled 

XL. 

The  torrent  of  that  wide  and  raging  river 
Is  past,  and  our  aerial  speed  suspended. 
We  look  behind;  a  golden  mist  did  quiver 
When  its  wild  surges  with  the  lake  were  blended: 
Our  bark  hung  there,  as  one  line  suspended 
Bet  ween  two  Heavens,  that  windless  waveless  lake ; 
Which  four  great  cataracts  from  four  vales,  attended 
By  mists,  aye  feed ;  from  rocks  and  clouds  they  break. 
And  of  that  azure  sea  a  silent  refuge  make. 

XLI. 
Motionless  resting  on  the  lake  awhile, 
I  saw  its  marge  of  snow-bright  mountains  rear 
Their  peaks  aloft,  I  saw  each  radiant  isle,  I 

And  in  the  mid.st,  afar,  even  like  a  sphere 
Hung  in  one  hollow  sky,  did  there  appear 
The  Temple  of  the  Spirit ;  on  the  sound 
Which  issued  thence,  drawn  nearer  and  more  near, 
Like  the  swift  moon  this  glorious  earth  around. 
The  charmed   boat  approach'd,  and  there  its  haven 
found. 

297 


50 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


EUt  attntu 

A  TRAGEDY,  IN  FIVE  ACTS. 


DEDICATION. 

TO  LEIGH  HUNT,  ESQ. 

My  dear  Friend, 

I  INSCRIBE  with  your  name,  from  a  distant  country, 
and  after  an  absence  whose  months  have  seemed 
years,  this  the  latest  of  my  literary  efforts. 

Those  writings  which  I  have  hitherto  published, 
have  been  little  else  than  visions  which  impersonate 
my  own  apprehensions  of  the  beautiful  and  the  just. 
1  can  also  perceive  in  them  the  literary  defects  inci- 
dental to  youth  and  impatience  ;  they  are  dreams  of 
what  ought  to  be,  or  may  be.  The  drama  which  I 
now  present  to  you  is  a  sad  reality.  I  lay  aside  the 
presumptuous  attitude  of  an  instructor,  and  am  con- 
tent to  paint,  with  such  colors  as  my  own  heart  fur- 
nishes, that  which  has  been. 

Had  I  kno\\7i  a  person  more  highly  endowed  than 
yourself  with  all  that  it  becomes  a  man  to  possess,  I 
had  solicited  for  this  work  the  ornament  of  his  name. 
One  more  gentle,  honorable,  innocent  and  brave  ;  one 
of  more  exalted  toleration  for  all  who  do  and  think 
evil,  and  yet  himself  more  free  from  evil ;  one  who 
knows  better  how  to  receive,  and  how  to  confer  a 
benefit,  though  he  must  ever  confer  far  more  than  he 
can  receive  ;  one  of  simpler,  and,  in  the  highest  sense 
of  the  word,  of  purer  life  and  mamiers,  I  never 
knew :  and  I  had  already  been  fortunate  in  friend- 
ships when  your  name  was  added  to  the  list. 

In  that  patient  and  irreconcilable  enmity  with  do- 
mestic and  political  tyranny  and  imposture  wliich  the 
tenor  of  your  life  has  illustrated,  and  which,  had  I 
health  and  talents,  should  illustrate  mine,  let  us, 
comforting  each  other  in  our  task,  live  and  die. 

All  happiness  attend  you ! 

Your  affectionate  friend. 


Percy  B.  Shelley. 


Rome,  May  29,  1819. 


PREFACE. 


A  MANUSCRIPT  was  communicated  to  me  during  my 
travels  in  Italy  which  was  copied  from  the  archives 
of  the  Cenei  Palace  at  Rome,  and  contains  a  detailed 
account  of  the  horrors  which  ended  in  the  extinction 
of  one  of  the  noblest  and  richest  families  of  that 
cily,  during  the  Pontificate  of  Clement  VIII.,  in  the 
year  1599.  The  storjMs,  that  an  old  man  having 
spent  his  life  in  debaucherj^  and  wickedness,  conceived 
at  length  an  implacable  hatred  towards  his  children; 
which  showed  itself  towards  one  daughter  under  the 
form  of  an  incestuous  passion,  aggravated  by  every 
circumstance  of  cruelty  and  violence.  This  daughter, 
after  long  and  vain  attempts  to  escape  from  what  she 


considered  a  perpetual  contamination  both  of  body 
and  mind,  at  length  plotted  with  her  mother-in-law 
and  brother  to  murder  their  common  tyrant.  The 
young  maiden,  who  was  urged  to  this  tremendous 
deed  by  an  impulse  which  overpowered  its  horror, 
was  evidently  a  most  gentle  and  amiable  being ;  a 
creature  formed  to  adorn  and  be  admired,  and  thus 
violently  thwarted  from  her  nature  by  the  necessity 
of  circumstance  and  opinion.  The  deed  was  quickly 
discovered  ;  and  in  spite  of  the  most  earnest  prayers 
made  to  the  Pope  by  the  highest  persons  in  Rome, 
the  criminals  were  put  to  death.  The  old  man  had 
during  his  life  repeatedly  bought  his  pardon  from  the 
Pope  for  capital  crimes  of  tlie  most  enormous  and 
unspeakable  kind,  at  the  price  of  a  hundred  thousand 
crowns ;  the  death  therefore  of  his  victims  can 
scarcely  be  accounted  for  by  the  love  of  justice.  The 
Pope,  among  other  motives  for  severity,  probably  felt 
that  whoever  killed  the  Count  Cenci  deprived  his 
treasury  of  a  certain  and  copious  source  of  revenue. 
The  Papal  Government  formerly  took  the  most  ex- 
traordinary precautions  against  the  publicity  of  facts 
which  offer  so  tragical  a  demonstration  of  its  own 
wickedness  and  weakness  ;  so  that  the  communication 
of  the  MS.  had  become,  until  very  lately,  a  matter 
of  some  difficulty.  Such  a  story,  if  told  so  as  to  pre- 
sent to  the  reader  all  the  feelings  of  those  who  once 
acted  it,  their  hopes  and  fears,  their  confidences  and 
misgivings,  their  various  interests,  passions  and  opin- 
ions, acting  upon  and  with  each  other,  yet  all  con- 
spiring to  one  tremendous  end,  would  be  as  a  light 
to  make  apparent  some  of  the  most  dark  and  secret 
caverns  of  the  human  heart. 

On  my  arrival  at  Rome,  I  found  that  the  story  of 
the  Cenci  was  a  subject  not  to  be  mentioned  in  Ital- 
ian society  without  awakening  a  deep  and  breathless 
interest ;  and  that  the  feelings  of  the  company  never 
failed  to  incline  to  a  romantic  pity  for  the  wrongs, 
and  a  passionate  exculpation  of  the  horrible  deed  to 
which  they  urged  her,  who  has  been  mingled  two 
centuries  with  the  common  dust.  All  ranks  of  people 
knew  the  outlines  of  this  history,  and  participated  in 
the  overwhelming  interest  which  it  seems  to  have 
the  magic  of  exciting  in  the  human  heart.  I  had  a 
copy  of  Guido's  picture  of  Beatrice  which  is  preserved 
in  the  Colonna  Palace,  and  my  servant  instantly  re- 
cognized it  as  the  portrait  of  La  Cenci. 

This  national  and  universal  interest  which  the 
story  produces  and  has  produced  for  two  centuries, 
and  among  all  ranks  of  people,  in  a  great  City,  where 
the  imagination  is  kept  for  ever  active  and  awake 
first  suggested  to  me  the  conception  of  its  fitness  for 
a  dramatic  purpose.  In  fact  it  is  a  tragedy  which  has 
already  received,  from  its  capacity  of  awakening  and 
sustaining  the  sympathy  of  men,  approbation  and 
success.  Nothing  remained,  as  I  imagined,  but  to 
clothe  it  to  the  apprehensions  of  my  countrymen  in 
such  language  and  action  as  would  bring  it  home  to 
their  hearts.  The  deepest  and  the  snblimest  tragic 
compositions,  King  Lear  and  the  two  plays  in  which 
the  tale  of  (Edipus  is  told,  were  stories  which  already 
298 


THE  CENCL 


51 


existed  in  tradition,  as  matters  of  popular  belief  and 
interest,  before  Shakspeare  and  Sophocles  made  tliem 
familiar  to  the  sympathy  of  all  succeeding  genera- 
tions of  mankind. 

This  story  of  the  Cenci  is  indeed  eminently  fearful 
and  monstrous:  any  thing  like  a  dry  exhibition  of  it 
on  the  stage  would  be  insupportable.  The  person 
who  \\ould  treat  such  a  subject,  must  increase  the 
iileal,  and  diminish  the  actual  horror  of  the  events, 
Ko  that  the  pleasure  which  arises  from  the  poetry 
which  exists  in  these  tempestuous  suflerings  and 
crimes,  may  mitigate  the  pain  of  the  contemplation 
of  the  moral  deformity  from  which  they  spring. 
There  must  also  be  nothing  attempted  to  make  tlie 
exhibition  subservient  to  what  is  vulgarly  termed  a 
moral  purpose.  The  highest  moral  purpose  aimed  at 
ui  the  highest  species  of  the  drama,  is  the  teaching 
the  human  heart,  through  its  sympathies  and  an- 
tipathies, the  knowledge  of  itself;  in  proportion  to 
the  possession  of  which  knowledge,  every  human 
being  is  wise,  just,  sincere,  tolerant,  and  kind.  If 
dogmas  can  do  more,  it  is  well:  but  a  drama  is  no  fit 
place  for  the  enforcement  of  them.  Undoubtedly, 
no  person  can  be  truly  dishonored  by  the  act  of  an- 
other ;  and  the  fit  return  to  make  to  the  most  enor- 
mous injuries  is  kindness  and  forbearance,  and  a 
resolution  to  convert  the  injurer  from  his  dark  pas- 
sions by  peace  and  love.  Revenge,  retaliation, 
atonement,  are  pernicious  mistakes.  If  Beatrice  had 
thouglit  in  this  manner,  she  would  have  been  wiser 
and  better;  but  she  would  never  have  been  a  tragic 
character:  the  few  whom  such  an  exhibition  would 
have  interested,  could  never  have  been  sufficiently 
interested  for  a  dramatic  purpose,  from  the  want  of 
finding  sympathy  in  their  interest  among  the  mass 
who  surround  them.  It  is  in  the  restless  and  anato- 
mizing casuistry  with  which  men  seek  the  justification 
of  Beatrice,  yet  feel  that  she  has  done  what  needs 
justification ;  it  is  in  the  superstitious  horror  with 
which  they  contemplate  alike  her  wrongs  and  their 
revenge,  that  the  dramatic  character  of  what  she  did 
and  suffered  consists. 

I  have  endeavored  as  nearly  as  possible  to  repre- 
sent the  characters  as  they  probably  were,  and  have 
sought  to  avoid  the  error  of  making  them  actuated 
by  my  own  conceptions  of  right  or  wrong,  false  or 
true  :  thus  under  a  thin  veil  converting  names  and 
actions  of  the  sixteenth  century  into  cold  imperson- 
ations of  my  own  mind.  Tliey  are  represented  as 
Catholics,  and  as  Catholics  deeply  tinged  with  re- 
ligion. To  a  Protestant  apprehension  there  will 
appear  something  unnatural  in  the  earnest  and  per- 
petual sentiment  of  the  relations  between  God  and 
man  which  pervade  the  tragedy  of  the  Cenci.  It 
will  especially  be  startled  at  the  combination  of  an 
undoubting  persuasion  of  the  truth  of  the  popular 
religion,  with  a  cool  and  determined  perseverance  in 
enormous  guilt.  But  religion  in  Italy  is  not,  as  in 
Protestant  countries,  a  cloak  to  be  worn  on  particular 
days ;  or  a  passport  which  those  who  do  not  wish  to 
be  railed  at  carry  with  them  to  exhibit;  or  a  gloomy 
passion  for  penetrating  the  impenetrable  mysteries 
of  our  being,  which  terrifies  its  possessor  at  the 
darkness  of  the  abyss  to  the  brink  of  which  it  has 
conducted  him.  Religion  coexists,  as  it  were,  in 
the  mind  of  an  Italian  Catholic  with  a  faith  in  that 
of  which  all  men  have  the  most  -certain  knowledge. 
It  is  interwoven  with  the  whole  fabric  of  life.  It  is 
adoration,  faith,  submission,  penitence,  blind  admira- 
tion ;  not  a  rule  for  moral  conduct.    It  has  no  neces- 


sary connexion  with  any  one  virtue.  The  most 
atrocious  villain  may  be  rigidly  devout,  and,  without 
any  shock  to  established  faith,  confess  himself  to  be 
so.  Religion  pervades  intensely  the  whole  frame 
of  society,  and  is,  according  to  the  temper  of  the 
mind  which  it  inhabits,  a  passion,  a  persuasion,  an 
excuse ;  a  refuge :  never  a  check.  Cenci  himself 
built  a  chapel  in  the  court  oi'  his  Palace,  and  dedi- 
cated it  to  St.  Thomas  the  Apostle,  and  established 
masses  for  the  peace  of  his  soul.  Tlius  in  the  first 
scene  of  the  fourth  act,  Lucretia's  design  in  exposing 
herself  to  the  consequences  of  an  expostulation  with 
Cenci  after  having  administered  the  opiate,  was  to 
induce  him  by  a  feigned  tale  to  confess  himself  be- 
fore death;  this  being  esteemed  by  Catholics  as  es- 
sential to  salvation ;  and  she  oidy  relinquishes  her 
purpose  when  she  perceives  that  her  perseverance 
would  expose  Beatrice  to  new  outrages. 

I  have  avoided  with  great  care  in  wriring  this 
play  the  introduction  of  what  is  commonly  called 
mere  poetry,  and  I  imagine  there  will  scarcely  be 
found  a  detached  simile  or  a  single  isolated  description, 
unless  Beatrice's  description  of  the  chasm  appointed 
for  her  father's  murder  should  be  judged  to  be  of 
that  nature.* 

In  a  dramatic  composition,  the  imagery  and  the 
passion  should  interpenetrate  one  another,  the  former 
being  reserved  simply  for  the  full  development  and 
illustration  of  the  latter.  Imagination  is  as  the  im- 
mortal God  which  should  assume  flesh  for  the  re- 
demption of  mortal  passion.  It  is  thus  that  the  most 
remote  and  the  most  familiar  imagery  may  alike  be 
fit  for  dramatic  purposes  when  employed  in  the  il- 
lustration of  strong  feeling,  which  raises  what  is 
low,  and  levels  to  the  apprehension  that  which  is 
lofty,  casting  over  all  the  shadow  of  its  own  great- 
ness. In  other  respects  I  have  written  more  care- 
lessly; that  is,  without  an  over-fastidious  and  learned 
choice  of  words.  In  this  respect  I  entirely  agree 
with  those  modern  critics  who  assert,  that  in  order 
to  move  men  to  true  sympathy  we  must  use  the  fa- 
miliar language  of  men ;  and  that  our  great  ances- 
tors the  ancient  English  poets  are  the  writers,  a 
study  of  whom  might  incite  us  lo  do  that  for  our  own 
age  which  they  have  done  for  theire.  But  it  must 
be  the  real  language  of  men  in  general,  and  not  that 
of  any  particular  class  to  whose  society  the  writer 
happens  to  belong.  So  much  for  what  I  have  at- 
tempted :  I  need  not  be  assured  that  success  is  a 
very  different  matter ;  particularly  for  one  whose 
attention  has  but  newly  been  awakened  to  the  study 
of  dramatic  literature. 

I  endeavored  whilst  at  Rome  to  observe  such 
monuments  of  this  story  as  might  be  accessible  to  a 
stranger.  The  portrait  of  Beatrice  at  the  Colonna 
Palace  is  most  admirable  as  a  v^ork  of  art :  it  was 
taken  by  Guido,  during  her  confinement  in  prison. 
But  it  is  most  interesting  as  a  just  representation  of 
one  of  the  loveliest  specimens  of  the  workmanship 
of  Nature.  There  is  a  fixed  and  pale  composure 
upon  the  features :  she  seems  sad  and  stricken  down 
in  spirit,  yet  the  despair  thus  expressed  is  lightened 
by  the  patience  of  gentleness.  Her  head  is  bound 
with  folds  of  white  drapery,  from  which  the  yellow 
strings  of  her  golden  hair  escape,  and  fall  about  her 

*  An   idea  in   this  speecli  was  suggested   by   a  most 
sublime  passage  in  "  EI  Purg.itorio  de  San  I'atricio"  of 
Caliieron:  the  only  plagiarism  \\  hich  Ihax'e  intentionally  ■ 
committed  in  the  whole  piece. 

299 


52 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


neck.  The  moulding  of  her  face  is  exquisitely 
delicate  ;  the  eyebrows  are  distinct  and  arched  :  the 
lips  have  that  permanent  meaning  of  imagination 
and  sensibility  which  suffering  has  not  repressed,  and 
which  it  seems  as  if  death  scarcely  could  extinguish. 
Her  forehead  is  large  and  clear ;  her  eyes,  which  we 
are  told  were  remarkable  for  their  vivacity,  are 
swollen  with  weeping,  and  lustreless,  but  beautifully 
tender  and  serene.  In  the  whole  mien,  there  is  a 
simplicity  and  dignity  which,  united  wilh^  her  ex- 
quisite loveliness  and  deep  sorrow,  are  inexpressibly 
pathetic.  Beatrice  Cenci  appears  to  have  been  one 
of  those  rare  persons  in  whom  energy  and  gentleness 
dwell  together  without  destroying  one  another:  her 
nature  was  simple  and  profound.  The  crimes  and 
miseries  in  which  she  was  an  actor  and  a  sufferer 
are  as  the  mask  and  the  mantle  in  which  circum- 
stances clothed  her  for  her  impersonation  on  the 
scene  of  the  world. 

The  Cenci  Palace  is  of  great  extent ,  and  though 
in  part  modernized,  there  yet  remains  a  vast  and 
gloomy  pile  of  feudal  architecture  in  the  same  state 
as  during  the  dreadful  scenes  which  are  the  subject 
of  this  tragedy.  The  Palace  is  situated  in  an  ob- 
scure corner  of  Rome,  near  the  quarter  of  the  Jews, 
and  from  the  upper  windows  you  see  the  immense 
ruins  of  Mount  Palatine  half  hidden  under  their 
profuse  overgrowth  of  trees.  There  is  a  court  in  one 
part  of  the  palace  (perhaps  that  in  which  Cenci  built 
the  Chapel  to  St.  Thomas),  supported  by  granite  col- 
umns and  adorned  with  antique  friezes  of  fine  work- 
manship, and  built  up,  according  to  the  ancient  Italian 
fashion,  with  balcony  over  balcony  of  open  work. 
One  of  the  gates  of  the  palace  formed  of  immense 
stones,  and  leading  through  a  passage,  dark  and  lofty 
and  opening  into  gloomy  subterranean  chambers, 
struck  me  particularly. 

Of  the  Castle  of  Petrella,  I  could  obtain  no  further 
information  than  that  which  is  to  be  found  in  the 
manuscript. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


''      (  His 

DO,     ^ 


MEN. 
Count  Francesco  Cenci. 

GlACOMO, 

Bernardo, 

Cardinal  Camillo. 

Orsino,  a  Prelate. 

Savella,  the  Pope's  Legate. 

Olimpio,  I 

Marzio,   \ 

Andrea,  Servant  to  Cenci. 

Nobles,  Judges,  Guards,  Servants- 


Assassins. 


WOMEN. 

Lucretia,    Wife  of   Cenci,  and  step-mother  of  his 

children. 
Beatrice,  his  daughter. 


The  Scene  lies  principally  in  Rome,  but  changes 
during  the  fourth  Act  to  Petronella,  a  castle 
among  the  Apulian  Appenines. 

Time    During  the  Pontificate  of  Clement  VIII. 


THE  CENCL 


ACT  L 

SCENE  I. 

Aji  Apartment  in  the  Cenci  Palace. 

Enter  Count  Cenci,  and  Cardinal  Camillo. 

CAMILLO., 

That  matter  of  the  murder  is  hush'd  up 

If  you  consent  to  yield  his  Holiness 

Your  fief  that  lies  beyond  the  Pincian  gate. — 

It  needed  all  my  interest  in  the  conclave 

To  bend  him  to  this  point :  he  said  that  you 

Bought  perilous  impunity  w'ilh  your  gold  , 

That  crimes  like  yours  if  once  or  twice  compoundea 

Enrich'd  the  Church,  and  respited  from  hell 

An  erring  soul  which  might  repent  and  live : — 

But  that  the  glory  and  the  interest 

Of  the  high  throne  he  fills,  little  consist 

With  making  it  a  daily  mart  of  guilt 

So  manifold  and  hideous  as  the  deeds 

Which  you  scarce  hide  from  men's  revolted  eyes. 

CENCI. 

The  third  of  my  possessions — let  it  go ! 

Ay,  I  once  heard  the  nephew  of  the  Pope 

Had  sent  his  architect  to  view  the  ground, 

Meaning  to  build  a  villa  on  my  vines 

The  next  time  I  compounded  with  his  uncle  : 

I  little  thought  he  should  outwit  me  so  ! 

Henceforth  no  witness — not  the  lamp — shall  see 

That  which  the  vassal  threaten'd  to  divulge 

Wliose  throat  is  choked  with  dust  for  his  reward. 

The  deed  he  saw  could  not  have  rated  higher 

Than  his  most  worthless  life  : — it  angers  me ! 

Respited  from  Hell ! — So  may  the  Devil 

Respite  their  souls  from  Heaven.     No  doubt  Pope 

Clement, 
And  his  most  charitable  nephews,  pray 
That  the  apostle  Peter  and  the  saints 
Will  grant  for  their  sakes  that  I  long  enjoy 
Strength,  wealth,  and  pride,  and  lust,  and  length  of 

days 
Wherein  to  act  the  deeds  which  are  the  stewards 
Of  their  revenue. — But  much  yet  remains 
To  which  they  show  no  title. 
ca.millo. 

Oh,  Count  Cenci ! 
So  much  that  thou  might'st  honorably  live, 
And  reconcile  thyself  with  thine  own  heart, 
And  with  thy  God,  and  with  the  offended  world. 
How  hideously  look  deeds  of  lust  and  blood 
Through  those  snow-white  and  venerable  hairs ! 
Your  children  should  be  sitting  round  you  now, 
But  that  you  fear  to  read  upon  their  looks 
The  shame  and  misery  you  have  written  there. 
Where  is  your  wife?  Where  is  your  gentle  daughter? 
Methinks  her  sweet  looks,  which  make  all  things  else 
Beauteous  and  glad,  might  kill  the  fiend  within  you 
Why  is  she  barr'd  from  all  society 
But  her  own  strange  and  uncomplaining  wrongs? 
Talk  with  me.  Count, — you  know  I  mean  you  well. 
I  stood  beside  your  dark  and  fiery  youth 
Watching  its  bold  and  bad  career,  as  men 
Watch  meteors,  but  it  vanish'd  not — I  mark'd 
Your  desperate  and  remorseless  manhood ;  now 
300 


THE  CENCI. 


53 


Do  I  behold  you  in  dishonor'd  age 

Charged  with  a  thousand  unrepeuted  crimes. 

Yet  I  have  ever  hoped  you  would  amend, 

And  in  that  hope  have  saved  your  life  three  times. 

CENCl. 

For  which  Aldobrandino  owes  you  now 
My  fief  beyond  the  Pincian  — Cardinal, 
One  tiling,  I  pray  you,  recollect  hencelbrth. 
And  so  we  shall  converse  with  less  restraint. 
A  man  you  knew  spoke  of  my  wile  and  daughter- 
He  was  accustom'd  to  frequent  my  house ; 
So  the  next  day  his  wife  and  daughter  came 
And  ask'd  if  1  had  seen  him ;  and  I  smiled  : 
I  think  they  never  saw  him  any  more. 

CAMILLO. 

Thou  execrable  man,  beware  ! — , 

CEiNCI. 

Of  thee  ? 
Nay,  tliis  is  idle : — We  should  know  each  olh^r. 
As  to  my  character  for  what  men  call  crime, 
Seeing  I  please  my  senses  as  I  list. 
And  vindicate  that  right  with  force  or  guile, 
It  is  a  public  matter,  and  I  care  not 
If  I  discuss  it  with  you.    I  may  speak 
Alike  to  you  and  my  own  conscious  heart — 
For  you  give  out  that  j'ou  have  half  reform'd  me, 
Therefore  strong  vanity  will  keep  you  silent 
If  fear  should  not ;  both  will,  I  do  not  doubt. 
All  men  delight  in  sensual  luxury, 
All  men  enjoy  revenge;  and  most  exult 
Over  the  tortures  they  can  never  feel — 
Flattering  their  secret  peace  with  others'  pain. 
But  I  delight  in  nothing  else.    I  love 
The  sight  of  agony,  and  the  sense  of  joy, 
WTien  this  shall  be  another's,  and  that  mine. 
And  I  have  no  remorse  and  little  fear. 
Which  are,  I  think,  the  checks  of  other  men. 
This  mood  has  grown  upon  me,  until  now 
Any  design  my  captious  fancy  makes 
The  picture  of  its  wish,  and  it  forms  none 
But  such  as  men  like  you  would  start  to  know, 
Is  as  my  natural  food  and  rest  debarr'd 
Until  it  be  accomplish'd. 


Most  miserable  ? 


CAMILLO. 

Art  thou  not 


CENCL 

Why  miserable  ? — 
No. — I  am  what  your  theologians  call 
Harden'd  ; — which  they  must  be  in  impudence, 
So  to  revile  a  man's  peculiar  taste. 
True,  I  was  happier  than  I  am,  w'hile  yet 
Manhood  remain'd  to  act  the  thing  I  thought ; 
WTiile  lust  was  sweeter  than  revenge  ;  and  now 
Invention  palls : — Ay,  we  must  all  grow  old — 
But  that  there  yet  remains  a  deed  to  act 
Whose  horror  might  make  sharp  an  appetite 
Duller  than  mine — I  'd  do, — I  know  not  what 
When  I  was  young  I  thought  of  nothing  else 
But  pleasure ;  and  I  fed  on  honey  sweets : 
Men,  by  St  Thomas!  carmot  hve  like  bees. 
And  I  grew  tired : — yet.  till  1  kilfd  a  foe. 
And  heard  his  groans,  and  heard  his  children's  groans, 
Knew  I  not  what  delight  was  else  on  earth, 
\Vhich  now  delights  me  little.    I  the  rather 
Look  on  such  pangs  as  terror  ill  conceals, 


The  dry  fix'd  eye-ball ;  the  pale  quivering  lip, 
Which  tell  me  that  the  spirit  weeps  within 
Tears  bitterer  than  the  bloody  sweat  of  Christ. 
I  rarely  kill  the  body,  which  preserves. 
Like  a  strong  prison,  the  soul  within  my  power, 
Wherein  I  feed  it  with  the  breath  of  fear 
For  hourly  pain. 

CAMILLO. 

Hell's  most  abandon'd  fiend 
Did  never,  in  the  drunkenness  of  guilt, 
Speak  to  his  heart  as  now  you  speak  to  me. 
I  thank  my  God  that  I  believe  you  not. 

Eyifer  Andrea. 

ANDREA. 

My  lord,  a  gentleman  from  Salamanca 
Would  speak  with  you. 

CENCL 

Bid  him  attend  me  in  the  grand  saloon. 

[Exit  Andrea. 

CAMILLO. 

Farewell ;  and  I  will  pray 

Almighty  God  that  thy  false,  impious  words 

Tempt  not  his  spirit  to  abandon  thee. 

[Exit  Camillo. 

CENCL 

The  third  of  my  possessions!  I  must  use 

Close  husbandry,  or  gold,  the  old  man's  sword, 

Falls  from  my  withered  hand.    But  yesterday 

There  came  an  order  from  the  Pope  to  make 

Fourfold  provision  for  my  cursed  sons  ; 

Whom  I  have  sent  from  Rome  to  Salamanca, 

Hoping  some  accident  might  cut  them  off; 

And  meaning,  if  I  could,  to  starve  them  there. 

I  pray  thee,  God,  send  some  quick  death  upon  them' 

Bernardo  and  my  wife  could  not  he  worse 

If  dead  and  damn'd  : — then,  as  to  Beatrice — 

[Looking  around  him  sitspiciousli/. 
I  think  they  cannot  hear  me  at  that  door  : 
What  if  they  should  ?    And  yet  I  need  not  speak 
Though  the  heart  triumphs  with  itself  in  words. 
O,  thou  most  silent  air,  that  shall  not  hear 
Wliat  now  I  think !    Thou  pavement,  which  I  tread 
Tovi'ards  her  chamber, — let  your  echoes  talk 
Of  my  imperious  step  scorning  surprise, 
But  not  of  my  intent ! — Andrea ! 
E?iter  Andrea. 

ANDREA. 

My  lord? 

CENCL 

Bid  Beatrice  attend  me  in  her  chamber 
This  evening : — no,  at  midnight  and  alone. 

[ExeunL 


SCENE  II. 

A  garden  of  the  Cenci  Palace. 

Enter  Beatrice  and  Orsino,  as  in  conversation 

BEATRICE. 

Pervert  not  truth, 

Orsino.    You  remember  where  we  held 
That  conversation ; — nay,  we  see  the  spot 
Even  from  this  cypress ; — two  long  years  are  past 
Since,  on  an  April  midnight,  underneath 
The  moonlight  ruins  of  Mount  Palatine, 
I  did  confess  to  you  my  secret  mind. 
40  301 


54 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


ORSINO. 

You  said  you  loved  me  then. 

BEATRICE. 

You  are  a  Priest : 
Speak  to  me  not  of  love. 

ORSINO. 

I  may  obtain 
The  dispensation  of  the  Pope  to  marry. 
Because  I  am  a  Priest:  do  you  beheve 
Your  image,  as  the  hunter  some  struck  deer, 
Follows  me  not  whether  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 

BEATRICE. 

As  I  have  said,  speak  to  me  not  of  love ; 

Had  you  a  dispensation,  I  have  not ; 

Nor  will  I  leave  this  home  of  misery 

Whilst  my  poor  Bernard,  and  that  gentle  lady 

To  whom  I  owe  life,  and  these  virtuous  thoughts, 

Must  suffer  what  I  still  have  strength  to  share. 

Alas,  Orsino !  All  the  love  that  once 

I  felt  for  you,  is  turn'd  to  bitter  pain. 

Ours  was  a  youthful  contract,  wliich  you  first 

Broke,  by  assuming  vows  no  Pope  will  loose. 

And  yet  I  love  you  still,  but  holily, 

Even  as  a  sister  or  a  spirit  might; 

And  so  I  swear  a  cold  fidelity. 

And  it  is  well  perhaps  we  shall  not  marry. 

You  have  a  sly,  equivocating  vein 

That  suits  me  not. — Ah,  wretched  that  I  am ! 

Where  shall  I  turn  ?  Even  now  you  look  on  me 

As  you  were  not  my  friend,  and  as  if  you 

Discover'd  that  I  thought  so,  with  false  smiles 

Maldng  my  true  suspicion  seem  your  wrong. 

Ah !  No,  forgive  me ;  sorrow  makes  me  seem 

Sterner  than  else  my  nature  might  have  been ; 

I  have  a  weight  of  melancholy  thoughts. 

And  they  forbode, — but  what  can  they  forbode 

Worse  than  I  now  endure  ? 

ORSINO. 

All  will  be  well. 
Is  the  petition  yet  prepared  ?    You  know 
My  zeal  for  all  you  wish,  sweet  Beatrice ; 
Doubt  not  but  I  will  use  my  utmost  skill 
So  that  the  Pope  attend  to  your  complaint. 

BEATRICE. 

Your  zeal  for  all  I  wish  ; — Ah  me,  you  are  cold ! 
Your  utmost  skill — speak  but  one  word — 

(Aside).  Alas! 
Weak  and  deserted  creature  that  I  am, 
Here  I  stand  bickering  with  my  only  friend! 

(To  Orsino). 
This  night  my  father  gives  a  sumptuous  feast, 
Orsino ;  he  has  heard  some  happy  news 
From  Salamanca,  from  my  brothers  there. 
And  with  this  outward  show  of  love  he  mocks 
His  inward  hate.    'Tis  bold  hypocrisy. 
For  he  would  gladlier  celebrate  their  deaths. 
Which  I  have  heard  him  pray  for  on  his  knees : 
Great  God  !  that  such  a  father  should  be  mine  ! 
But  there  is  mighty  preparation  made. 
And  all  our  kin,  the  Cenci,  will  be  there, 
And  all  the  chief  nobility  of  Rome. 
And  he  has  bidden  me  and  my  pale  mother 
Attire  ourselves  in  festival  array. 
Poor  lady !    She  expects  some  happy  change 
In  his  dark  spirit  from  this  act ;  I  none. 


At  supper  I  will  give  you  the  petition . 
Till  when — farewell. 

ORSINO. 

Farewell 

[Exit  Beatrice. 

I  know  the  Pope 
Will  ne'er  absolve  me  from  my  priestly  vow 
But  by  absolving  me  from  the  revenue 
Of  many  a  wealthy  see  ;  and,  Beatrice, 
I  think  to  win  thee  at  an  easier  rate. 
Nor  shall  he  read  her  eloquent  petition: 
He  might  bestow  her  on  some  poor  relation 
Of  his  sixth  cousin,  as  he  did  her  sister, 
And  I  should  be  debarr'd  from  all  access. 
Then  as  to  what  she  suffers  from  her  father. 
In  all  this  there  is  much  exaggeration : — 
Old  men  are  testy  .and  will  have  their  way ; 
A  man  may  stab  his  enemy,  or  his  slave. 
And  live  a  free  hfe  as  to  wine  or  women, 
And  with  a  peevish  temper  may  return 
To  a  dull  home,  and  rate  his  wife  and  children ; 
Daughters  and  wives  call  this  foul  tyranny. 
I  shall  be  well  content  if  on  my  conscience 
There  rest  no  heavier  sin  than  what  they  suffer 
From  the  devices  of  my  love — A  net 
From  which  she  shall  escape  not.    Yet  I  fear 
Her  subtle  mind,  her  awe-inspiring  gaze. 
Whose  beams  anatomize  me  nerve  by  nerve 
And  lay  me  bare,  and  make  me  blush  to  see 
My  hidden  thoughts. — Ah,  no  !  A  friendless  girl 
Who  clings  to  me,  as  to  her  only  hope : — 
I  were  a  fool,  not  less  than  if  a  panther 
Were  panic-stricken  by  the  antelope's  eye. 
If  she  escape  me.  [Exit. 


SCENE  III. 


A  magnificent  Hall  in  the  Cenci  Palace. 

A  Banquet.    Enter  Cenci,  Lucretia,  Beatrice, 
Orsino,  Camillo,  Nobles. 

CENCI. 

Welcome,  my  friends  and  kinsmen  ;  welcome  ye, 
Princes  and  Cardinals,  pillars  of  the  church, 
Whose  presence  honors  our  festivity. 
I  have  too  long  lived  like  an  Anchorite, 
And  in  my  absence  from  your  merry  meetings 
An  evil  word  is  gone  abroad  of  me  ; 
But  I  do  hope  that  you,  my  noble  friends. 
When  you  have  shared  the  entertainment  here, 
And  heard  the  pious  cause  for  W'hich  'tis  given, 
And  we  have  pledged  a  health  or  two  together, 
Will  think  me  flesh  and  blood  as  well  as  you ; 
Sinful  indeed,  for  Adam  made  all  so. 
But  tender-hearted,  meek,  and  pitiful. 

FIRST  GUEST. 

In  truth,  my  lord,  you  seem  too  light  of  heart. 
Too  sprightly  and  companionable  a  man. 
To  act  the  deeds  that  rumor  pins  on  you. 

[To  his  companum, 
I  never  saw  such  blithe  and  open  cheer 
In  any  eye ! 

SECOND  GUEST. 

Some  most  desired  event. 
In  which  we  all  demand  a  common  joy. 
Has  brought  us  hither ;  let  us  hear  it.  Count. 
302 


THE  CENCI. 


55 


It  is  indeed  a  most  desired  event. 

If  when  a  parent  from  a  parent's  heart 

Lifts  from  this  earlh  to  the  great  F'ather  of  all 

A  prayer,  both  when  he  lays  him  down  to  sleep, 

And  when  he  rises  up  from  dreaming  it; 

One  supplication,  one  desire,  one  hope, 

That  he  would  grant  a  wish  for  his  two  sons 

Even  all  that  lie  demands  in  their  regard — 

And  suddenly  beyond  his  dearest  hope 

It  is  aecomplish'd,  he  should  then  rejoice. 

And  call  his  friends  and  lunsmen  to  a  feast, 

And  task  their  love  to  grace  his  merriment, 

Then  honor  me  thus  far — for  I  am  he. 

BEATRICE  (to  LuCRETIA). 

Great  God  !  How  horrible !  Some  dreadful  ill 
Must  have  befallen  my  brothers. 


Fear  not,  child. 


He  speaks  too  frankly. 


BEATRICE. 

Ah !   My  blood  runs  cold. 
I  fear  that  wicked  laughter  round  his  eye. 
Which  wrinkles  up  the  skin  even  to  the  hair. 

CENCI. 

Here  are  the  letters  brought  from  Salamanca ; 

Beatrice,  read  them  to  your  mother.    God ! 

I  thank  thee!  In  one  night  didst  thou  perform 

By  ways  inscrutable,  the  thing  I  sought. 

My  disobedient  and  rebellious  sons 

Are  dead  I — Why  dead ! — What  means  this  change 

of  cheer  ? 
You  hear  me  not,  I  tell  you  they  are  dead  ; 
And  they  will  need  no  food  or  raiment  more : 
The  tapers  that  did  light  them  the  dark  way 
Are  their  last  cost.    The  Pope,  I  think,  will  not 
Expect  I  should  maintain  them  in  their  coffins. 
Rejoice  with  me — my  heart  is  wondrous  glad. 

Beatrice  (Lpcretia  sinks,  half  fainting;  Beatrice 

supports  her). 
It  is  not  true  I — Dear  lady,  pray  look  up. 
Had  it  been  true,  there  is  a  God  in  Heaven, 
He  would  not  live  to  boast  of  such  a  boon. 
Unnatural  man,  thou  knowest  that  it  is  false. 

CENCI. 

Ay,  as  the  word  of  God ;  whom  here  I  call 

To  witness  that  I  speak  the  sober  truth ; — 

And  whose  most  favoring  Providence  was  shown 

Even  in  the  manner  of  their  deaths.    For  Rocco 

Was  kneeling  at  the  mass,  with  sixteen  others. 

When  the  church  fell  and  crush'd  him  to  a  mummy. 

The  rest  escaped  unhurt    Cristofano 

Was  slabb'd  in  error  by  a  jealous  man. 

Whilst  she  he  loved  was  sleeping  with  his  rival ; 

All  in  the  self-same  hour  of  the  same  night ; 

Which  shows  that  Heaven  has  special  care  of  me. 

I  beg  those  friends  who  love  me,  that  they  mark 

The  day  a  feast  upon  their  calendars. 

It  was  the  twenty-seventh  of  December: 

Ay,  read  the  letters  if  you  doubt  my  oath. 

[TTie  assembly  appears  confused ;  several  of 
the  guests  rise. 

FIRST    GUEST. 

Oh,  horrible  !  I  will  depart. — 

SECOXD   GUEST. 

Audi.— 


THIRD  GUEST. 

No,  stay! 
I  do  believe  it  is  some  jest ;  though,  faith ! 
'Tis  mocking  us  somewhat  too  solemnly. 
I  think  his  son  has  married  tlie  Iniiinta, 
Or  found  a  mine  of  gold  in  F.l  Dorado. 
'Tis  but  to  season  some  such  news;  stay,  stay! 
I  see  'tis  only  raillery  by  his  smile. 

CENCI  (filling  a  bowl  of  wine,  and  lifting  it  up). 
Oh,  thou  bright  wine,  whose  purple  splendor  leaps 
And  bubbles  gaily  in  this  golden  bowl 
Under  the  lamplight,  as  my  spirits  do, 
To  hear  the  death  of  my  accursed  sons! 
Could  I  believe  thou  wert  their  mingled  blood, 
Then  would  I  taste  thee  like  a  sacrament. 
And  pledge  with  thee  the  mighty  Devil  in  Hell, 
Who,  if  a  father's  curses,  as  men  say, 
Climb  with  swift  wings  after  their  children's  souls. 
And  drag  them  from  the  very  throne  of  Heaven, 
Now  triumphs  in  my  triumph! — But  thou  art 
Superfluous  ;  I  have  drunken  deep  of  joy, 
And  I  will  taste  no  other  wine  to-night. 
Here,  Andrea !   Bear  the  bowl  around. 

A  GUEST  [rising). 

Will  none  among  this  noble  company 
Check  the  abandon'd  villain  ? 


Thou  wretch 


CAMILLO. 

For  God's  sake, 
Let  me  dismiss  the  guests !  You  are  insane, 
Some  ill  will  come  of  this. 

SECOiVD  GUEST. 

Seize,  silence  him! 


I  will ! 


FIRST  GUEST. 


THIRD  GUEST. 


And  I! 


CENCI  [addressing  those  who  rise  with  a  threatening 
gesture). 
Who  moves  ?  Who  speaks  ? 

[Turning  to  the  Company 
'Tis  nothing. 
Enjoy  yourselves. — Beware  !  for  my  revenge 
Is  as  the  seal'd  commission  of  a  king. 
That  kills,  and  none  dare  name  the  murderer. 

{The  Banquet  is  broken  up;  several  of  the 
guests  are  departing. 

BEATRICE. 

I  do  entreat  you,  go  not,  noble  guests : 
What  although  tyranny,  and  impious  hate 
Stand  shelter'd  by  a  father's  hoary  hair  ? 
What  if  'tis  he  who  clothed  us  in  these  limbs 
Who  tortures  them,  and  triumphs  ?  What,  if  we. 
The  desolate  and  the  dead,  were  his  own  flesh, 
His  children  and  his  wile,  whom  he  is  bound 
To  love  and  shelter  ?  Shall  we  therefore  find 
No  refuge  in  this  merciless  wide  world  ? 
Oh,  think  what  deep  wrongs  must  have  blotted  out 
First  love,  then  reverence  in  a  child's  prone  mind 
Till  it  thus  vanquish  shame  and  fear !  Oh,  think 
I  have  borne  much,  and  kiss'd  the  sacred  hand 
Which  crush'd  us  to  the  earth,  and  thought  its  stroke 
Was  perhaps  some  paternal  chastisement ! 
Have  excused  much;  doubled;  and  when  no  doubt 
Remain'd,  have  sought  by  patience,  love  and  tears 
To  soften  liim ;  and  when  this  could  not  be 
303 


56 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I  have  knelt  down  through  the  long  sleepless  nights 
And  lifted  up  to  God,  the  father  of  all, 
Passionate  prayers :  and  when  these  were  not  heard 
I  have  still  borne, — until  I  meet  you  here, 
Princes  and  kinsmen,  at  this  hideous  feast 
Given  at  my  brothers'  deaths.    Two  yet  remain, 
His  wife  remains  and  I,  whom  if  ye  save  not, 
Ye  may  soon  share  such  merriment  again 
As  fathers  make  over  their  children's  graves. 
Oh ;  Prince  Colonna,  thou  art  our  near  kinsman, 
Cardinal,  thou  art  the  Pope's  chamberlain, 
Camillo,  thou  art  chief  justiciary, 
Take  us  away ! 

CENCi.  [He  has  been  conversing  with  Camillo 

during  the  jxrsl part  o/"  Beatrice's  speech; 

he  hears  the  conclusion,  and  now  advances. 
I  hope  my  good  friends  here 
■Will  think  of  their  own  daughters — or  perhaps 
Of  their  own  throats — before  they  lend  an  ear 
To  this  wild  girl. 

BEATRICE  {not  noticing  the  words  of  Cenci). 
Dare  not  one  look  on  me  ? 
None  answer  ?  Can  one  tyrant  overbear 
The  sense  of  many  best  and  wisest  men  ? 
Or  is  it  that  I  sue  not  in  some  form 
Of  scrupulous  law,  that  ye  deny  my  suit  ? 
Oh,  God  !  that  I  were  buried  with  my  brothers! 
And  that  the  flowers  of  this  departed  spring 
Were  fading  on  my  grave !    And  that  my  father 
Were  celebrating  now  one  feast  for  all ! 

CAMILLO. 

A  bitter  wish  for  one  so  young  and  gentle ; 
Can  we  do  nothing  ? — 

COLONNA. 

Nothing  that  I  see. 
Count  Cenci  were  a  dangerous  enemy : 
Yet  I  would  second  any  one. 

A  CARDINAL. 

And  I. 

CENCI. 

Retire  to  your  chamber,  insolent  girl ! 

BEATRICE. 

Retire,  thou  impious  man !  Ay,  hide  thyself 

Where  never  eye  can  look  upon  thee  more ! 

Wouldst  thou  have  honor  and  obedience 

Who  art  a  torturer?   Father,  never  dream. 

Though  thou  mayst  overbear  this  company. 

But  ill  must  come  of  ill. — Frown  not  on  me ! 

Haste,  hide  thyself,  lest  with  avenging  looks 

My  brothers'  ghosts  should  hunt  thee  from  thy  seat ! 

Cover  thy  face  from  every  living  eye, 

And  start  if  thou  but  hear  a  human  step : 

Seek  out  some  dark  and  silent  corner,  there 

Bow  thy  white  head  before  offended  God, 

And  we  will  kneel  around,  and  fervently 

Pray  that  he  pity  both  ourselves  and  thee. 

CENCI. 

My  friends,  I  do  lament  this  insane  girl 

Has  spoilt  the  mirth  of  our  festivity. 

Good  night,  farewell ;  I  will  not  make  you  longer 

Spectators  of  our  dull  domestic  quarrels. 

Another  time. — 

[Exeunt  all  but  Cenci  and  Beatrice. 
My  brain  is  swimming  round ; 
Give  itie  a  bowl  of  wine ! 

(To  Beatrice).    Thou  painted  viper! 


Beast  that  thou  art!  Fair  and  yet  terrible! 

I  know  a  charm  shall  make  thee  meek  and  tame. 

Now  get  thee  from  my  sight !  [Exit  Beatrice 

Here,  Andrea, 
Fill  up  this  goblet  with  Greek  wine.    I  said 
I  would  not  drink  this  evening,  but  I  must ; 
For,  strange  to  say,  I  feel  my  spirits  fail 
With  thinking  what  I  have  decreed  to  do. 

[Drinking  the  wine. 
Be  thou  the  resolution  of  quick  youth 
Within  my  veins,  and  manhood's  purpose  stern, 
And  age's  firm,  cold,  subtle  villany; 
As  if  thou  wert  indeed  my  children's  blood 
Which  I  did  thirst  to  drink.  The  charm  works  well 
It  must  be  done,  it  shall  be  done,  I  swear ! 

[Exit 


ACT  IL 

SCENE  I. 

An  Apartment  in  the  Cenci  Palace. 

Enter  Lucretia  and  Ber,nardo. 

lucretia. 
Weep  not,  my  gentle  boy ;  he  struck  but  me, 
Who  have  borne  deeper  wrongs.    In  truth,  if  he 
Had  kill'd  me,  he  had  done  a  kinder  deed. 
Oh,  God  Almighty,  do  thou  look  upon  us, 
We  have  no  other  friend  but  only  thee ! 
Yet  weep  not ;  though  I  love  you  as  my  own, 
I  am  not  your  true  mother. 

BERNARDO. 

Oh,  more,  more 
Than  ever  mother  was  to  any  child 
That  have  you  been  to  me !    Had  he  not  been 
My  father,  do  you  think  that  I  should  weep? 

LUCRETIA. 

Alas !  poor  boy,  what  else  couldst  thou  have  done  ? 
Enter  Beatrice. 
Beatrice  {in  a  hurried  voice). 
Did  he  pass  this  way  ?  Have  you  seen  him,  brother  ? 
Ah !  no,  that  is  his  step  upon  the  stairs ; 
'T  is  nearer  now  ;  his  hand  is  on  the  door  ; 
Mother,  if  I  to  thee  have  ever  been 
A  duteous  child,  now  save  me !  Thou,  great  God, 
Whose  image  upon  earth  a  father  is. 
Dost  thou  indeed  abandon  me  ?  He  comes  ; 
The  door  is  opening  now ;  I  see  his  face ; 
He  frowns  on  others,  but  he  smiles  on  me, 
Even  as  he  did  after  the  feast  last  night. 

Enter  a  Servant. 
Almighty  God,  how  merciful  thou  art ! 
'Tis  but  Orsino's  servant. — Well,  what  news 

SERVANT. 

My  master  bids  me  say,  the  Holy  Father 
Has  sent  back  your  petition  thus  unopen'd. 

[Giving  a  Paper 
And  he  demands  at  what  hour  't  were  secure 
To  visit  you  again  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

At  the  Ave-Mary.  [Exit  Servant 
So,  daughter,  our  last  hope  has  fail'd !  Ah  me ! 
How  pale  you  look ;  you  tremble,  and  you  stand 
Wrapp'd  in  some  fi.x'd  and  fearful  meditation, 
304 


THE  CENCI. 


57 


A''  if  one  thought  were  over-strong  for  you  : 
Your  eyes  have  a  chill  glare ;  oh,  dearest  child ! 
Are  you  gone  mad  ?  If  not,  pray  speak  to  me. 

BEATRICE. 

You  see  I  am  not  mad  ;  I  speak  to  you. 

LUCRETIA. 

You  talk'd  of  something  that  your  father  did 

After  thai  dreadful  feast  ?  Could  it  be  worse 

Than  when  he  smiled,  and  cried,  My  sons  are  dead! 

And  every  one  look'd  in  his  neighbor's  face 

To  see  if  others  were  as  white  as  he  ? 

At  the  first  word  he  spoke,  I  felt  the  blood 

Rush  to  my  heart,  and  I'ell  into  a  trance ; 

And  when  it  past,  I  sat  all  weak  and  wild ; 

Whilst  you  alone  stood  up,  and  with  strong  words 

Check'd  his  unnatural  pride  ;  and  I  could  see 

The  devil  was  rebuked  that  lives  in  him. 

Until  this  hour  thus  you  have  ever  stood 

Between  us  and  your  father's  moody  wrath 

Like  a  protecting  presence :  your  firm  mind 

Has  been  our  only  refuge  and  defence  : 

What  can  have  thus  subdued  it  ?  What  can  now 

Have  given  you  that  cold  melancholy  look, 

Succeeding  to  your  unaccustom'd  fear  ? 

BEATRICE. 

WTiat  is  it  that  you  say  ?  I  was  just  thinking 
'T  were  better  not  to  struggle  any  more. 
Men,  like  my  father,  have  been  dark  and  bloody, 
Yet  never — O !  before  worse  comes  of  it, 
T  were  wise  to  die  :  it  ends  in  that  at  last. 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh,  talk  not  so,  dear  child  !  Tell  me  at  once 
What  did  your  father  do  or  say  to  you  ? 
He  siay'd  not  after  that  accursed  feast 
One  moment  in  your  chamber. — Speak  to  me. 

BERNARDO. 

Oh,  sister,  sister,  prithee,  speak  to  us ! 

BEATRICE  [speahing  very  slowly  with  a  forced 
calmness. 
It  was  one  word,  mother,  one  little  word ; 
One  look,  one  smile.  [Wildlif. 

Oh  !  he  has  trampled  me 
Under  his  feet,  and  made  the  blood  stream  down 
My  pallid  cheeks.  And  he  has  given  us  all 
Ditch-water,  and  the  fever-stricken  flesh 
Of  buffaloes,  and  bade  us  eat  or  starve. 
And  we  have  eaten. — He  has  made  me  look 
On  my  beloved  Bernardo,  when  the  rust 
Of  heavy  chains  has  gangrened  his  sweet  limbs, 
And  I  have  never  yet  despair'd — but  now ! 
What  would  I  say  ?  [Recovering  herself. 

Ah!  no,  'tis  nothing  new. 
The  sufferings  we  all  share  have  made  me  wild : 
He  only  struck  and  cursed  me  as  he  pa.«s'd  ; 
He  sai(j,  he  look'd,  he  did, — nothing  at  all 
Beyond  his  wont,  yet  it  disorder'd  me. 
Alas!  I  am  forgetful  of  my  duly, 
I  should  preserve  my  senses  for  your  sake. 

LUCRETIA. 

N.ay,  Beatrice;  have  courage,  my  sweet  girl. 
If  any  one  despairs,  it  should  be  I, 
Who  loved  him  ouce,  and  now  must  live  with  him 
Till  God  in  pity  call  for  him  or  me  ; 
For  you  may,  like  vour  sister,  find  .some  husband. 

And  smile,  years  hence,  with  children  round  your  Whom  in  one  night  merciful  God  cut  ofT; 
knees;  [innocent  lambs!  They  thought  not  any  ill, 

20  305 


Whilst  I,  then  dead,  and  all  this  hideous  coil, 
Shall  be  remember'd  only  as  a  dream. 

BEATRICE. 

Talk  not  to  me,  dear  lady,  of  a  husband  : 

Did  you  not  nurse  me  when  my  mother  died  ? 

Did  you  not  shield  me  and  that  dearest  boy  ? 

And  had  we  any  other  friend  but  you 

In  infancy,  with  gentle  words  and  looks 

To  win  our  father  not  to  murder  us  I 

And  shall  I  now  desert  you  ?   May  the  ghost 

Of  my  dead  mother  plead  agahist  my  soul 

If  I  abandon  her  who  fiU'd  the  place 

She  left,  with  more,  even,  than  a  mother's  love ! 

BERNARDO. 

And  I  am  of  my  sister's  mind.    Indeed 

I  would  not  leave  you  in  this  wretchedness. 

Even  (hough  the  Pope  should  make  me  free  to  live 

In  some  blithe  place,  like  others  of  my  age, 

With  sports,  and  delicate  food,  and  the  fresh  air. 

Oh,  never  tliiuk  that  I  will  leave  you,  Mother! 

LUCRETIA. 

My  dear,  dear  children  ! 

Enter  Cenci,  sitddenly. 

CENCL 

What,  Beatrice  here ! 
Come  hither!     [She  shrinhs  had;  and  covers  her  face. 

Nay,  hide  not  your  face,  't  is  fair  ; 
Look  up !  Why,  yesler-night  you  dared  to  look 
With  disobedient  insolence  upon  me, 
Bending  a  stern  and  an  inquiring  brow 
On  what  I  meant ;  whilst  I  then  sought  to  hide 
That  which  I  came  to  tell  you — but  in  vain. 

BEATRICE  (wildly,  Staggering  towards  the  door). 
Oh,  that  the  earth  would  gape !  Hide  me,  oh  God ! 

CENCI. 

Then  it  was  I  whose  inarticulate  words 
Fell  from  my  lips,  who  with  tottering  steps 
Fled  from  your  presence,  as  you  now  from  mine. 
Stay,  I  command  you — from  this  day  and  hour 
Never  again,  I  thiidv,  with  fearless  eye. 
And  brow  superior,  and  unalter'd  cheek. 
And  that  lip  made  for  tenderness  or  scorn, 
Shalt  thou  strike  dumb  the  meanest  of  mankind ; 
Me  least  of  all.    Now  get  thee  to  thy  chamber, 
Thou  too,  lothed  image  of  thy  cursed  mother, 

[To  Bernardo. 
Thy  milky,  meek  face  makes  me  sick  with  hate ! 

[Exeunt  Beatrice  and  Bernardo. 
(Aside).  So  much  has  past  between  us  as  must  make 
Me  bold,  her  fearful. — 'Tis  an  awful  thing 
To  touch  such  mischief  as  I  now  conceive  : 
So  men  sit  shivering  on  the  dev\y  bank, 
And  try  the  chill  stream  with  their  feet ;  once  in — • 
How  the  delighted  spirit  pants  for  joy ! 

LUCRETIA  (advancing  timidly  towards  him). 
Oh,  husband  !  Pray  forgive  poor  Beatrice, 
She  meant  not  any  ill. 

cenci. 

Nor  you  perhaps  ? 
Nor  that  young  imp,  whom  you  have  taught  by  rote 
Parricide  with  his  alphabet?  Nor  Giacomo? 
Nor  those  two  most  unnatural  sons,  who  stirr'd 
Enmity  up  against  me  with  the  Pope  ? 


bS 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


You  were  not  here  conspiring  ?    You  said  nothing 

Of  how  I  miglit  be  dungeon'd  as  a  madman ; 

Or  be  condemn'd  to  death  for  some  offence, 

And  you  would  be  the  witnesses  ? — This  failing. 

How  just  it  were  to  hire  assassins,  or 

Put  sudden  poison  in  my  evening's  drink  ? 

Or  smother  me  when  overcome  by  wine? 

Seeing  we  had  no  other  judge  but  God, 

And  he  had  sentenced  me,  and  there  were  none 

But  you  to  be  the  executioners 

Of  his  decree  enregister'd  in  Heaven  ? 

Oh,  no !    You  said  not  this  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

So  help  me  God, 
I  never  thought  the  things  you  charge  me  with ! 

CENCI. 

If  you  dare  speak  that  wicked  lie  again, 
I  '11  kill  you.    What !  it  was  not  by  your  counsel 
That  Beatrice  disturb'd  the  feast  last  night  ? 
You  did  not,  hope  to  stir  some  enemies 
Against  me,  and  escape,  and  laugh  to  scorn 
What  every  nerve  of  you  now  trembles  at  ? 
You  judged  that  men  were  bolder  than  they  are  : 
Few  dare  to  stand  between  their  grave  and  me. 

LUCRETIA. 

Look  not  so  dreadfully !    By  my  salvation 
I  knew  not  aught  that  Beatrice  design'd ; 
Wor  do  I  think  she  design'd  any  thing 
Until  she  heard  you  talk  of  her  dead  brothers. 

CENCI. 

Blaspheming  liar !  You  are  damn'd  for  this ! 

But  I  will  take  you  where  you  may  persuade 

The  stones  you  tread  on  to  deliver  you  : 

For  men  shall  there  be  none  but  those  who  dare 

All  things — not  question  that  which  I  command. 

On  Wednesday  next  I  shall  set  out :  you  know 

That  savage  rock,  the  Castle  of  Petrella, 

'Tis  safely  wall'd,  and  moated  round  about: 

Its  dungeons  under  ground,  and  its  thick  towers 

Never  told  tales ;  though  they  have  heard  and  seen 

What  might  make  dumb  things  speak. — Why  do  you 

linger? 
Make  speediest  preparation  for  the  journey ! 

[Exit  LUCRETIA. 

The  all-beholding  sun  yet  shines;  I  hear 

A  busy  stir  of  men  about  the  streets ; 

I  see  the  bright  sky  through  the  window-panes : 

It  is  a  garish,  broad,  and  peering  day  ; 

Loud,  light,  suspicious,  full  of  eyes  and  ears. 

And  every  little  corner,  nook  and  hole 

Is  penetrated  with  the  insolent  light. 

Come,  darkness  !  Yet,  what  is  the  day  to  me  ? 

And  wherefore  should  I  wish  for  night,  who  do 

A  deed  which  sliall  confoimd  Ijolh  night  and  day  ? 

'Tis  she  shall  grope  through  a  bewildering  mist 

Of  horror  :  if  there  be  a  sun  in  heaven. 

She  shall  not  dare  to  look  upon  its  beams  ; 

Nor  feel  its  warmth.    Let  her  then  wish  for  night ; 

The  act  I  think  shall  soon  extinguish  all 

For  me  :  I  bear  a  darker  deadlier  gloom 

Than  the  earth's  shade,  or  interlunar  air. 

Or  constellations  quench'd  in  murkiest  cloud. 

In  which  I  walk  secure  and  unbeheld 

Towards  my  purpose. — Would  that  it  were  done ! 

[Exit. 


SCENE  II. 

A  Chamber  in  the  Vatican. 

Enter  Camh.lo  and  Giacomo,  in  conversation. 

CAMILLO. 

There  is  an  obsolete  and  doubtful  law, 

By  which  you  might  obtain  a  bare  provision 

Of  food  and  clothing. 

GIACOMO. 

Nothing  more  ?  Alas ! 
Bare  must  be  the  provision  which  strict  law 
Awards,  and  aged  sullen  avarice  pays. 
Why  did  my  father  not  apprentice  me 
To  some  mechanic  trade  ?  I  should  have  then 
Been  train'd  in  no  high-born  necessities 
Which  I  could  meet  not  by  my  daily  toil. 
The  eldest  son  of  a  rich  nobleman 
Is  heir  to  all  his  incapacities ; 
He  has  wide  wants,  and  narrow  powers.    If  you, 
Cardinal  Camillo,  were  reduced  at  once 
From  thrice-driven  beds  of  down,  and  dehcate  food 
An  hundred  servants,  and  six  palaces. 
To  that  which  nature  doth  indeed  require  ? 

CAMILLO. 

Nay,  there  is  reason  in  your  plea ;  't  were  hard 

GIACOMO. 

'T  is  hard  for  a  firm  man  to  bear :  but  I 
Have  a  dear  wife,  a  lady  of  high  birth. 
Whose  dowry  in  ill  hour  I  lent  my  father, 
Without  a  bond  or  witness  to  the  deed  ; 
And  children,  who  inherit  her  fine  senses. 
The  fairest  creatures  in  this  breathing  world  ; 
And  she  and  they  reproach  me  not.    Cardinal, 
Do  you  not  think  the  Pope  would  interpose 
And  stretch  authority  beyond  the  law  ? 

CAMILLO. 

Though  your  peculiar  case  is  hard,  I  know 

The  Pope  will  not  divert  the  course  of  law. 

After  that  impious  feast  the  other  m'ght 

I  spoke  with  him,  and  urged  him  then  to  check 

Your  father's  cruel  hand  ;  he  frown'd,  and  said 

"  Children  arc  disobedient,  and  they  sting 

Their  fathers'  hearts  to  madness  and  despair, 

Requiting  years  of  care  with  contumely. 

I  pity  the  Count  Cenci  from  my  heart ; 

His  outraged  love  perhaps  awaken'd  hate, 

And  thus  he  is  exasperated  to  ill. 

In  the  great  war  between  the  old  and  young, 

I,  who  have  white  hains  and  a  tottering  body. 

Will  keep  at  least  blameless  neutrality." 

Enter  Orsixo. 
You,  my  good  lord  Orsino,  heard  those  words. 

ORSINO. 

What  words  ? 

GIACOJIO. 

Alas,  repeal  them  not  again ! 
There  then  is  no  redress  for  me,  at  least 
None  but  tliai  which  I  may  achieve  myself. 
Since  I  am  driven  to  the  brink. — But  say. 
My  innocent  sister  and  my  only  brother 
Are  dying  underneath  my  father's  eye. 
The  memorable  torturers  of  this  land, 
Galeaz  Visconti,  Borgia,  Ezzelin,  , 

306 


THE  CENCl. 


59 


Never  inflicted  on  their  meanest  slave 

What  these  endure  :  shall  they  have  no  protection  ? 

CAMILLO. 

Why,  if  they  would  petition  to  the  Pope, 

I  see  not  how  he  could  refuse  it — yet 

He  holds  it  of  most  dangerous  example 

In  aught  to  weaken  the  paternal  power. 

Being,  as  'twere,  the  shadow  of  his  own. 

I  pray  you  now  excuse  me.    I  have  business 

That  will  not  bear  delay.  [Exit  Camillo. 


Have  the  petition 


GIACOMO. 

But  you,  Oreino, 
wherefore  not  present  iti 


ORSINO. 

I  have  presented  it,  and  back'd  it  with 
My  earnest  prayers,  and  urgent  interest : 
It  was  return'd  unanswer'd.    I  doubt  not 
But  that  the  strange  and  execrable  deeds 
Alleged  in  it — in  truth  they  might  well  baffle 
Any  belief— have  turn'd  the  Pope's  displeasure 
Upon  the  accusers  from  the  criminal : 
So  I  should  guess  from  what  Camillo  said. 

GIACOMO. 

My  friend,  that  palace-walking  devil  Gold 

Has  whisper'd  silence  to  his  Holiness : 

And  we  are  left,  as  scorpions  ring'd  with  fire. 

What  should  we  do  but  strike  ourselves  to  death  ? 

For  he  who  is  our  murderous  persecutor 

Is  shielded  by  a  father's  holy  name, 

Or  I  would —  [Stops  ahruplly. 

ORSINO. 

What  ?  Fear  not  to  speak  your  thought. 
Words  are  but  holy  as  the  deeds  they  cover  : 
A  priest  who  has  forsworn  the  God  he  serves ; 
A  judge  who  makes  the  truth  weep  at  his  decree ; 
A  friend  who  should  weave  counsel,  as  I  now, 
But  as  the  mantle  of  some  selfish  guile ; 
A  father  who  is  all  a  tyrant  seems, 
Were  the  profaner  for  his  sacred  name. 

GIACOMO. 

Ask  me  not  what  I  think  ;  the  unwilling  brain 

Feigns  often  what  it  would  not ;  and  we  trust 

Imagination  with  such  phantasies 

As  the  tongue  dares  not  fashion  into  words, 

Which  have  no  words,  their  horror  makes  them  dim 

To  the  mind's  eye — My  heart  denies  itself 

To  think  what  you  demand. 

ORSINO. 

But  a  friend's  bosom 
Is  as  the  inmost  cave  of  our  own  mind, 
Where  we  sit  shut  from  the  wide  gaze  of  day. 
And  from  the  all-comraunicaling  air. 
You  look  what  I  suspected. — 

GIACOMO. 

Spare  me  now ! 
I  am  as  one  lost  in  a  midnight  wood, 
\\'ho  dares  not  ask  some  harmless  passenger 
The  path  across  the  wilderness,  lest  he. 
As  my  thoughts  are,  should  be — a  murderer. 
I  know  you  are  my  friend,  and  all  I  dare 
Speak  to  my  soul  that  will  I  trust  with  thee. 
But  now  my  heart  is  heavy,  and  would  take 


Lone  counsel  from  a  night  frf  sleepless  care 
Pardon  me,  that  I  say  farewell — flirewell  I 
I  would  that  to  my  own  suspected  self 
I  could  address  a  word  so  full  of  peace. 

ORSINO. 

Farewell  I — Be  your  thoughts  better  or  more  bold. 

[Exit  GiACOMO 
I  had  disposed  the  Cardinal  Camillo 
To  feed  his  hope  with  cold  encouragement : 
It  fortunately  serves  my  close  designs 
That  't  is  a  trick  of  this  same  family 
To  analyze  their  own  and  other  minds. 
Such  self-anatomy  shall  teach  the  will 
Dangerous  secrets  :  for  it  tempts  our  powers. 
Knowing  what  must  be  thought,  and  may  be  done. 
Into  the  depth  of  darkest  purposes : 
So  Cenci  fell  into  the  pit ;  even  I, 
Since  Beatrice  unveil'd  me  to  myself, 
And  made  me  shrink  from  what  I  cannot  shun, 
Show  a  poor  figure  to  my  own  esteem. 
To  which  I  grow  half  reconciled.    I  '11  do 
As  little  mischief  as  I  can;  that  thought 
Shall  fee  the  accuser  Conscience.        [After  a  pause. 

Now  what  harm 
If  Cenci  should  be  murder'd? — Yet,  if  murder'd, 
Wherefore  by  me?  And  what  if  I  could  take 
The  profit,  yet  omit  the  sin  and  peril 
In  such  an  action  ?    Of  all  earthly  things 
I  fear  a  man  whose  blows  outspeed  his  words ; 
And  such  is  Cenci :  and  while  Cenci  lives, 
His  daughter's  dowry  were  a  secret  grave 
If  a  priest  wins  her. — Oh,  fair  Beatrice ! 
Would  that  I  loved  thee  not,  or  loving  thee 
Could  but  despise  danger  and  gold,  and  all 
That  frowns  between  my  wish  and  its  effect, 
Or  smiles  beyond  it !  There  is  no  escape— 
Her  bright  form  kneels  beside  me  at  the  altar. 
And  follows  me  to  the  resort  of  men, 
,4nd  fills  my  slumber  with  tumultuous  dreams. 
So  when  I  wake  my  blood  seems  liquid  fire; 
And  if  I  strike  my  damp  and  dizzy  head, 
My  hot  palm  scorches  it :  her  very  name, 
But  spoken  by  a  stranger,  makes  my  heart 
Sicken  and  pant ;  and  thus  unprofitably 
I  clasp  the  phantom  of  unfell  delights, 
Till  weak  imagination  half  possesses 
The  self-created  shadow.    Yet  much  longer 
Will  I  not  nurse  this  life  of  feverous  hours : 
From  the  unravell'd  hopes  of  Giacomo 
1  must  work  out  my  own  dear  purposes. 
I  see,  as  from  a  tower,  the  end  of  all : 
Her  father  dead ;  her  brother  bound  to  me 
By  a  dark  secret,  surer  than  the  grave; 
Her  mother  scared  and  imexpostulating. 
From  the  dread  manner  of  her  wish  achieved  : 
And  she  I — Once  more  take  courage,  my  faint  heart ; 
What  dares  a  friendless  maiden  match'd  with  thee? 
I  have  such  foresight  as  a.ssures  success ! 
Some  unbeheld  divinity  doth  ever, 
When  dread  events  are  near,  stir  up  men's  minds 
To  black  suggestions;  and  lie  prospers  best, 
Not  who  becomes  the  instrument  of  ill, 
But  who  can  flatter  the  dark  spirit,  that  makes 
Its  empire  and  its  prey  of  other  hearts 
Till  it  become  his  slave — as  I  will  do.  [ExU. 

307 


60 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


ACT  in. 

SCENE  I. 

An  Apartment  in  the  Cenci  Palace. 

LuCRETiA ;  to  her  enter  Beatrice. 

Beatrice  {She  enters  staggering,  and  speaks  wildly). 
Reach  me  that  handkerchief! — My  brain  is  hurt ; 
My  eyes  are  full  of  blood ;  just  wipe  them  for  me — 
I  see  but  indistinctly. — 

LUCRETIA. 

My  sweet  child, 
You  have  no  wound  ;  'tis  only  a  cold  dew 
That  starts  from  your  dear  brow — Alas!  alas! 
What  has  befallen  ? 

BEATRICE. 

How  comes  this  hair  undone? 
Its  wandering  strings  must  be  what  blind  me  so, 
And  yet  I  tied  it  fast. — O,  horrible ! 
The  pavement  sinks  under  my  feet !  The  walls 
Spin  round !  I  see  a  woman  weeping  there. 
And  standing  calm  and  motionless,  whilst  I 
Slide  giddily  as  the  world  reels — My  God ! 
The  beautiful  blue  Heaven  is  fleck'd  with  blood! 
The  sunshine  on  the  floor  is  black !   The  air 
Is  changed  to  vapors  such  as  the  dead  breathe 
In  charnel-pits  !  Pah  !  I  am  choked  !  There  creeps 
A  clinging,  black,  contaminating  mist 
About  me — 'tis  substantial,  heavy,  thick. 
I  cannot  pluck  it  from  me,  for  it  glues 
My  fingers  and  my  limbs  to  one  another. 
And  eats  into  my  sinews,  and  dissolves 
My  flesh  to  a  pollution,  poisoning 
The  subtle,  pure,  and  inmost  spirit  of  life ! 
My  God !  I  never  knew  what  the  mad  felt 
Before ;  for  I  am  mad  beyond  all  doubt ! 

[More  wildly. 
No,  I  am  dead  !  These  putrefying  limbs 
Shut  round  and  sepulchre  the  panting  soul 
Which  would  burst  forth  into  the  wandering  air! 

[A  pause. 
What  hideous  thought  was  that  I  had  even  now  ? 
'Tis  gone  ;  and  yet  its  burthen  remains  here 
O'er  these  dull  eyes — upon  this  weary  heart ! 
O,  world  !  O,  hfe  I  O,  day !  O,  misery ! 

LUCRETIA. 

What  ails  thee,  my  poor  child?    She  answers  not: 
Her  spirit  apprehends  the  sense  of  pain. 
But  not  its  cause ;  suffering  has  dried  away 
The  source  from  which  it  sprung. — 

BEATRICE  {frantidy). 

Like  parricide — 
Misery  has  kill'd  its  father :  yet  its  father 
Never  like  mine — O,  God !  What  thing  am  I? 

LUCRETIA. 

My  dearest  child,  what  has  your  father  done  ? 

BEATRICE  (doiiblfully). 
Who  art  thou,  questioner  ?  1  have  no  father. 

[Aside. 
She  is  the  madhouse  nurse  who  tends  on  me : 
It  is  a  piteous  oflice. 

[To  LucRETiA,  in  a  slow,  subdued  voice. 
Do  you  know, 
I  thought  T  was  that  wretched  Beatrice 
Men  speak  of,  whom  he?  father  sometimes  hales 


From  hall  to  hall  by  the  entangled  hair  ; 

At  others,  pens  up  naked  in  damp  cells 

Where  scaly  reptiles  crawl,  and  starves  her  there, 

Till  she  will  eat  strange  flesh.    This  woful  story 

So  did  I  overact  in  my  sick  dreams. 

That  I  imagined — no,  it  cannot  be  ! 

Horrible  things  have  been  in  this  wild  world, 

Prodigious  mixtures,  and  confusions  strange 

Of  good  and  ill;  and  worse  have  been  conceived 

Than  ever  there  was  found  a  heart  to  do. 

But  never  fancy  imaged  such  a  deed 

As —  [Pauses,  suddetdy  recollecting  herself. 

Who  art  thou  ?  Swear  to  me,  ere  I  die 
With  fearful  expectation,  that  indeed 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  seemest — Mother  ! 


Oh! 


My  sweet  child,  know  you — 


BEATRICE. 

Yet  speak  it  not : 
For  then  if  this  be  truth,  that  other  too 
Must  be  a  truth,  a  firm  enduring  truth, 
Link'd  with  each  lasting  circumstance  of  life, 
Never  to  change,  never  to  pass  away. 
Why  so  it  is.    This  is  the  Cenci  Palace ; 
Thou  art  Lucretia;  I  am  Beatrice. 
I  have  talk'd  some  wild  words,  but  will  no  more. 
Mother,  come  near  me  :  from  this  point  of  time, 
I  am —  [Her  voice  dies  away  faintly. 

LUCRETIA. 

Alas !  What  has  befallen  thee,  child  ? 
What  has  thy  father  done  ? 

BEATRICE. 

What  have  I  done  ? 
Am  I  not  innocent  ?  Is  it  my  crime 
That  one  with  white  hair,  and  imperious  brow, 
Who  tortured  me  from  my  forgotten  years. 
As  parents  only  dare,  should  call  himself 
My  father,  yet  should  be  ! — Oh,  what  am  I  ? 
What  name,  what  place,  what  memory  shall  be  mine? 
What  retrospects,  outliving  even  despair  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

He  is  a  violent  tyrant,  surely,  child  : 

We  know  that  death  alone  can  make  us  free ; 

His  death  or  ours.    But  what  can  he  have  done 

Of  deadlier  outrage  or  worse  injury  ? 

Thou  art  unlike  thyself;  thine  eyes  shoot  forth 

A  wandering  and  strange  spirit.    Speak  to  me  : 

Unlock  those  pallid  hands  whose  fingers  twine 

With  one  another. 

BEATRICE. 

'Tis  the  restless  life 
Tortured  within  them.    If  I  try  to  speak 
I  shall  go  mad.    Ay,  something  must  be  done; 
What,  yet  1  know  not — something  which  shall  make 
The  thing  that  I  have  suffer'd  but  a  shadow 
In  the  dread  lightning  which  avenges  il ; 
Brief,  rapid,  irreversible,  destroying 
The  consequence  of  what  it  cannot  cure. 
Some  such  thing  is  to  be  endured  or  done  : 
When  I  know  what,  I  shall  be  still  and  calm, 
And  never  any  thing  will  move  me  more. 
But  now ! — Oh  blood,  which  art  my  father's  blood. 
Circling  through  these  contaminated  veins, 
If  thou,  pour'd  forth  on  the  polluted  earth, 
Could  wash  away  the  crime,  and  punishment 
308 


THE  CENCI. 


61 


By  which  I  suffer — no,  that  cannot  be ! 
RIanv  might  doubt  there  were  a  God  above 
Who  sees  and  permits  evil,  and  so  die  : 
That  faith  no  agony  shall  obscure  in  me. 

LUCRETIA. 

It  must  indeed  have  been  some  bitter  wrong ; 
Yet  what,  I  dare  not  guess.     Oh !  my  lost  child, 
Hide  not  in  proud  impenetrable  grief 
Thy  sufferings  from  my  fear. 

BEATRICE. 

I  hide  them  not. 
What  are  the  words  which  you  would  have  me  speak  ? 
I,  who  can  feign  no  image  in  my  mind 
Of  that  which  has  transform'd  me.  I,  whose  thought 
Is  like  a  ghost  shrouded  and  folded  up 
In  its  own  formless  horror.     Of  all  words, 
That  minister  to  mortal  intercourse, 
Which  wouldst  thou  hear  ?  For  there  is  none  to  tell 
My  misery  :  if  another  ever  knew 
Aught  like  to  it,  she  died  as  I  will  die. 
And  left  it,  as  I  must,  without  a  name. 
Death  !  Death  I  Our  law  and  our  religion  call  thee 
A  punishment  and  a  reward — Oh,  which 
Have  1  deserved  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

The  peace  of  innocence; 
Till  in  your  season  you  be  called  to  heaven. 
Whate'er  you  may  have  suffer'd,  you  have  done 
No  evil.     Death  must  be  the  punishment 
Of  crime,  or  the  reward  of  trampling  down 
The  thorns  which  God  has  strew'd  upon  the  path 
Which  leads  to  immortality. 

BEATRICE. 

Ay,  death — 
The  punishment  of  crime.     I  pray  thee,  God, 
Let  me  not  be  bewilder'd  while  I  judge. 
If  I  must  live  day  after  day,  and  keep 
These  limbs,  the  unworthy  temple  of  thy  spirit, 
As  a  foul  den  from  which  what  thou  abhorrest 
May  mock  thee,  unavenged — it  shall  not  be  ! 
Self-murder — no,  that  might  be  no  escape, 
For  thy  decree  yawns  like  a  Hell  between 
Our  will  and  it : — Oh  !  in  this  mortal  world 
There  is  no  vindication  and  no  law 
Which  can  adjudge  and  execute  the  doom 
Of  that  through  which  I  suffer. 

Enter  Orsino. 
(She  approaches  him  solemnly).  Welcome,  Friend  ! 
I  have  to  tell  you  that,  since  last  we  met, 
I  have  endured  a  wrong  so  great  and  strange. 
That  neither  life  nor  death  can  give  me  rest. 
Ask  me  not  what  it  is,  for  there  are  deeds 
Which  have  no  form,  sufferings  which  have  no  tongue. 

ORSINO. 

And  what  is  he  who  has  thus  injured  you  ? 

BEATRICE. 

The  man  they  call  my  father :  a  dread  name. 

ORSINO. 

It  cannot  be — 

BEATRICE. 

What  it  can  be,  or  not, 
Forbear  to  think.     It  is,  and  it  has  been; 
Advise  me  how  it  shall  not  be  again. 
I  thought  to  die  ;  but  a  religious  awe 
Restrains  me,  and  the  dread  lest  death  itself 


Might  be  no  refuge  from  the  consciousness 
Of  what  is  yet  une.ipialed.     Oh,  speak  ! 

ORSINO. 

Accuse  him  of  the  deed,  and  let  the  law 
Avenge  thee. 

BEATRICE. 

Oh,  ice-hearted  counsellor! 
If  I  could  find  a  word  that  might  make  known 
The  crime  of  my  destroyer ;  and  that  done, 
My  tongue  should  like  a  knife  tear  out  the  secret 
Which  cankers  my  heart's  core  ;  ay,  lay  all  bare, 
So  that  my  mipoUuted  fame  should  be 
With  vilest  gossips  a  stale-mouth'd  story  ; 
A  mock,  a  byword,  an  astonishment: — 
If  this  were  done,  which  never  shall  be  done, 
Think  of  the  offender's  gold,  his  dreaded  hate. 
And  the  strange  horror  of  the  accuser's  tale, 
Baffling  belief,  and  overpowering  speech ; 
Scarce  whisper'd,  unimaginable,  wrapt 
In  hideous  hints — Oh,  most  assured  redress ! 

ORSINO. 

You  will  endure  it  then  ? 

BEATRICE. 

Endure  ? — Orsino, 
It  seems  your  counsel  is  small  profit. 

[Turns  from  him,  and  speaks  half  to  herself. 

Ay, 

All  must  be  suddenly  resolved  and  done. 

What  is  this  undistinguishable  mist 

Of  thoughts,  which  rise,  like  shadow  afler  shadow, 

Darkening  each  other  ? 

ORSINO. 

Should  the  offender  live  ? 
Triumph  in  his  misdeed  ?  and  make,  by  use, 
His  crime,  whate'er  it  is,  dreadful  no  doubt. 
Thine  element ;  until  thou  mayest  become 
Utterly  lost;  subdued  even  to  the  hue 
Of  that  which  thou  permittest  ? 

BEATRICE  [to  herself). 

Mighty  Death! 
Thou  double-visaged  shadow!  Only  judge! 
Rightfullest  arbiter ! 

{She  retires  absorbed  in  Ihought.' 

LUCRETIA. 

If  the  lightning 
Of  God  has  e'er  descended  to  avenge — 

ORSINO. 

Blaspheme  not!  His  high  Providence  commits 
Its  glory  on  this  earth,  and  their  own  wrongs 
Into  the  hands  of  men  ;  if  they  neglect 
To  punish  crime — 

LUCRETIA. 

But  if  one,  like  this  wretch, 
Should  mock  with  gold,  opinion,  law,  and  power? 
If  there  be  no  appeal  to  that  which  makes 
The  guiltiest  tremble  ?  If  because  our  wrongs. 
For  that  they  are  unnatural,  strange  and  monstrous. 
Exceed  all  measure  of  belief?  Oh,  God! 
If,  for  the  very  reasons  which  should  make 
Redress  most  swift  and  sure,  our  injurer  triumohsf 
And  we  the  victims,  bear  worse  punishment 
Than  that  appointed  for  their  torturer? 

ORSINO. 

Think  not 

But  that  there  is  redress  where  there  is  wrong. 
So  we  be  bold  enough  to  seize  it. 

41  309 


62 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


LUCRETIA. 

How? 
If  there  were  any  way  to  make  all  sure, 
I  know  not — but  I  think  it  might  be  good 
To— 

ORSINO. 

Why,  his  late  outrage  to  Beatrice ; 
For  it  is  such,  as  I  but  faintly  guess, 
As  makes  remorse  dishonor,  and  leaves  her 
Only  one  duty,  how  she  may  avenge  : 
You,  but  one  refuge  from  ills  ill  endured  ,• 
Me,  but  one  counsel — 

LUCRETIA. 

For  we  cannot  hope 
That  aid,  or  retribution,  or  resource 
Will  arise  thence,  where  every  other  one 
Might  find  them  with  less  need. 

(Beatrice  advances.) 

ORSINO. 

Then— 

BEATRICE. 

Peace,  Orsino ! 
And,  honor'd  lady,  while  I  speak,  I  pray 
That  you  put  off,  as  garments  overworn, 
Forbearance  and  respect,  remorse  and  fear, 
And  all  the  fit  restraints  of  daily  life. 
Which  have  been  borne  from  childhood,  but  which 

now 
Would  be  a  mockery  to  my  holier  plea. 
As  I  have  said,  I  have  endured  a  wrong. 
Which,  though  it  be  expressionless,  is  such 
As  asks  atonement ;  both  for  what  is  past, 
And  lest  I  be  reserved,  day  after  day. 
To  load  with  crimes  an  overburthen'd  soul, 
And  be — what  ye  can  dream  not.     I  have  pray'd 
To  God,  and  I  have  talk'd  with  my  own  heart, 
And  have  unravell'd  my  entangled  will, 
And  have  at  length  determined  what  is  right. 
Art  thou  my  friend,  Orsino  ?  False  or  true  ? 
Pledge  thy  salvation  ere  I  speak. 

ORSINO. 

I  swear 
To  dedicate  my  cunning,  and  my  strength, 
My  silence,  and  whatever  else  is  mine, 
To  thy  commands. 

LUCRETIA. 

You  think  we  should  devise 
His  death? 

BEATRICE. 

And  execute  what  is  devised. 
And  suddenly.     We  must  be  brief  and  bold. 

ORSINO. 

And  yet  most  cautious. 

LUCRETIA. 

For  the  jealous  laws 
Would  punish  us  with  death  and  infamy 
For  that  which  it  became  themselves  to  do. 

BEATRICE. 

Be  cautious  as  ye  may,  but  prompt.     Orsino, 
What  are  the  means  ? 

ORSINO. 

I  know  two  dull,  fierce  outlaws, 
Who  think  man's  spirit  as  a  worm's,  and  they 
Would  trample  out,  for  any  slight  caprice. 
The  meanest  or  the  noblest  life.     This  mood 
Is  marketable  here  in  Rome.     They  sell 
What  we  now  want. 


LUCRETIA. 

To-morrow  before  dawn, 
Cenci  will  take  us  to  that  lonely  rock, 
Petrella,  in  the  Apulian  Apennines. 
If  he  arrive  there — 

BEATRICE. 

He  must  not  arrive. 

ORSINO. 

Will  it  be  dark  before  you  reach  the  tower? 

LUCRETIA. 

The  sun  will  scarce  be  set. 

BEATRICE. 

But  I  remember 
Two  miles  on  this  side  of  the  fort,  the  road 
Crosses  a  deep  ravine;  'tis  rough,  and  narrow, 
And  winds  with  short  turns  down  the  precipice ; 
And  in  its  depth  there  is  a  mighty  rock, 
Which  has,  from  unimaginable  years, 
Sustain'd  itself  with  terror  and  with  toil 
Over  a  gulf,  and  with  the  agony 
With  which  it  clings,  seems  slowly  coming  down, 
Even  as  a  wretched  soul,  hour  after  hour. 
Clings  to  the  mass  of  life  ;  yet  clinging,  leans  ; 
And  leaning,  makes  more  dark  the  dread  abyss 
In  which  it  fears  to  fall :  beneath  this  crag 
Huge  as  despair,  as  if  in  weariness. 
The  melancholy  mountain  yawns — below, 
You  hear  but  see  not  an  impetuous  torrent 
Raging  among  the  caverns,  and  a  bridge 
Crosses  the  chasm;  and  high  above  there  grow. 
With  intersecting  trunks,  from  crag  to  crag. 
Cedars,  and  yews,  and  pines ;  whose  tangled  hair 
Is  matted  in  one  solid  roof  of  shade 
By  the  dark  ivy's  twine.     At  noonday  here 
'Tis  twilight,  and  at  siuiset  blackest  night. 

ORSINO. 

Before  you  reach  that  bridge,  make  some  excuse 
For  spurring  on  your  mules,  or  loitering 
Until— 

BEATRICE. 

What  sound  is  that  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

Hark !  No,  it  cannot  be  a  servant's  step : 

It  must  be  Cenci,  unexpectedly 

Retum'd — Make  some  excuse  for  being  here. 

BEATRICE  {to  Orsino,  as  she  goes  out). 
That  step  we  hear  approach  must  never  pass 
The  bridge  of  which  we  spoke. 

[Exeunt  Lucretia  and  Beatrice. 

ORSINO. 

What  shall  I  do? 
Cenci  must  find  me  here,  and  I  must  bear 
The  imperious  inquisition  of  his  looks 
As  to  what  brought  me  hither  :  let  me  mask 
Mine  own  in  some  inane  and  vacant  smile. 

Enter  Giacomo,  in  a  hurried  manner. 
How !  Have  you  ventured  thither  ?  know  you  then 
That  Cenci  is  from  home  ? 

giacomo. 

I  sought  him  here ; 
And  now  must  wait  till  he  returns. 

ORSINO. 

Great  God 
Weigh  you  the  danger  of  this  rashness  ? 
310 


THE  CENCI. 


63 


Ay! 
Does  my  destroyer  know  his  danger  ?    We 
Are  now  no  more,  as  once,  parent  and  child. 
But  man  to  man  ;  the  oppressor  to  the  oppress'd  ; 
The  slanderer  to  the  slander'd  ;  foe  to  foe : 
He  has  cast  Nature  off;  which  was  his  shield. 
And  Nature  casts  him  off,  who  is  her  shame  ; 
And  I  spurn  both.     Is  it  a  father's  throat 
Which  I  will  shake,  and  say,  I  ask  not  gold  ; 
1  ask  not  happy  years ;  nor  memories 
Of  tranquil  childhood  ;  nor  home-shelter'd  love  ; 
Though  all  these  hast  thou  torn  from  me,  and  more 
But  only  my  fair  fame  ;  only  one  hoard 
Of  peace,  which  I  thought  hidden  from  thy  hate, 
Under  the  penury  heap'd  on  me  by  thee. 
Or  I  will — God  can  understand  and  pardon : 
Why  should  I  speak  with  man  ? 


Be  calm,  dear  friend. 

GIACOMO. 

Well,  I  will  calmly  tell  you  what  he  did. 

This  old  Francesco  Cenci,  as  you  know, 

Borrow'd  the  dowry  of  my  wife  from  me, 

And  then  denied  the  loan ;  and  left  me  so 

In  poverty,  the  which  I  sought  to  mend 

By  holding  a  poor  office  in  the  state. 

It  had  been  promised  to  me,  and  already 

I  bought  new  clothing  for  my  ragged  babes, 

And  my  wife  smiled  ;  and  my  heart  knew  repose ; 

When  Cenci's  intercession,  as  I  found, 

Conferr'd  this  office  on  a  wretch,  whom  thus 

He  paid  for  vilest  service.     I  return'd 

With  this  ill  news,  and  we  sate  sad  together 

Solacing  our  despondency  with  tears 

Of  such  affection  and  unbroken  faith 

As  temper  life's  worst  bitterness  ;  when  he 

As  he  is  wont,  came  to  upbraid  and  curse, 

Mocking  our  poverty,  and  telling  us 

Such  was  God's  scourge  for  disobedient  sons. 

And  then,  that  I  might  strike  him  dumb  with  shame, 

I  spoke  of  my  wife's  dowry ;  but  he  coin'd 

A  brief  yet  specious  tale,  how  I  had  wasted 

The  sum  in  secret  riot ;  and  he  saw 

My  wife  was  touch'd,  and  he  went  smiling  forth. 

And  when  I  knew  the  impression  he  had  made. 

And  fell  my  wife  insult  with  silent  scorn 

My  ardent  truth,  and  look  averse  and  cold, 

I  went  forth  too :  but  soon  return'd  again  ; 

Yet  not  so  soon  but  that  my  wife  had  taught 

My  children  her  harsh  thoughts,  and  they  all  cried, 

'Give  us  clolhes,  father!  Give  us  better  food! 

What  you  in  one  night  squander  were  enough 

For  months ! "  I  lo<jk'd,  and  saw  that  home  was  hell. 

And  to  that  hell  will  I  return  no  more 

Until  mine  enemy  has  render'd  up 

Alonemeni,  or,  as  he  gave  life  to  me, 

I  will,  reversing  nature's  law — 

ORSINO. 

Trust  me, 
Tlie  compensation  which  thou  seekest  here 
Will  be  denied. 

GIACOMO. 

Then — Are  you  not  my  friend? 
Did  you  not  hint  at  the  alternative, 
Upon  the  brink  of  which  you  see  I  stand. 


The  other  day  when  we  conversed  together  ? 
My  wrongs  were  then  less.    That  word  parricide. 
Although  I  am  resolved,  haunts  me  like  fear. 

ORSINO. 

It  must  be  fear  itself,  for  the  bare  word 

Is  hollow  mockery.    Mark,  how  wisest  God 

Draws  to  one  point  the  threads  of  a  just  doom, 

So  sanctifying  it :  what  you  devise 

Is,  as  it  were,  accomplish'd. 

GIACOMO. 

Is  he  dead  ? 

ORSINO. 

His  grave  is  ready.    Know  that  since  we  met 
Cenci  has  done  an  outrage  to  his  daughter. 

GIACOMO. 

^Vhat  outrage  ? 

ORSINO. 

That  she  speaks  not,  but  you  may 
Conceive  such  half  conjectures  as  I  do, 
From  her  flx'd  paleness,  and  the  lofiy  grief 
Of  her  stern  brow  bent  on  the  idle  air, 
And  her  severe  unmodulated  voice. 
Drowning  both  tenderness  and  dread  ;  and  last 
From  this  ;  that  whilst  her  stepmother  and  I, 
Bewilder'd  in  our  horror,  talk'd  together 
With  obscure  hints  ;  both  self-misunderstood 
And  darkly  guessing,  stumbling,  in  our  talk, 
Over  the  truth,  and  yet  to  its  revenge, 
She  interrupted  us,  and  with  a  look 
Which  told  before  she  spoke  it,  he  must  die. 

GIACOMO. 

It  is  enough.    My  doubts  are  well  appeased  ; 

There  is  a  higher  reason  for  the  act 

Than  mine;  there  is  a  holier  judge  than  me, 

A  more  unblained  avenger.    Beatrice, 

Who  in  the  gentleness  of  thy  sweet  youth 

Hast  never  trodden  on  a  worm,  or  bruised 

A  living  flower,  but  thou  hast  pitied  it 

With  needless  tears!  Fair  sister,  thou  in  whom 

Men  wonder'd  how  such  loveliness  and  wisdom 

Did  not  destroy  each  other !  Is  there  made 

Ravage  of  thee  ?  O  heart,  I  ask  no  more 

Justification  !  Shall  I  wait,  Orsino, 

Till  he  return,  and  stab  him  at  the  door  ? 

ORSINO. 

Not  so ;  some  accident  might  interpose 
To  rescue  him  from  what  is  now  most  sure  ; 
And  you  are  unprovided  where  to  fly. 
How  to  excuse  or  to  conceal.     Nay,  hsten  : 
All  is  contrived ;  success  is  so  assured 
That^ 

Enter  Beatrice. 

BEATRICE. 

'T  is  my  brother's  voice !  Ye  know  me  not  ? 

GIACOMO. 

My  sister,  my  lost  sister ! 

BEATRICE. 

Lost  indeed ! 
I  see  Orsino  has  talk'd  with  yon,  and 
That  you  conjecture  things  too  horrible 
To  speak,  yet  far  less  than  the  truth.    Now,  stay  not, 
He  might  return:  yet  kiss  me;  I  shall  know 
That  tlien  thou  hast  consented  to  his  death. 
Farewell,  farewell  ?    Let  piety  to  God, 
311 


64 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Brotherly  love,  justice  and  clemency, 
And  all  things  that  make  tender  hardest  hearts. 
Make  thine  hard,  brother.     Answer  not — farewell. 
[Exeunt  geverally. 


SCENE  II. 

A  mean  apartment  in  Giacomo's  house. 

GiACOMo,  ahne. 

GIACOMO. 

'Tis  midnight,  and  Orsino  comes  not  yet. 

[Thunder,  and  the  sound  of  a  storm 
What!  can  the  everlasting  elements 
feel  with  a  worm  like  man  ?    If  so,  the  shaft 
Of  mercy-winged  lightning  would  not  fall 
On  stones  and  trees.     My  wife  and  children  sleep : 
They  are  now  living  in  unmeaning  dreams : 
But  I  must  wake,  stOl  doubting  if  that  deed 
Be  just  which  was  most  necessary.     O, 
Thou  unreplenish'd  lamp !  whose  narrow  fire 
Is  shaken  by  the  wind,  and  on  whose  edge 
Devouring  darkness  hovers  !    Thou  small  flame, 
Which,  as  a  dying  pulse  rises  and  falls. 
Still  flickerest  up  and  down,  how  very  soon, 
Did  I  not  feed  thee,  wouldst  thou  fail  and  be 
As  thou  hadst  never  been  !    So  wastes  and  sinks 
Even  now,  perhaps,  the  life  that  kindled  mine : 
But  that  no  power  can  fdl  with  vital  oil 
That  broken  lamp  of  flesh.     Ha  !  'tis  the  blood 
Which  fed  these  veins  that  ebbs  till  all  is  cold : 
It  is  the  form  that  moulded  mine  that  sinks 
Into  the  while  and  yellow  spasms  of  death  : 
It  is  the  soul  by  which  mine  was  array'd 
In  God's  immortal  likeness  which  now  stands 
Naked  before  Heaven's  judgment-seat ! 

[A  bell  strikes. 
One!  Two! 
The  hours  crawl  on  ;  and  when  my  hairs  are  white 
My  son  will  then  perhaps  be  waiting  thus. 
Tortured  between  just  hate  and  vain  remorse ; 
Chiding  the  tardy  messenger  of  news 
Like  those  which  I  expect.     I  almost  wish 
He  be  not  dead,  although  my  wrongs  are  great ; 
Yet — 'tis  Orsino's  step — 

Enter  Orsino. 

Speak ! 

ORSINO. 

I  am  come 
To  say  he  has  escaped. 

GIACOMO. 

Escaped ! 

ORSINO. 

And  safe 
Within  Petrella.     He  pass'd  by  the  spot 
Appointed  for  the  deed  an  hour  too  soon. 


GIACOMO. 

Are  we  the  fo<3ls  of  such  contingencies  ? 

And  do  we  waste  in  blind  misgivings  thus 

The  hours  when  we  should  act?    Then  wind  and 

thunder. 
Which  fcceni'd  to  howl  his  knell,  is  the  loud  laughter 
With  which  Heaven  mocks  our  weakness !  I  hence 

forth 
Will  ne'er  repent  of  aught  design'd  or  done 
But  my  repentance. 


ORSINO. 

See,  the  lamp  is  out. 

GIACOMO. 

If  no  remorse  is  ours  when  the  dim  air 
Has  drunk  this  innocent  flame,  why  should  we  quail 
When  Cenci's  life,  that  light  by  which  ill  spirits 
See  the  worst  deeds  they  prompt,  shall  sink  for  ever 
No,  I  am  harden'd. 

ORSINO. 

Why,  what  need  of  this  ? 
Who  fear'd  the  pale  intrusion  of  remorse 
In  a  just  deed  ?    Although  our  first  plan  fail'd, 
Doubt  not  but  he  will  soon  be  laid  to  rest. 
But  light  the  lamp ;  let  us  not  talk  i'  the  dark. 

GIACOMO  [lighting  the  lamp). 
And  yet  once  quench'd  I  cannot  thus  relume 
My  father's  life  :  do  you  not  think  his  ghost 
Might  plead  that  argument  with  God  ? 

ORSINO. 

Once  gone, 
You  cannot  now  recall  your  sister's  peace ; 
Your  own  extinguish'd  years  of  youth  and  hope ; 
Nor  your  wife's  bitter  words ;  nor  all  the  taunts 
Which,  from  the  prosperous,  weak  misfortune  takes ; 
Nor  your  dead  mother  ;  nor — 

GIACOMO. 

O,  speak  no  more ! 
I  am  resolved,  although  this  very  hand 
Must  quench  the  life  that  animated  it 

ORSINO. 

There  is  no  need  of  that.     Listen :  you  know 

Olimpio,  the  castellan  of  Petrella 

In  old  Colonna's  time  ;  him  whom  your  father 

Degraded  from  his  post  ?    And  Marzio, 

That  desperate  wretch,  whom  he  deprived  last  year 

Of  a  reward  of  blood,  well  earn'd  and  due  ? 

GIACOMO. 

I  knew  Olimpio ;  and  they  say  he  hated 
Old  Cenci  so,  that  in  his  silent  rage 
His  lips  grew  white  only  to  see  him  pass. 
Of  Marzio  I  know  nothing. 

ORSINO. 

Marzio's  hate 
Matches  Olimpio's.     I  have  sent  these  men. 
But  in  your  name,  and  as  at  your  request. 
To  talk  with  Beatrice  and  Lucretia. 

GIACOMO. 

Only  to  talk  ? 

ORSINO. 

The  moments,  which  even  now 

Pass  onward  to  to-morrow's  midnight  hour. 

May  memorize  their  flight  with  deatli  :  ere  then 

They  must  have  talk'd,  and  may  perhaps  have  dcmj; 

And  made  an  end. 

GIACOMO. 

Listen !  what  sound  is  that  ? 

ORSINO. 

The  house-dog  moans,  and  the  beams  crack :  naugh 
else. 

GIACOMO. 

It  is  my  wife  complaining  in  her  sleep  : 

I  doubt  not  she  is  saying  bitter  things 

Of  me ;  and  all  my  children  round  her  dreaming 

That  I  deny  them  sustenance. 


ORSINO. 

Whilst  he 
Who  truly  took  it  from  them,  and  who  fills 
312 


THE  CENCI. 


65 


Their  hun^y  rest  with  bitterness,  now  sleeps 
Lapp'd  in  bad  pleasures,  and  trimnphanily 
Mocks  thee  in  visions  of  successful  hate 
Too  like  the  truth  of  day. 

GIACOMO. 

If  e'er  he  wakes 
Again,  I  will  not  trust  to  hireling  hands. 

Orsino. 
Why,  that  were  well.    I  must  be  gone  ;  good  night ! 
When  next  we  meet — 

GIACOMO. 

May  all  be  done — and  all 
Forgotten. — Oh,  that  I  had  never  been  I 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. 

An  Apartment  in  Ike  Caalle  of  Petrella. 

Enter  Cf.nci. 

CENCI. 

She  comes  not ;   yet  I  left  her  even  now 
Vanquish'd  and  faint.     She  knows  the  penalty 
Of  her  delay  :  yet  what  if  threats  are  vain  ? 
Am  I  not  now  within  Petrella's  moat  ? 
Or  fear  I  still  the  eyes  and  ears  of  Rome? 
Might  I  not  drag  her  by  the  golden  hair? 
Stamp  on  her  ?    Keep  her  sleepless  till  her  brain 
Be  overworn  ?  Tame  her  with  chains  and  famine  ? 
Less  would  suffice.     Yet  so  to  leave  undone 
What  I  most  seek  I  No,  't  is  her  stubborn  will, 
Which  by  its  own  consent  shall  sloop  as  low- 
As  that  which  drags  it  down. 

E7iler  LucRETiA. 

Thou  lothed  wretch ! 
Hide  thee  from  my  abhorrence !  Fly,  begone ! 
Yet  stay !  Bid  Beatrice  come  hither. 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh. 
Husband  I  I  pray,  for  thine  own  wretched  sake, 
Heed  what  thou  dost.     A  man  who  walks  like  thee 
Through  crimes,  and  through  the  danger  of  his  crimes. 
Each  hour  may  stumble  o'er  a  sudden  grave. 
And  thou  art  old ;  thy  hairs  are  hoary  gray : 
As  thou  wouldst  save  thyself  from  death  and  hell. 
Pity  thy  daughter;  give  her  to  some  friend 
In  marriage :  so  that  she  may  tempt  thee  not 
To  hatred,  or  worse  thoughts,  if  worse  there  be. 

CENCI. 

Wliat !  like  her  sister,  who  has  found  a  home 
To  mock  my  hate  from  with  prosperity  ? 
Strange  ruin  shall  destroy  both  her  and  thee. 
And  all  that  yet  remain.     My  death  may  be 
Rapid,  her  destiny  oulspeeds  it.    (io, 
Bid  her  come  hither,  and  before  my  mood 
Be  changed,  lest  I  should  drag  her  by  the  hair. 

r.UCRETIA. 

She  sent  me  to  thee,  husband.     At  thy  presence 
She  fell,  as  thou  dost  know,  into  a  trance; 
And  in  that  trance  she  heard  a  voice  which  said, 
"Cenci  must  die  !    Let  him  confess  himself! 
Even  now  the  accusing  Angel  waits  to  hear 
2? 


If  God,  to  punish  his  enormous  crimes. 
Harden  his  dying  heart ! " 

CENCI. 

Why — such  things  are — 
No  doubt  divine  rcvealings  may  be  made. 
'Tis  plain  1  have  been  favor'd  from  above, 
For  when  I  cursed  my  sons,  they  died. — Ay — so— 
As  to  the  right  or  wrong,  that 's  talk.    Repentance — 
Repentance  is  an  easy  moment's  work. 
And  more  depends  on  Uod  than  me.    Well — well — 
I  must  give  up  the  greater  point,  which  was 
To  poison  and  corrupt  her  soul. 

[A  pause  ;  Lucretia  approaches  anxiously,  and 
then  shrinks  back  as  he  speaks. 

One,  two; 
Ay — Rocco  and  Cristofano  my  curse 
Strangled  :  and  Giacomo,  I  think,  will  find 
Life  a  worse  Hell  than  that  beyond  the  grave : 
Beatrice  shall,  if  there  be  skill  in  hate, 
Die  in  despair,  blaspheming :  to  Bernardo, 
He  is  so  innocent,  I  will  bequeath 
The  memory  of  these  deeds,  and  make  his  youth 
The  sepulchre  of  hope,  where  evil  thoughts 
Shall  grow  like  weeds  on  a  neglected  tomb. 
When  all  is  done,  out  in  the  wide  Campagna, 
I  will  pile  up  my  silver  and  my  gold  ; 
My  costly  robes,  paintings,  and  tapestries ; 
My  parchments  and  all  records  of  my  wealth, 
And  make  a  bonfire  in  my  joy,  and  leave 
Of  my  possessions  nothing  but  my  name. 
Which  shall  be  an  inheritance  to  strip 
Its  wearer  bare  as  infamy.    That  done, 
My  soul,  which  is  a  scourge,  will  I  resign 
Into  the  hands  of  him  who  wielded  it ; 
Be  it  for  its  own  punishment  or  theirs. 
He  will  not  ask  it  of  me  till  the  lash 
Be  broken  in  its  last  and  deepest  wound ; 
Until  its  hate  be  all  inflicted.     Yet, 
Lest  death  outspeed  my  purpose,  let  me  make 
Short  work  and  sure.  [GmTig. 

LUCRETIA  (stops  him). 

Oh,  stay  !    It  was  a  feint: 
She  had  no  vision,  and  she  heard  no  voice. 
I  said  it  but  to  awe  thee. 

CENCL 

That  is  well. 
Vile  palterer  with  the  sacred  truth  of  God, 
Be  thy  soul  choked  with  that  blaspheming  lie ! 
For  Beatrice  worse  terrors  are  in  store 
To  bend  her  to  my  will. 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh  !  to  what  will  ? 
Wliat  cruel  sufferings  more  than  she  has  known 
Canst  thou  inflict  ? 

CENCI. 

Andrea !  go,  call  my  daughter , 
And  if  she  comes  not,  tell  her  that  I  come. 
What  sufferings  ?  I  will  drag  her,  step  by  step. 
Through  infamies  unheard  of  among  men ; 
She  shall  stand  shelterless  in  the  broad  noon 
Of  public  scorn,  for  acts  blazon'd  abroad. 
One  among  which  shall  be — What?  Canst  thou  gues'jf 
She  shall  become  (for  what  she  most  abhors 
Shall  have  a  fascination  to  entrap 
Her  lothing  will),  to  her  ow'n  conscious  self 
All  she  appears  to  others;  and  when  dead, 
313 


06 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


As  she  shall  die  unshrived  and  unforgiven, 
A  rebel  to  her  father  and  her  God, 
Her  corpse  shall  be  abandon'd  to  the  hounds ; 
Her  name  shall  be  the  terror  of  the  earth ; 
Her  spirit  shall  approach  the  throne  of  God 
Plague-spotted  with  my  curses.     I  will  make 
Body  and  soul  a  monstrous  lump  of  ruin. 


Enter  Andrea. 


The  lady  Beatrice — 


Said  she  ? 


CENCI. 

Speak,  pale  slave !    What 


ANDREA. 

My  lord,  'twas  what  she  look'd  ;  she  said  : 
Go  tell  my  father  that  I  see  the  gulf 
Of  Hell  between  us  two,  which  he  may  pass, 
I  will  not.  [Exit  Andrea. 

CENCI. 

Go  thou  quick,  Lucretia, 
Tell  her  to  come  ;  yet  let  her  understand 
Her  coming  is  consent :  and  say,  moreover, 
That  if  she  come  not  I  will  curse  her. 

[Exit  Lucretia. 
Ha! 
With  what  but  with  a  father's  curse  doth  God 
Panic-strike  arm'd  victory,  and  make  pale 
Cities  in  their  prosperity  ?    The  world's  Father 
Must  grant  a  parent's  prayer  against  his  child, 
Be  he  who  asks  even  what  men  call  me. 
Will  not  the  deaths  of  her  rebellious  brothers 
Awe  her  before  I  speak  ?    For  I  on  them 
Did  imprecate  quick  ruin,  and  it  came. 

Enter  Lucretia. 

Well ;  what  ?  Speak,  wretch ! 

lucretia. 

She  said,  I  cannot  come ; 
Go  tell  my  father  that  I  see  a  torrent 
Of  his  own  blood  raging  between  us. 


CENCi  {kneeling). 


God! 


Hear  me  !  If  this  most  specious  mass  of  flesh. 

Which  thou  hast  made  my  daughter;  this  my  blood, 

This  particle  of  my  divided  being ; 

Or  rather,  this  my  bane  and  my  disease, 

Whose  sight  infects  and  poisons  me ;  this  devil 

Which  sprung  from  me  as  from  a  hell,  was  meant 

To  aught  good  use ;  if  her  bright  loveliness 

Was  kindled  to  illumine  this  dark  world ; 

If,  nursed  by  thy  selectest  dew  of  love. 

Such  virtues  blossom  in  her  as  should  make 

The  peace  of  life,  I  pray  thee  for  my  sake. 

As  thou  the  common  God  and  Father  art 

Of  her,  and  me,  and  all ;  reverse  that  doom ! 

Earth,  in  the  name  of  God,  let  her  food  be 

Poison,  until  she  be  encrusted  round 

With  leprous  stains !    Heaven,  rain  upon  her  head 

The  blistering  drops  of  the  Maremma's  dew. 

Till  she  be  speckled  like  a  toad  ;  parch  up 

Those  love-enkindling  lips,  warp  those  fine  limbs 

To  lothed  lameness !  All-beholding  sun. 

Strike  in  thine  envy  those  life-darling  eyes 

With  thine  own  blinding  beams ! 


LUCRETIA. 

Peace !  peace ! 
For  thine  own  sake  unsay  those  dreadful  words. 
When  high  God  grants  he  punishes  such  prayere. 

CENCi  (leaping  up,  and  throwing  his  right  hand  towards 

Heavrcn). 
He  does  his  will,  I  mine  I    This  in  addition, 
That  if  she  have  a  child — 

LUCRETIA. 

Horrible  thought! 

CENCI. 

That  if  she  ever  have  a  child ;  and  thou, 

Quick  Nature  !  I  adjure  thee  by  tliy  God, 

That  thou  be  fruitful  in  her,  and  increase 

And  multiply,  fulfilling  his  command. 

And  my  deep  imprecation!  May  it  be 

A  hideous  likeness  of  herself,  that  as 

From  a  distorting  mirror,  she  may  see 

Her  image  mix'd  with  wliat  she  most  abhors. 

Smiling  upon  her  from  her  nursing  breast. 

And  that  the  child  may  from  its  infancy 

Grow,  day  by  day,  more  wicked  and  deform'd. 

Turning  her  mother's  love  to  misery  ; 

And  that  both  she  and  it  may  live  until 

It  shall  repay  her  care  and  pain  with  hate, 

Or  what  may  else  be  more  unnatural, 

So  he  may  hunt  her  through  the  clamorous  scoffs 

Of  the  loud  world  to  a  dishonor'd  grave. 

Shall  I  revoke  this  curse  ?    Go,  bid  her  come. 

Before  my  words  are  chronicled  in  hea\  en. 

[Exit  Lucretia. 
I  do  not  feel  as  if  I  were  a  man. 
But  like  a  fiend  appointed  to  chastise 
The  offences  of  some  unremember'd  world. 
My  blood  is  running  up  and  down  my  veins ; 
A  fearful  pleasure  makes  it  prick  and  tingle ; 
I  feel  a  giddy  sickness  of  strange  awe ; 
My  heart  is  beating  with  an  expectation 
Of  horrid  joy. 

Enter  Lucretia. 
What?  Speak! 

LUCRETIA. 

She  bids  thee  curse ; 
And  if  thy  curses,  as  they  cannot  do, 
Could  kill  her  soul — 

CENCI. 

She  would  not  come.     'Tis  well, 
I  can  do  both :  first  take  what  I  demand. 
And  then  extort  concession.    To  thy  chamber! 
Fly  ere  I  spurn  thee  :  and  beware  this  night 
That  lliou  cross  not  my  footsteps.     It  were  safer 
To  come  between  the  tiger  and  his  prey. 

[Exit  Lucretia. 
It  must  be  late ;  mine  eyes  grow  weary  dim 
With  unaccustoni'd  heaviness  of  sleep. 
Conscience  !  Oh  !  thou  most  insolent  of  lies  ! 
They  say  that  sleep,  that  healing  dew  of  heaven. 
Steeps  not  in  balm  the  foldings  of  the  brain 
Which  thinks  ihee  an  im[X)slor.     I  will  go 
First  to  belie  thee  with  an  hour  of  rest. 
Which  will  be  deep  and  calm,  I  feel :  and  then — 
O,  multitudinous  Hell,  the  fiends  will  shake 
Thine  arches  with  the  laughter  of  their  joy ! 
There  shall  be  lamentation  heard  in  Heaven 
As  o'er  an  angel  fallen  ;  and  upon  Earth 
314 


THE  CENCI. 


07 


All  gi)oU  shall  droop  and  sicken,  and  ill  things 

Shall  with  a  spirit  of  unnatural  life 

Stir  and  be  quicken'd — even  as  1  am  now.        [Exit. 


-     .     SCENE  II. 
Before  the  Castle  of  PelieUa. 
pnter  Beatrice  and  Lucretia  above  on  the  ramparts. 

BEATRICE. 

They  come  not  yet. 

LUCRETIA. 

'Tis  scarce  midnight. 

BEATRICE. 

How  slow 
Behind  the  course  of  thought,  even  sick  with  speed, 
Iiags  leaden-footed  time ! 

LUCRETIA. 

The  minutes  pass — 
If  he  should  wake  before  the  deed  is  done  ? 

BEATRICE. 

O,  mother !  He  must  never  wake  again. 
What  thou  hast  said  persuades  me  that  our  act 
Will  but  dislodge  a  spirit  of  deep  hell 
Out  of  a  human  form. 

LUCRETIA. 

'Tis  true  he  spoke 
Of  death  and  judgment  with  strange  confidence 
For  one  so  wicked  ;  as  a  man  believing 
In  God,  yet  recking  not  of  good  or  ill. 
And  yet  to  die  without  confession ! 

BEATRICE. 

Oh! 
Believe  that  Heaven  is  merciful  and  just, 
And  will  not  add  our  dread  necessity 
To  the  amount  of  his  offences. 

Enter  Olimpio  and  Marzio,  below. 

LUCRETIA. 

See, 
They  come. 

BEATRICE. 

All  mortal  things  must  hasten  thus 
To  their  dark  end.    Let  us  go  down. 

[Exeunt  Lucretia  and  Beatrice  from  above. 

OLI.MPIO. 

How  feel  you  to  this  work  ? 

HARZIO. 

As  one  who  thinks 
A  thousand  crowns  excellent  market  price 
For  an  old  murderer's  life.    Your  cheeks  are  pale. 

OLIMPIO. 

It  is  the  white  reflection  of  your  own, 
Which  you  call  pale. 

MARZIO. 

Is  that  their  natural  hue  ? 

OI.I.MPIO. 

Or  'tis  my  hate  and  the  deferr'd  desire 

To  wreak  it,  which  extinguishes  their  blood. 

MARZIO. 

You  are  inclined  then  to  this  basiness  ? 

OLLMPIO. 

Ay. 
If  one  should  bribe  me  with  a  thousand  crowns 
To  kill  a  serpent  which  had  stung  my  child, 
I  could  not  be  more  willinsr. 


Enter  Beatrice  and  Lucretia,  below. 
Noble  ladies! 

BEATRICE. 

Are  ye  resolved  ? 

olimpio. 
Is  he  asleep. 

MARZIO. 

Is  all 
Quiet? 

LUCRETIA. 

I  mix'd  an  opiate  with  his  drink : 
He  sleeps  so  soundly — 

BEATRICE. 

That  his  death  will  be 
But  as  a  change  of  sin-chaslising  dreams, 
A  dark  continuance  of  the  Ilell  within  him. 
Which  God  extinguish !  But  ye  are  resolved  ? 
Ye  know  it  is  a  high  and  holy  deed  ? 

OLlMPIO. 

We  are  resolved. 

MARZIO. 

As  to  the  how  this  act 
Be  warranted,  it  rests  with  you. 

BEATRICE. 

Well,  follow ! 

OLIMPIO. 

Hush  !  Hark  !  What  noise  is  that  ? 

MARZIO. 

Ha!  some  one  comes! 

BEATRICE. 

Ye  conscience-stricken  cravens,  rock  to  rest 
Your  baby  hearts.    It  is  the  iron  gate. 
Which  ye  left  open,  swinging  to  the  wind. 
That  enters  whistling  as  in  scorn.    Come,  follow ! 
And  be  your  stejjs  like  mine,  light,  quick,  and  bold ! 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. 

An  Apartment  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Beatrice  and  Lucretia. 

LUCRETIA. 

They  are  about  it  now. 

BEATRICE. 

Nay,  it  is  done. 

LUCRETIA. 

I  have  not  heard  him  groan. 

BEATRICE. 

He  will  not  groan. 

LUCRETIA. 

What  sound  is  that  ? 

BEATRICE. 

List!  'tis  the  tread  of  feet 
About  his  bed. 

LUCRETIA. 

My  God ! 
If  he  be  now  a  cold  stiff  corpse — 

BEATRICE. 

0,  fear  not 
What  may  be  done,  but  what  is  left  undone : 
The  act  seals  all. 

Enter  Olimpio  and  Marzio. 

Is  it  accomplish 'd  ? 
315 


68 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


What? 


Did  you  not  call  ? 


MARZIO. 
OLIMPIO. 
BEATRICE. 

When? 

OLIMPIO. 

Now. 

BEATRICE. 

I  ask  if  all  is  over? 

OLIMPIO. 

We  dare  not  kill  an  old  and  sleeping  man ; 
His  thin  gray  hair,  his  stem  and  reverent  brow, 
His  veined  hands  cross'd  on  his  heaving  breast, 
And  the  calm  innocent  sleep  in  which  he  lay, 
Quell'd  me.    Indeed,  indeed,  I  cannot  do  it. 

MARZIO. 

But  I  was  bolder;  for  I  chid  Olimpio, 
And  bade  him  bear  his  wrongs  to  his  own  grave, 
And  leave  me  the  reward.    And  now  my  knife 
Touch 'd  the  loose  wrinkled  throat,  when  the  old  man 
Stirr'd  in  his  sleep,  and  said,  "  God !   hear  O,  hear, 
A  father's  curse  !    What,  art  thou  not  our  father  ? " 
And  then  he  laugh'd.    I  knew  it  was  the  ghost 
Of  my  dead  father  speaking  through  his  lips. 
And  could  not  kill  him. 

BEATRICE. 

Miserable  slaves  ! 
Where,  if  ye  dare  not  kill  a  sleeping  man. 
Found  ye  the  boldness  to  return  to  me 
With  such  a  deed  undone  ?    Base  palterers  ! 
Cowards  and  traitors !  Why,  the  very  conscience 
Which  ye  would  sell  for  gold  and  for  revenge 
Is  an  equivocation  :  it  sleeps  over 
A  thousand  daily  acts  disgracing  men ; 
And  when  a  deed  where  mercy  insults  Heaven — 
Why  do  I  talk  ? 

[Snatching  a  dagger  from  one  of  them  and 
raising  it. 

Hadst  thou  a  tongue  to  say. 
She  murder'd  her  own  father,  I  must  do  it ! 
But  never  dream  ye  shall  outlive  him  long ! 

OLIMPIO. 

Stop,  for  God's  sake  ! 

MARZIO. 

I  will  go  back  and  kill  him. 

OLIMPIO. 

Give  me  the  weapon:  we  must  do  thy  will. 

BEATRICE. 

Take  it!    Depart!    Return! 

{Exeunt  Olimpio  and  Marzio. 
How  pale  thou  art! 
We  do  but  that  which  'twere  a  deadly  crime 
To  leave  undone. 

LUCRETIA. 

Would  it  were  done! 

BEATRICE. 

Even  whilst 
■  That  doubt  is  passing  through  your  mind,  the  world 
Is  conscious  of  a  change.    Darkness  and  hell 
Have  swallow'd  up  the  vapor  they  sent  forth 
To  blacken  the  sweet  light  of  life.    My  breath 
Comes,  methinks,  lighter,  and  the  jellied  blood 
.B'lns  freely  through  my  veins.    Hark  I 


Enter  Olimpio  and  Marzio. 

He  is — 
olimpio. 

Dead. 
marzio. 
We  strangled  him,  that  there  might  be  no  blood  ; 
And  then  we  threw  his  heavy  corpse  i'  the  garden 
Under  the  balcony ;  't  will  seem  it  fell. 

BEATRICE  [giving  them  a  bag  of  coin). 
Here,  take  this  gold,  and  hasten  to  your  homes. 
And,  Marzio,  because  thou  wast  only  awed 
By  that  which  made  me  tremble,  wear  thou  this ! 

[Clothes  him  in  a  rich  mantle 
It  was  the  mantle  which  my  grandfather 
Wore  in  his  high  prosperity,  and  men 
Envied  his  state  :  so  may  they  envy  thine. 
Thou  wert  a  weapon  in  the  hand  of  God 
To  a  just  use.    Long  live  and  thrive  !  And,  mark, 
If  thou  hast  crimes,  repent :  this  deed  is  none. 

[A  horn  is  sounded- 

LUCRETIA. 

Hark,  't  is  the  castle  horn  :  my  God !  it  sounds 
Like  tlie  last  trump. 

BEATRICE. 

Some  tedious  guest  is  coming. 

LUCRETIA. 

The  drawbridge  is  let  down ;  there  is  a  tramp 
Of  horses  in  the  court ;  fly,  hide  yourselves  ! 

[Exeunt  Olimpio  and  Marzio 

BEATRICE. 

Letus  retire  to  counterfeit  deep  rest ; 

I  scarcely  need  to  counterfeit  it  now  : 

The  spirit  which  doth  reign  within  these  limbs    ' 

Seems  strangely  undisturb'd.    I  could  even  sleep 

Fearless  and  calm  :  all  ill  is  surely  past. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV. 


Another  apartment  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  on  one  side  the  Legate  Savella  introduced  by 
a  Servant,  and  on  the  other  Lucretia  and  Ber 

NARDO. 

SAVELLA. 

Lady,  my  duty  to  his  Holiness 

Be  my  excuse,  that  thus  unseasonably 

I  break  upon  your  rest.    I  must  speak  with 

Count  Cenci ;  doth  he  sleep  ? 

LUCRETIA  {in  a  hurried  and  confused  manner\ 
I  think  he  sleeps. 
Yet  wake  him  not;  I  pray,  spare  me  awhile. 
He  is  a  wicked  and  a  wrathful  man ; 
Should  he  he  roused  out  of  his  sleep  to-night, 
Which  is,  I  know,  a  hell  of  angry  dreams, 
It  were  not  well ;  indeed  it  were  not  well. 
Wait  till  day-break. — 

(Aside).  O,  I  am  deadly  sick! 

SAVELLA. 

I  grieve  thus  to  distress  you,  but  the  Count 
Must  answer  charges  of  the  gravest  import, 
And  suddenly  ;  such  my  commission  is. 

LUCRETIA  (with  increased  agitation). 
I  dare  not  rouse  him:  I  know  none  who  dare — 
'T  were  perilous ; — you  might  as  safely  waken 
316 


THE  CENCI. 


69 


A  serpent ;  or  a  corpse  in  which  some  fiend 
Were  laid  to  sleep 

SAVELLA. 

Lady,  my  moments  here 
Are  counted.    I  must  rouse  him  from  his  sleep, 
Since  none  else  dare. 

LUCRETIA  (aside). 

O,  terror !  O,  despair ! 
I, To  Bernardo.)  Bernardo,   conduct  you  the  Lord 

Legate  to 
Your  father's  chamber. 

[Exeunt  Savella  and  Bernardo. 
Enter  Beatrice. 

BEATRICE. 

'Tis  a  messenger 
Come  to  arrest  the  culprit  who  now  stands 
Before  the  throne  of  unappealable  God. 
Both  Earth  and  Heaven,  consenting  arbiters, 
Acquit  our  deed. 

LUCRETIA. 

Oh,  agony  of  fear ! 
Would  that  he  yet  might  live !  Even  now  I  heard 
The  legate's  followers  whisper  as  they  pass'd 
They  had  a  warrant  for  his  instant  death. 
All  was  prepared  by  unforbidden  means 
Which  we  must  pay  so  dearly,  liaving  done. 
Even  now  they  search  the  tower,  and  find  the  body  ; 
Now  they  suspect  the  truth;  now  they  consult 
Before  they  come  to  tax  us  with  the  fact ; 
O,  horrible,  'tis  all  discover'd ! 

BEATRICE. 

Mother, 
^\^lat  is  done  wisely,  is  done  well.    Be  bold 
As  thou  art  just.     'Tis  like  a  truant  child 
To  fear  that  others  know  what  thou  ha.st  done, 
Even  from  thine  own  strong  consciousness,  and  thus 
Write  on  unsteady  eyes  and  alter'd  cheeks 
All  thou  wouldst  hide.    Be  faithful  to  thyself. 
And  fear  no  other  witness  but  thy  fear. 
For  if  as  cannot  be,  some  circumstance 
Should  rise  in  accusation,  we  can  blind 
Suspicion  with  such  cheap  astonishment. 
Or  overbear  it  with  such  guiltless  pride. 
As  murderers  cannot  feign.     The  deed  is  done. 
And  what  may  follow  now  regards  not  me. 
I  am  as  universal  as  the  light ; 
Free  a.s  the  earth-surrounding  air;  as  firm 
As  the  world's  centre.    Con.sequence,  to  me. 
Is  as  the  wind  which  strikes  the  solid  rock 
But  shakes  it  not. 

[A  cry  within  and  tumult 

BERNARDO. 

Murder!  Murder!  Murder! 


'Tis  wonderful  how  well  a  tyrant 
He  is  not  dead  ? 

BERNARDO. 

Dead ;  murdered. 
LUCRETIA  (with  extreme  agitation). 

Oh,  no,  no. 
He  is  not  murder'd,  though  he  may  be  dead; 
I  have  alone  the  keys  of  those  apartments. 

SAVELLA. 

Ha!  Is  it  so? 

BEATRICE. 

My  lord,  I  pray  excuse  us ; 
We  will  retire ;  my  mother  is  not  well : 
She  seems  quite  overcome  with  this  strange  horror. 
[Exeunt  Lucretia  and  Beatrice. 

SAVELLA. 

Can  you  suspect  who  may  have  murder'd  him  ? 

BERNARDO. 

I  know  not  what  to  think. 

SAVELLA. 

Can  you  name  any 
Who  had  an  interest  in  his  death  ? 


BERNARDO. 


Alas! 


I  can  name  none  who  had  not,  and  those  most 
Who  most  lament  that  such  a  deed  is  done ; 
My  mother,  and  my  sister,  and  myself 

SAVELLA. 

'Tis  strange  !  There  were  clear  marks  of  violence. 
I  found  the  old  man's  body  in  the  moonlight. 
Hanging  beneath  the  window  of  his  chamber 
Among  the  branches  of  a  pine  :  he  could  not 
Have  fallen  there,  for  all  his  limbs  lay  heap'd 
And  effortless;  'tis  true  there  was  no  blood.— 
Favor  me.  Sir— it  much  imports  your  house 
That  all  should  be  made  clear— to  tell  the  ladies 
That  I  request  their  presence. 

[Exit  Bernardo. 
Enter  Guards,  bringing  in  Marzio. 


Enter  Bernardo  and  Savella. 

SAVELLA  (to  his  followers). 
Go,  search  the  castle  round  ;  sound  the  alarm  • 
Look  to  the  gates  that  none  escape !  ' 

BEATRICE. 

What  now  ? 

BERNARDO. 

I  know  not  what  to  say— my  father's  dead. 

BEATRICE. 

How  dead!  he  only  sleeps;  you  mistake,  brother 
aia  Bleep  is  very  calm,  very  like  death  ; 


GUARD. 

We  have  one. 

OFFICER. 

My  lord,  we  found  this  ruffian  and  another 
Lurking  among  the  rocks ;  there  is  no  doubt 
But  that  they  are  the  murderers  of  Count  Cenci: 
Each  had  a  bag  of  coin  ;  this  fellow  wore 
A  gold-inwoven  robe,  which,  shining  bright 
Under  the  dark  rocks  to  the  glinmiering  moon, 
Betray'd  them  to  our  notice :  the  other  fell 
Desperately  fighting. 

SAVELLA. 

What  does  he  confess? 

OFFICER. 

He  keeps  firm  silence ;  but  these  lines  found  on  him 
May  speak. 

SAVELLA. 

Their  language  is  at  least  sincere. 
.,rn  [Reads 

"  1  O  THE  LADV  BEATRICE. 

"  That  the  atonement  of  what  my  nature 
Sickens  to  conjecture  may  soon  arrive, 
I  send  thee,  at  thy  brother's  desire,  those 
Who  will  speak  and  do  more  than  I  dare 
Wnte.— Thy  de\  oted  servant,  Orsino." 

42  317 


70 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Enter  Lucretia,  Beatrice,  and  Bernardo. 
Knowest  thou  this  writing,  lady  ? 

BEATRICE. 

No. 

SAVELLA. 

Nor  thou  ? 
LUCRETIA  Qier  conduct,  throughout  the  scene  is  marked 

by  extreme  agitation). 
Where  was  it  found  ?  What  is  it  ?  It  should  be 
Orsino's  hand  !  It  speaivs  of  that  strange  horror 
Which  never  yet  found  utterance,  but  which  made 
Between  thai  hapless  child  and  her  dead  father 
A  gulf  of  obscure  hatred. 

SAVELLA. 

Is  it  so? 
Is  it  true,  lady,  that  thy  father  did 
Such  outrages  as  to  awaken  in  thee 
Unfilial  hate. 

BEATRICE. 

Not  hate,  'twas  more  than  hate ; 
This  is  most  true,  jet  wherefore  question  me  ? 

SAVELLA. 

There  is  a  deed  demanding  question  done ; 
Thou  hast  a  secret  which  will  answer  not. 

BEATRICE. 

What  sayest?  My  lord,  your  words  are  bold  and  rash. 

SAVELLA. 

I  do  arrest  all  present  in  the  name 

Of  the  Pope's  Holiness.    You  must  to  Rome. 

LUCRETIA. 

O,  not  to  Rome !  Indeed  we  are  not  guilty. 

BEATRICE. 

Guilty!  Who  dares  laliv  of  guilt?    My  lord, 

I  am  more  innocent  of  parricide 

Than  is  a  child  born  fatherless — Dear  mother, 

Your  gentleness  and  patience  are  no  shield 

For  this  keen-judging  world,  this  two-edged  lie. 

Which  seems,  but  is  not.     What !  will  human  laws, 

Rather  w"ill  ye  who  are  their  ministers, 

Bar  all  access  to  retribution  first, 

And  then,  when  Heaven  doth  interpose  to  do 

What  ye  neglect,  arming  familiar  things 

To  the  redress  of  an  unwonted  crime. 

Make  ye  the  victims  who  demanded  it 

Culprits?  'Tis  ye  are  culprits!  That  poor  wretch 

Who  stands  so  pale,  and  trembling,  and  amazed, 

If  it  be  true  he  murder'd  Cenci,  was 

A  sword  in  the  right  hand  of  justest  God. 

Wherefore  should  I  have  wielded  it  ?  unless 

The  crimes  which  mortal  tongue  dare  never  name, 

God  therefore  scruples  to  avenge. 


You  own 


That  you  desired  his  death  ? 


BEATRICE. 

It  would  have  been 
A  crime  no  less  than  his,  if  for  one  moment 
That  fierce  desire  had  faded  in  my  heart. 
'Tis  true  I  did  believe,  and  hope,  and  pray, 
Ay,  I  even  knew — for  God  is  wise  and  just. 
That  some  strange  sudden  death  hung  over  him. 
"Tis  true  that  this  did  happen,  and  most  true 
There  was  no  other  rest  for  me  on  earth. 
No  other  hope  in  Heaven — now  what  of  this  ? 


SAVELLA. 

Strange  thoughts  beget  strange  deeds;  and  he'«  w« 

both. 
1  judge  thee  not. 

BEATRICE. 

And  yet,  if  you  arrest  me, 
You  are  the  judge  and  executioner 
Of  that  which  is  the  life  of  life:  the  breath 
Of  accusation  kills  an  innocent  name, 
And  leaves  for  lame  acquittal  the  poor  life, 
Which  is  a  mask  without  it.    'Tis  most  false 
That  I  am  guilty  of  foul  parricide ; 
Although  I  must  rejoice,  for  justest  cause, 
That  other  hands  have  sent  my  father's  soul 
To  ask  the  mercy  he  denied  to  me. 
Now  leave  us  free  :  stain  not  a  noble  house 
With  vague  surmises  of  rejected  crime  ; 
Add  to  our  sufferings  and  your  own  neglect 
No  heavier  sum;  let  them  have  been  enough: 
Leave  us  the  wreck  we  have. 

SAVELLA. 

I  dare  not,  lady. 
I  pray  that  you  prepare  yourselves  for  Rome  : 
There  the  Pope's  further  pleasure  will  be  known. 

LUCRETIA. 

O,  not  to  Rome !  O,  take  us  not  to  Rome ! 

BEATRICE. 

Why  not  to  Rome,  dear  mother?  There,  as  here, 

Our  innocence  is  as  an  armed  heel 

To  trample  accusation.    God  is  there 

As  here,  and  with  his  shadow  ever  clothes 

The  innocent,  the  injured,  and  the  weak; 

And  such  are  we.    Cheer  up,  dear  lady,  lean 

On  me  ;  collect  your  wandering  thoughts.    My  lord 

As  soon  as  you  have  taken  some  refreshment, 

And  had  all  such  examinations  made 

Upon  the  spot,  as  may  be  necessary 

To  the  full  understanding  of  this  matter, 

We  shall  be  ready.    Mother ;  will  you  come  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

Ha !  they  will  bind  us  to  the  rack,  and  wrest 
Self-accusation  from  our  agony  ! 
Will  Giacomo  be  there  ?  Orsino  ?  Marzio  ? 
All  present ;  all  confronted  ;  all  demanding 
Each  from  the  other's  countenance  the  thing 
Which  is  in  every  heart !    O,  misery ! 

[She  faints,  and  is  borne  out 

SAVELLA. 

She  faints  :  an  ill  appearance  this. 

BEATRICE. 

My  lord. 
She  knows  not  yet  the  uses  of  the  world. 
She  fears  that  power  is  as  a  beast  which  grasps 
And  loosens  not :  a  snake  whose  look  transmutes 
All  things  to  guilt  which  is  its  nutriment. 
She  cannot  know  how  well  the  supine  slaves 
Of  blind  authority  read  the  truth  of  things 
When  written  on  a  brow  of  guilelessness : 
She  sees  not  yet  triumphant  Innocence 
Stand  at  the  judgment-seat  of  mortal  man, 
A  judge  and  an  accuser  of  the  wrong 
Which  drags  it  there.    Prepare  yourself,  my  lord  , 
Our  suite  will  join  yours  in  the  court  below. 

[ExeunL 
318 


THE  CENCI. 


71 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. 

An  Aparlmenl  in  Orsino's  Palace. 

Enter  Orsino  and  Giacomo. 

GIACOMO. 

Do  evil  deeds  thus  quickly  come  to  end  ? 

O,  that  the  vain  remorse  which  must  chastise 

Crimes  done,  had  but  as  loud  a  voice  to  warn 

As  its  keen  sting  is  mortal  to  avenge ! 

O,  that  the  hour  when  present  had  cast  off 

The  mantle  of  its  mystery,  and  shown 

The  ghastly  form  with  wliich  it  now  returns 

When  its  scared  game  is  roused,  cheering  the  hounds 

Of  conscience  to  their  prey  I  Alas!  alas.' 

It  was  a  wicked  thought,  a  piteous  deed, 

To  kill  an  old  and  hoary-headed  father. 

ORSINO. 

It  has  turn'd  out  unluckily,  in  truth. 

GIACOMO. 

To  violate  the  sacred  doors  of  sleep ; 
To  cheat  kind  JNature  of  the  placid  death 
Which  she  prepares  for  over-wearied  age  ; 
To  drag  from  Heaven  an  unrepentant  soul, 
Which  might  have  quench'd  in  reconciling  prayers 
A  life  of  burning  crimes — 

ORSI.NO. 

You  cannot  say 
I  urged  you  to  the  deed. 

GIACOMO. 

O,  had  I  never 
Found  in  thy  smooth  and  ready  countenance 
The  mirror  of  my  darkest  thoughts ;  hadst  thou 
Never  with  hints  and  questions  made  me  look 
Upon  the  monster  of  my  thought,  until 
It  grew  famihar  to  desire — 

ORSI.\0. 

'Tis  thus 
Men  cast  the  blame  of  their  unprosperous  acts 
Upon  the  abettors  of  their  own  resolve, 
Or  any  thing  but  their  weak,  guilty  selves. 
And  yet,  confess  the  truth,  it  is  the  peril 
In  which  you  stand  that  gives  you  this  pale  sickness 
Of  penitence;  confess,  'tis  fear  disguised 
From  its  own  shame  that  takes  the  mantle  now 
Of  thin  remorse.    What  if  we  yet  were  safe  ? 

GIACOMO. 

How  can  that  be  ?    Already  Beatrice, 
Lucretia,  and  the  murderer,  are  in  prison. 
I  doubt  not  officers  are,  whilst  we  speak, 
Sent  to  arrest  us. 

ORSINO. 

I  have  all  prepared 
Foi  instant  flight.    We  can  escape  even  now, 
Sc  we  take  fleet  occasion  by  the  hair. 

GIACOMO. 

Rather  expire  in  tortures,  as  I  may. 

What !  will  you  cast  by  self-accusing  flight 

Assured  conviction  upon  Beatrice  ? 

She,  who  alone  in  this  unnatural  work, 

Stands  like  God's  angel  minister'd  upon 

By  fiends ;  avenging  such  a  nameless  wrong 

As  turns  black  parricide  to  piety ; 


Whilst  we  for  basest  ends — I  fear,  Orsino, 

While  I  consider  all  your  words  and  looks. 

Comparing  them  with  your  proposal  now. 

That  you  must  be  a  villain.    For  what  end 

Could  you  engage  in  such  a  perilous  crime, 

Training  me  on  with  hints,  and  signs,  and  smiles 

Even  to  this  gulf?  Thou  art  no  liar :  JNo, 

Thou  art  a  lie  I  traitor  and  murderer ! 

Coward  and  slave!  But, no — defend  thyself;  [Drawing 

Let  the  sword  speak  what  the  indignant  tongue 

Disdains  to  brand  thee  with. 


Put  up  your  weapon. 
Is  it  the  desperation  of  your  fear 
Makes  you  thus  rash  and  sudden  with  your  friend. 
Now  ruin'd  for  your  sake  ?  If  honest  anger 
Have  moved  you,  know,  that  what  I  just  proposed 
Was  but  to  try  you.    As  for  me,  I  think, 
Thankless  affection  led  me  to  this  point. 
From  which,  if  my  firm  temper  could  repent, 
I  cannot  now  recede.    Even  whilst  we  speak. 
The  ministers  of  justice  wait  below  : 
They  grant  me  these  brief  moments.    Now,  if  you 
Have  any  word  of  melancholy  comfort 
To  speak  to  your  pale  wife,  'twere  best  to  pass 
Out  at  the  postern,  and  avoid  them  so. 


Oh,  generous  friend  !  How  canst  thou  pardon  me  ? 
Would  that  my  life  could  purchase  thine  ! 

ORSINO. 

That  wish 
Now  comes  a  day  too  late.  Haste ;  fare  thee  well ! 
Hear'st  thou  not  steps  along  the  corridor  ? 

[Exit  GlACOMO 
I  'm  sorry  for  it ;  but  the  guards  are  waiting 
At  his  own  gate,  and  such  was  my  contrivance 
That  I  might  rid  me  both  of  him  and  them. 
I  thought  to  act  a  solemn  comedy 
Upon  the  painted  scene  of  this  new  world, 
And  to  attain  my  own  peculiar  ends 
By  some  such  plot  of  mingled  good  and  ill 
As  others  weave ;  but  there  arose  a  Power 
Which  grasp'd  and  snapp'd  the  threads  of  ray  device. 
And  turn'd  it  to  a  net  of  ruin — Ha ! 

[A  shout  is  heard. 
Is  that  my  name  I  hear  proclaim'd  abroad  ? 
But  I  will  pass,  wrapt  in  a  vile  disguise ; 
Rags  on  my  back,  and  a  false  innocence 
Upon  my  face,  through  the  misdeeming  crowd 
Which  judges  by  what  seems.    'Tis  easy  then 
For  a  new  name  and  for  a  country  new. 
And  a  new  life,  fashion'd  on  old  desires. 
To  change  the  honors  of  abandon'd  Rome. 
And  these  must  be  the  masks  of  that  within. 
Which  must  remain  unalter'd. — Oh,  I  fear 
That  what  is  pass'd  will  never  let  me  rest ! 
Why,  when  none  else  is  conscious,  but  myself. 
Of  my  misdeeds,  should  my  own  heart's  contempt 
Trouble  me  ?    Have  I  not  the  power  to  fly 
My  own  reproaches  ?   Shall  I  be  the  slave 
Of — what  ?  A  word  ?  which  those  of  this  false  world 
Employ  against  each  other,  not  themselves ; 
As  men  wear  daggers  not  for  self-offence. 
But  if  I  am  mistaken,  where  shall  I 
Find  the  disguise  to  hide  me  from  myself. 
As  now  I  skulk  from  every  other  eye  ?  [Exit. 

319 


72 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


SCENE  II. 

A  Hall  of  Justice. 

Camillo,  Judges,  etc.,  are  discovered  seated;  Marzio 
is  led  in. 

FIRST  JUDGE. 

Accused,  do  you  persist  in  your  denial  ? 

I  ask  you,  are  you  innocent,  or  guilty  ? 

I  demand  who  were  the  participators 

In  your  offence  ?    Speak  truth,  and  the  whole  truth. 

MARZIO. 

My  God !  I  did  not  kill  him  ;  I  know  nothing ; 
Olimpio  sold  the  robe  to  me  from  which 
You  would  infer  my  guilt. 

SECOND  JUDGE. 

Away  with  him ! 

FIRST  JUDGE. 

Dare  you,  with  lips  yet  white  from  the  rack's  kiss. 
Speak  false  ?    Is  it  so  soft  a  questioner. 
That  you  would  bandy  lover's  talk  with  it. 
Till  it  wind  out  your  life  and  soul  ?    Away  ! 

MARZIO. 

Spare  me  !    O,  spare  !    I  will  confess. 

FIRST  JUDGE. 

Then  speak. 

MARZIO. 

I  strangled  him  in  his  sleep. 

FIRST  JUDGE. 

Who  urged  you  to  it  ? 

MARZIO. 

His  own  son  Giacomo,  and  the  young  prelate 
Orsino  sent  me  to  Petrella ;  there 
The  ladies  Beatrice  and  Lucrefia 
Tempted  me  with  a  thousand  crowns,  and  I 
And  my  companion  forthwith  murder'd  him. 
Now  let  me  die. 

FIRST  JUDGE. 

This  sounds  as  bad  as  truth.    Guards,  there, 
Lead  forth  the  prisoners ! 

Enter  Lucretia,  Beatrice,  and  Giacomo,  guarded. 

Look  upon  this  man  ; 
When  did  you  see  him  last? 

BEATRICE. 

We  never  saw  him. 

MARZIO. 

You  know  me  too  well.  Lady  Beatrice. 

BEATRICE. 

I  know  thee !  How  ?  where  ?  when  ? 

MARZIO. 

You  know  'twas  I 
Whom  you  did  urge  with  menaces  and  bribes 
To  kill  your  father.    When  the  thing  was  done, 
You  clothed  me  in  a  robe  of  woven  gold 
And  bade  me  thrive :  how  I  have  thriven,  you  see. 
You,  my  lord  Giacomo,  Lady  Lucretia, 
You  know  that  what  I  speak  is  true. 

[Beatrice  advances  toivards  him ;  he  covers  his 
face,  and  shrinks  back. 

Oh,  dart 
The  terrible  resentment  of  those  eyes 
On  the  dread  earth !  Turn  them  away  from  me ! 
They  wound :  't  was  torture  forced  the  truth.  My  lords. 
Having  said  this,  let  me  be  led  to  death. 


BEATRICE. 

Poor  wretch !  I  pity  thee  :  yet  stay  awhile. 

CAMILLO. 

Guards,  lead  him  not  away 

BEATRICE. 

Cardinal  Camillo, 
You  have  a  good  repute  for  gentleness 
And  wisdom :  can  it  be  that  you  sit  here 
To  countenance  a  wicked  farce  like  this  ? 
When  some  obscure  and  trembling  slave  is  dragg'd 
From  sufferings  which  might  shake  the  sternest  heart 
And  bade  to  answer,  not  as  he  believes. 
But  as  those  may  suspect  or  do  desire, 
Whose  questions  thence  suggest  their  own  reply : 
And  that  in  peril  of  such  hideous  torments 
As  merciful  God  spares  even  the  damn'd.  Speak  now 
The  thing  you  surely  know,  which  is  that  you. 
If  your  fine  frame  were  stretch'd  upon  ihat  wheel. 
And  you  were  told.  Confess  that  you  did  poison 
Your  little  nephew :  that  fair  blue-eyed  child 
Who  was  the  load-star  of  your  life  ;  and  though 
All  see,  since  his  most  swift  and  piieous  death. 
That  day  and  night,  and  heaven  and  earth,  and  time 
And  all  things  hoped  for  or  done  therein 
Are  changed  to  you,  through  your  exceeding  grief, 
Yet  you  would  say,  I  confess  any  thing — 
And  beg  from  your  tormentors,  like  that  slave, 
The  refuge  of  dishonorable  death. 
I  pray  thee,  Cardinal,  that  thou  assert 
My  innocence. 

CAMILLO  {much  moved). 
What  shall  we  think,  my  lords  ? 
Shame  on  these  tears  !  I  thought  the  heart  was  frozen 
Which  is  their  fountain.    I  would  pledge  my  soui 
That  she  is  guiltless. 

JUDGE.  J 

Yet  she  must  be  tortured.         ■ 

CAMILLO. 

I  would  as  soon  have  tortured  mine  own  nephew 
(If  he  now  lived,  he  would  be  just  her  age ; 
His  hair,  too,  was  her  color,  and  his  eyes 
Like  hers  in  shape,  but  blue,  and  not  so  deep) ; 
As  that  most  perfect  image  of  God's  love 
That  ever  came  sorrounng  upon  the  earth. 
She  is  as  pure  as  speechless  infancy ! 

JUDGE. 

Well,  be  her  purity  on  your  head,  my  lord, 
If  you  forbid  the  rack.    His  Holiness 
Enjoin'd  us  to  pursue  this  monstrous  crime 
By  the  severest  forms  of  law  ;  nay  even 
To  stretch  a  point  against  the  criminals. 
The  prisoners  stand  accused  of  parricide, 
Upon  such  evidence  as  justifies 
Torture. 

BEATRICE. 

What  evidence  ?   This  man's  ? 

JUDGE. 

Even  so 

BEATRICE  (.to  MaRZIO). 

Come  near.    And  who  art  thou,  thus  chosen  forth 
Out  of  the  multitude  of  living  men 
To  kill  the  innocent  ? 


Thy  father's  vassal. 


MARZIO. 

I  am  Marzio, 


320 


THE  CENCI. 


73 


BEATRICE. 

Fix  thine  eyes  on  mine ; 
Answer  to  what  I  ask.  [Turning  to  the  Judges. 

I  pritliee  mark 
His  countenance :  unlike  bold  calumny 
Which  sometimes  dares  not  speak  the  thing  it  looks, 
He  dares  not  look  the  thing  he  speaks,  but  bends 
Hib  gaze  on  the  blind  earth. 

(To  Marzio.)  What!  wilt  thou  say 
That  I  did  murder  my  own  father  ? 

MARZIO. 

Oh! 
Spare  me  !  My  brain  swims  round — I  cannot  speak — 
It  was  that  horrid  torture  forced  the  truth 
Take  me  away!  Let  her  not  look  on  me ! 
I  am  a  guilty  miserable  wretch  ; 
I  have  said  all  I  know ;  now,  let  me  die ! 

BEATRICE. 

My  lords,  if  by  my  nature  I  had  been 

So  stern,  as  to  have  plann'd  the  crime  alleged, 

Which  your  suspicions  dictate  to  this  slave, 

And  the  rack  makes  him  utter,  do  you  think 

I  should  have  left  this  two-edged  instrument 

Of  my  misdeed ;  this  man,  this  bloody  knife 

With  my  own  name  engraven  on  the  heft, 

Lying  unsheathed  amid  a  world  of  foes. 

For  my  own  death?    That  with  such  horrible  need 

For  deepest  silence,  I  should  have  neglected 

So  trivial  a  precaution,  as  the  making 

His  tomb  the  keeper  of  a  secret  written 

On  a  thiefs  memory  ?  What  is  his  poor  life  ? 

Wliat  are  a  thousand  lives?  A  parricide 

Had  trampled  them  like  dust ;  and  see,  he  lives ! 

[Turning  to  Marzio. 
And  lliou — 

marzio. 
Oh,  spare  me  !  Speak  to  me  no  more ! 
That  stern  yet  piteous  look,  those  solemn  tones, 
Wound  worse  than  torture. 

{To  the  Judges).    I  have  told  it  all ; 
For  pity's  sake,  lead  me  away  to  death. 

CAMILLO. 

Guards,  lead  him  nearer  the  lady  Beatrice  : 
He  shrinks  from  her  regard  like  autumn's  leaf 
From  the  keen  breath  of  the  serenest  north. 

BEATRICE. 

Oh,  thou  who  tremblest  on  the  giddy  verge 
Of  life  and  death,  pause  ere  thou  answerest  me ; 
S(i  mayest  thou  answer  God  with  less  dismay : 
What  evil  have  we  done  thee?  I,  alas! 
Have  lived  but  on  this  earth  a  few  sad  years, 
And  so  my  lot  was  order'd  that  a  father 
First  turn'd  the  moments  of  awakening  life 
To  dni|w,  each  [loisoning  youth's  sweet  hope ;  and  then 
Stabb'd  Willi  one  blow  my  everlasting  soul ; 
And  my  untainted  fame;  and  even  that  peace 
Which  sleeps  within  the  core  of  the  heart's  heart. 
But  the  wound  was  not  mortal ;  so  my  hate 
Became  the  only  worship  I  could  lift 
To  our  great  I'aher,  who  in  pity  and  love, 
Arrn'd  thee,  as  thou  dost  say,  to  cut  him  off; 
And  thus  his  wrong  becomes  my  accusation: 
And  art  thou  the  a<-cuser  ?    If  thou  hopest 
Mercy  in  Heaven,  show  justice  upon  earth: 
Worse  than  a  bloody  hand  is  a  hard  heart. 
If  Ihou  hast  done  murders,  made  thy  hfe's  path 
2Q 


Over  the  trampled  laws  of  God  and  man, 

Rush  not  before  thy  Judge,  and  say :  "  My  Maker, 

I  have  done  this  and  more  ,•  for  there  was  one 

Who  was  most  pure  and  innocent  on  earth  ; 

And  because  she  endured  what  never  any 

Guilty  or  innocent  endured  before  ; 

Because  her  wrongs  could  not  be  told,  nor  thought , 

Because  thy  hand  at  length  did  rescue  her ; 

I  with  my  words  kill'd  her  and  all  her  kin." 

Think,  I  adjure  you,  what  it  is  to  slay 

The  reverence  living  in  the  minds  of  men 

Towards  our  ancient  house,  and  stainless  fame  I 

Think  what  it  is  to  strangle  infant  pity. 

Cradled  in  the  belief  of  guileless  looks, 

Till  it  become  a  crime  to  suffer.    Think 

What  'tis  to  blot  with  infamy  and  blood 

All  that  which  shows  like  innocence,  and  is, 

Hear  me,  great  God !  I  swear,  most  innocent, 

So  that  the  world  lose  all  discrimination 

Between  the  sly,  fierce,  wild  regard  of  guilt, 

And  that  which  now  compels  thee  to  reply 

To  what  I  ask :  Am  I,  or  am  I  not 

A  parricide  ? 

MARZIO. 

Thou  art  not ! 

JUDGE. 

What  is  this  ? 

MARZIO. 

I  here  declare  those  whom  I  did  accuse 
Are  iimocent.     'Tis  I  alone  am  guilty. 

JUDGE. 

Drag  him  away  to  torments ;  let  them  be 
Subtle  and  long  drawn  out,  to  tear  the  folds 
Of  the  heart's  inmost  cell.     Unbind  him  not 
Till  he  confess. 

MARZIO. 

Torture  me  as  ye  will : 
A  keener  pain  has  wrung  a  higher  truth 
From  my  last  breath.    She  is  most  innocent! 
Bloodhounds,  not  men,  glut  yourselves  well  with  me! 
I  will  not  give  you  that  fine  piece  of  nature 
To  rend  and  ruin. 

[Exit  Marzio,  guarded. 

CAMILLO. 

What  say  ye  now,  my  lords  ? 

JUDGE. 

Let  tortures  strain  the  truth  till  it  be  white 
As  snow  thrice-sifted  by  the  frozen  wind. 

CAMILLO. 

Yet  stain'd  with  blood. 

JUDGE  {to  Beatrice). 

Know  you  this  paper,  lady  ? 

BEATRICE. 

Entrap  me  not  with  questions.    Who  stands  here 
As  my  accuser?    Ha!  wilt  thou  be  he. 
Who  art  my  judge?    Accuser,  witness,  judge. 
What,  all  in  one  ?  Here  is  Orsino'.s  name  ; 
Where  is  Orsino  ?  Let  his  eye  meet  mine. 
What  means  this  scrawl  ?    Alas  !  ye  know  not  what, 
And  therefore  on  the  chance  that  it  may  be 
Some  evil,  will  ye  kill  us  ? 


Enter  an  Officer. 


OFFICER. 

Marzio 'a  dead. 
321 


n 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


JUDGE. 

What  did  he  say  ? 

OFFICER. 

Nothing.    As  soon  as  we 
Had  bound  him  on  the  wheel,  he  smiled  on  us, 
As  one  who  baffles  a  deep  adversary; 
And  holding  his  breath,  died. 

JUDGE. 

There  remains  nothing 
But  to  apply  the  question  to  those  prisoners, 
Who  yet  remain  stubborn. 

CAMILLO. 

I  overrule 
Further  proceedings,  and  in  the  behalf 
Of  these  most  innocent  and  noble  persons 
Will  use  my  interest  with  the  Holy  Father. 

JUDGE. 

Let  the  Pope's  pleasure  then  be  done.    Meanwliile 

Conduct  these  culprits  each  to  separate  cells; 

And  be  the  engines  ready  :  for  this  night. 

If  the  Pope's  resolution  be  as  grave, 

Pious  and  just  as  once,  I  '11  wring  the  truth 

Out  of  those  nerves  and  sinews,  groan  by  groan. 

[Exeunt. 


SCENE  in. 

The  Cell  of  a  Prison. 

Beatrice  is  discovered  asleep  on  a  couch. 

Enter  Bernardo. 

BERNARDO. 

How  gently  slumber  rests  upon  her  face! 

Like  the  last  thoughts  of  some  day  sweetly  spent 

Closing  in  night  and  dreams,  and  so  prolong'd. 

After  such  torments  as  she  bore  last  night, 

How  light  and  soft  her  breathing  comes !  Ah,  me ! 

Methinks  that  I  shall  never  sleep  again. 

But  I  must  shake  the  heavenly  dew  of  rest 

From  this  sweet  folded  flower,  thus — wake!  awake! 

What,  sister,  canst  thou  sleep? 

BEATRICE  ( awaking). 

I  was  just  dreaming 
That  we  were  all  in  Paradise.    Thou  knowest 
This  cell  seems  like  a  kind  of  Paradise 
After  our  father's  presence. 

BERNARDO. 

Dear,  dear  sister. 
Would  that  thy  dream  were  not  a  dream  !  O,  God! 
How  shall  I  tell  ? 

BEATRICE. 

What  wouldst  thou  tell,  sweet  brother  ? 

BERNARDO. 

Look  not  so  calm  and  happy,  or,  even  whilst 
I  stand  considering  what  I  have  to  say, 
My  heart  will  break. 

BEATRICE. 

See  now,  thou  makest  me  weep : 
How  very  friendless  thou  wouldst  be,  dear  child. 
If  I  were  dead  !  Say  what  thou  hast  to  say. 

BERNARDO. 

They  have  confess'd  ;  tliey  could  endure  no  more 
The  tortures — 

BEATRICE. 

Ha !  What  was  there  to  confess  ? 
They  must  have  told  some  weak  and  wicked  lie 


To  flatter  their  tormentors.    Have  they  said 
That  they  were  guilty  ?  O  white  Innocence ! 
That  thou  shouldst  wear  the  mask  of  guilt  to  hide 
Thme  awful  and  serenest  countenance 
From  those  who  know  thee  not ! 

Enter  Judge  mth  Lucretia  and  Giacomo,  guarded 

Ignoble  hearts ! 
For  some  brief  spasms  of  pain,  which  are  at  least 
As  mortal  as  the  limbs  through  v^hich  they  pass, 
Are  centuries  of  high  splendor  laid  in  dust  ? 
And  that  eternal  honor  which  should  live 
Sunlike,  above  the  reek  of  mortal  fame. 
Changed  to  a  mockery  and  a  byword  ?  What' 
Will  you  give  up  these  bodies  to  be  dragg'd 
At  horses'  heels,  so  that  our  hair  should  sweep 
The  footsteps  of  the  vain  and  senseless  crowd. 
Who,  that  they  may  make  our  calamity 
Their  worship  and  their  spectacle,  will  leave 
The  churches  and  the  theatres  as  void 
As  their  own  hearts  ?  Shall  the  light  multitude 
Fling,  at  their  choice,  curses  or  faded  pity. 
Sad  funeral  flowers  to  deck  a  living  corpse, 
Upon  us  as  we  pass  to  pass  away. 
And  leave — what  memory  of  our  having  been  ? 
Infamy,  blood,  terror,  despair  ?  O  thou. 
Who  vvert  a  mother  to  the  parentless, 
Kill  not  thy  child  !  Let  not  her  wrongs  kill  thee ! 
Brother,  lie  down  with  me  upon  the  rack, 
And  let  us  each  be  silent  as  a  corpse ; 
It  soon  will  be  as  soft  as  any  grave. 
'T  is  but  the  falsehood  it  can  wring  from  fear 
Makes  the  rack  cruel. 

GIACOMO. 

They  will  tear  the  truth 
Even  from  thee  at  last,  those  cruel  pains : 
For  pity  's  sake,  say  thou  art  guilty  now. 

LUCRETIA. 

O,  speak  the  truth  !  Let  us  all  quickly  die  ; 
And  after  death,  God  is  our  judge,  not  they; 
He  will  have  mercy  on  us. 

BERNARDO. 

If  indeed 
It  can  be  true,  say  so,  dear  sister  mine  ; 
And  then  the  Pope  will  surely  pardon  you, 
And  all  be  well. 

JUDGE. 

Confess,  or  I  will  warp 
Your  limbs  with  such  keen  tortures — 

BEATRICE. 

Tortures'  Turn 
The  rack  henceforth  into  a  spinning-wheel ! 
Torture  your  dog,  that  he  may  tell  when  last 
He  lapp'd  the  blood  his  master  shed — not  me  ! 
My  pangs  are  of  the  mind,  and  of  the  heart, 
And  of  the  soul ;  ay,  of  the  mmost  soul, 
Which  weeps  within  tears  as  of  burning  gall 
To  see,  in  this  ill  world  where  none  are  true. 
My  kindred  false  to  their  deserted  selves, 
And  with  considering  all  the  wretched  life 
Which  I  have  lived,  and  its  now  wretched  end. 
And  the  small  justice  shown  by  Heaven  and  Earth 
To  me  or  mine ;  and  what  a  tyrant  thou  art. 
And  what  slaves  these ;  and  what  a  world  we  make 
The  oppressor  and  the  oppress'd— such  pangs  compel 
My  answer.    What  is  it  thou  wouldst  with  me  ? 
322 


THE  CENCL 


75 


JUDGE. 

Art  thou  not  guilty  of  thy  father's  death  ? 

BEATRICE. 

Or  wit  thou  rather  tax  high-judging  God 

That  he  permitted  such  an  act  as  that 

Which  I  have  sutTer'd,  and  which  he  beheld ; 

Made  it  unutterable,  and  took  from  it 

All  refuge,  all  revenge,  all  consequence. 

But  that  which  thou  hast  call'd  my  father's  death  ? 

Which  is  or  is  not  what  men  call  a  crime. 

Which  either  I  have  done,  or  have  not  done  ; 

Say  what  ye  will.     I  shall  deny  no  more. 

If  ye  desire  it  thus,  thus  let  it  be. 

And  so  an  end  of  all.     Now  do  your  will ; 

No  other  pains  shall  force  another  v.ord. 

JUDGE. 

She  is  convicted,  but  has  not  confess'd. 

Be  it  enough.     Until  their  final  sentence 

Let  none  have  converse  with  them.  You,  yoimg  lord, 

Linger  not  here ! 

BEATRICE. 

O,  tear  him  not  away ! 

JUDGE. 

Guards !  do  your  duty. 

BERNARDO  {embracing  Beatrice). 

Oh !  would  ye  divide 
Body  from  soul  ? 

OFFICER. 

That  is  the  headsman's  business. 
[Exeunt  all  but  Lucretia,  Beatrice  and  Giacomo 

GIACOMO. 

Have  I  confess'd  ?    Is  it  all  over  now  ? 

No  hope  !  No  refuge  !  O,  weak,  wicked  tongue 

Which  hast  desiroy'd  me,  would  that  tliou  hadst  been 

Cut  out  and  thrown  to  dogs  firet !    To  have  kill'd 

My  father  first,  and  then  betray 'd  my  sister ; 

Ay,  thee !  the  one  thing  innocent  and  pure 

In  this  black  guilty  world,  to  that  which  I 

So  well  deserve  I    My  wife  .'  my  little  ones ! 

Destitute,  helpless;  and  I — Father!  Cod! 

Canst  thou  forgive  even  the  unforgiving. 

When  their  full  hearts  break  thus,  thus  I — 

[Covers  his  face  and  weeps. 

LUCRETIA. 

O,  my  child  I 
To  what  a  dreadful  end  are  we  all  come! 
Why  did  I  yield  ?    Why  did  I  not  sustain 
Those  torments  ?   Oh  !  that  I  were  all  dissolved 
Into  these  fast  and  unavailing  tears, 
Wluch  flow  and  feel  not ! 

BEATRICE. 

What  't  was  weak  to  do, 
'Tis  weaker  to  lament,  once  being  done  ; 
Take  cheer!    The  God  who  knew  my  wrong,  and 

made 
Our  speedy  act  the  angel  of  his  wrath. 
Seems,  and  but  seems  to  have  abandon'd  us. 
I^t  us  not  think  that  we  shall  die  for  tliis. 
Brother,  sit  near  me ;  give  me  your  firm  hand. 
You  had  a  manly  heart.     Bear  up!  bear  up! 
Oh !  dearest  Lady,  put  your  gentle  head 
Upon  my  lap,  and  try  to  sleep  awhile : 
Your  eyes  look  pale,  hollow,  and  overworn. 
With  heaviness  of  watching  and  slow  grief 
Come,  1  will  sing  you  some  low,  sleepy  tune, 
Not  cheerful,  nor  yet  sad  ;  some  dull  old  thing, 
Some  outworn  and  unused  old  monotony, 


Such  as  our  country  gossips  sing  and  spin, 
Till  they  almost  forget  they  live:  lie  down! 
So,  that  will  do.     Have  I  forgot  the  words  ? 
Faith  !  they  are  sadder  than  I  thought  they  were 

SONG. 
False  friend,  wilt  thou  smile  or  weep 
When  my  life  is  laid  asleep  ? 
Little  cares  ibr  a  smile  or  a  tear, 
The  clay-cold  corpse  u^wn  the  bier ! 

Farewell !  Heigh  ho  I 

What  is  this  whisper  low  ? 
There  is  a  snake  in  thy  smile,  my  dear  ; 
And  bitter  poison  within  thy  tear. 

Sweet  Sleep !  were  Death  like  to  thee, 
Or  if  thou  couldst  mortal  be, 
I  would  close  these  eyes  of  pain ; 
When  to  wake  ?    Never  again. 

O  World  !  farewell ! 

Listen  to  the  passing  bell ! 
It  says,  thou  and  I  must  part, 
With  a  light  and  a  heavy  heart. 

[  The  scne  closes. 


SCENE  IV. 


A  Hall  of  the  Prison. 
Enter  Camillo  and  Bernardo. 

CAMiLLO. 

The  Pope  is  stem ;  not  to  be  moved  or  bent. 

He  look'd  as  calm  and  keen  as  is  the  engine 

Which  tortures  and  which  Idlls,  exempt  il-self 

From  aught  that  it  inflicts ;  a  marble  form, 

A  rile,  a  law,  a  custom :  not  a  man. 

He  frown'd,  as  if  to  frown  had  been  the  trick 

Of  his  machinery,  on  the  advocates 

Presenting  the  defences,  which  he  tore 

And  threw  behind,  muttering  with  hoarse,  harsh  voice 

"  Which  among  ye  defended  their  old  father 

Kill'd  in  his  sleep?"    Then  to  another:  "Thou 

Dost  this  in  virtue  of  thy  place;  'tis  well." 

He  turn'd  to  me  then,  looking  deprecation, 

And  said  these  three  words,  coldly  :  "They  must  die.' 

BERNARDO. 

And  yet  you  left  him  not  ? 

CAMILLO. 

I  urged  him  still ; 
Pleading,  as  I  could  guess,  the  devilish  wrong 
Which  prompted  your  unnatural  parent's  death: 
And  he  replied,  "  Paolo  Sania  Croce 
Murder'd  his  mother  yester-evening, 
And  he  is  fled.     Parricide  grows  so  rife 
That  soon,  for  some  ju.sl  cause  no  doubt,  the  young 
Will  strangle  us  all,  dozing  in  our  chairs. 
Authority,  and  power,  and  hoary  hair 
Are  grown  crimes  capital.     You  are  my  nephew. 
You  come  to  ask  their  pardon  ;  stay  a  moment ; 
Here  is  their  sentence  ;  never  see  me  more 
Till,  10  the  letter,  it  be  all  fulfill'd." 

BERNARDO. 

O,  God,  not  so !  I  did  believe  indeed 
That  all  you  said  was  hut  sad  preparation 
For  happy  news.     O,  there  are  words  and  looks 
To  bend  the  sternest  purpose !  Once  I  knew  them, 
323 


76 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Now  I  forget  them  at  my  dearest  need. 

What  think  you  if  I  seek  him  out,  and  bathe 

His  feet  and  robe  with  hot  and  bitter  tears  ? 

Importune  him  with  prayers,  vexing  his  brain 

With  my  perpetual  cries,  until  in  rage 

He  strike  me  with  his  pastoral  cross,  and  trample 

Upon  my  prostrate  head,  so  that  my  blood 

May  stain  the  senseless  dust  on  which  he  treads, 

And  remorse  waken  mercy  ?  I  will  do  it ! 

O,  wait  till  I  return !  '   [Rushes  out. 

CAMILLO. 

Alas !  poor  boy ! 
A  wreck-devoted  seaman  thus  might  pray 
To  the  deaf  sea. 

Enter  Lucretia,  Beatrice  and  Giacomo,  guarded. 

BEATRICE. 

I  hardly  dare  to  fear 

That  thou  bring'st  other  news  than  a  just  pardon. 

CAMILLO. 

May  God  in  heaven  be  less  inexorable 

To  the  Pope's  prayers,  than  he  has  been  to  mine. 

Here  is  the  sentence  and  the  warrant. 


BEATRICE  (wildly). 


Oh, 


My  God  !    Can  it  be  possible  I  have 

To  die  so  suddenly !  So  young  to  go 

Under  the  obscure,  cold,  rotting,  wormy  ground ! 

To  be  nail'd  down  into  a  narrow  place ; 

To  see  no  more  sweet  sunshine  ;  hear  no  more 

Blithe  voice  of  living  thing  ;  muse  not  again 

Upon  familiar  thoughts,  sad,  yet  thus  lost. 

How  fearful  I  to  be  nothing  !  or  to  be — 

What  ?  O,  where  am  I  ?  Let  me  not  go  mad  ! 

Sweet  Heaven,  forgive  weak  thoughts !    if  there 

should  be 
No  God,  no  Heaven,  no  Earth  in  the  void  world  ; 
The  wide,  gray,  lampless,  deep  unpeopled  world  ! 
If  all  things  then  should  be — my  father's  spirit 
His  eye,  his  voice,  his  touch  surrounding  me  ; 
The  atmosphere  and  breath  of  my  dead  life ! 
If  sometimes,  as  a  shape  more  like  himself. 
Even  the  form  wliich  tortured  me  on  earth, 
Mask'd  in  gray  hairs  and  wrinkles,  he  should  come 
And  wind  me  in  his  hellish  arms,  and  fix 
His  eyes  on  mine,  and  drag  me  down,  down,  down! 
For  was  he  not  alone  omnipotent 
On  Earth,  and  ever  present?  even  though  dead, 
Does  not  his  spirit  live  in  all  that  breathe. 
And  work  for  me  and  mine  still  the  same  ruin, 
Scorn,  pain,  despair  ?  Wlio  ever  yet  retum'd 
To  teach  the  laws  of  death's  untrodden  realm  ? 
Unjust  perhaps  as  those  which  drive  us  now, 
O,  whither,  whither  ? 

LUCRETIA. 

Trust  in  God's  sweet  love, 
The  tender  promises  of  Christ :  ere  night 
Think  we  .shall  be  in  Paradise. 

BEATRICE. 

'T is  past! 
Whatever  comes  my  heart  shall  sink  no  more. 
And  yet,  I  knovv  not  why,  your  words  strike  chill : 
How  tedious,  false  and  cold  seem  all  things.     I 
Have  met  with  mucii  injustice  in  this  world ; 
No  difference  has  been  made  by  God  or  man, 
Or  any  power  moulding  my  wretched  lot, 
'Twixt  good  or  evil,  as  regarded  me. 


I  am  cut  off  from  the  only  world  1  know. 

From  light,  and  life,  and  love,  in  youth's  sweet  prime. 

You  do  well  telling  me  to  trust  in  God, 

I  hope  I  do  trust  in  him.     In  whom  else 

Can  any  trust  ?    And  yet  my  heart  is  cold. 

[During  the  latter  speeches  Giacomo  has  retired 

conversing  with  Camillo,  who  now  goes  out 

Giacomo  advances. 

giacomo. 
Know  you  not.  Mother — Sister,  know  you  not  ? 
Bernardo  even  now  has  gone  to  implore 
The  Pope  to  grant  our  pardon. 

lucretia. 

Child,  perhaps 
It  will  be  granted.     We  may  all  then  live 
To  make  these  woes  a  tale  for  distant  years  : 
O,  what  a  thought !  It  gushes  to  my  heart 
Like  the  warm  blood. 

BEATRICE. 

Yet  both  will  soon  be  cold. 
O,  trample  out  that  thought!    Worse  than  despair, 
Worse  than  the  bitterness  of  death,  is  hope : 
It  is  the  only  ill  which  can  find  place 
Upon  the  giddy,  sharp  and  narrow  hour 
Tottering  beneath  us.     Plead  with  the  swift  frost 
That  it  should  spare  the  eldest  flower  of  spring : 
Plead  with  awakening  Earthquake,  o'er  whose  couch 
Even  now  a  city  stands,  strong,  fair,  and  free  ; 
Now  stench  and  blackness  yawns,  like  death.    O 

plead 
With  famine,  or  wind-walking  Pestilence, 
Blind  lightning,  or  the  deaf  sea,  not  with  man ! 
Cruel,  cold,  formal  man ;  righteous  in  words, 
In  deeds  a  Cain.     No,  mother,  we  must  die : 
Since  such  is  the  reward  of  innocent  lives; 
Such  the  alleviation  of  worst  wrongs. 
And  whilst  our  murderers  live,  and  hard,  cold  men, 
SmiHng  and  slow,  walk  through  a  world  of  tears 
To  death  as  to  life's  sleep;  'twere  just  the  grave 
Were  some  strange  joy  for  us.  Come,  obscure  Death 
And  wind  me  in  thine  all-embracing  arms  ! 
Like  a  fond  mother  hide  me  in  thy  bosom, 
And  rock  me  to  the  sleep  from  which  none  wake. 
Live  ye,  who  live,  subject  to  one  another 
As  we  were  once,  who  now — 

Bernardo  rushes  in. 

BERNARDO. 

Oh,  horrible  I 
That  tears,  that  looks,  that  hope  pour'd  forth  in  prayer 
Even  till  the  heart  is  vacant  and  despairs. 
Should  all  be  vain  !  The  ministers  of  death 
Are  waiting  round  the  doors.     I  thought  I  saw 
Blood  on  the  face  of  one — what  if  't  were  fancy  7 
Soon  the  heart's  blood  of  all  I  love  on  earth 
Will  sprinkle  him,  and  he  will  wipe  it  off 
As  if  'twere  only  rain.     O,  life!  O,  world! 
Cover  me!  let  me  be  no  more!   To  see 
That  perfect  mirror  of  pure  innocence 
Wherein  I  gazed,  and  grew  happy  and  good, 
Shiver'd  to  dust!    To  see  thee,  Beatrice, 
Who  made  all  lovely  thou  didst  look  upon — 
Thee,  light  of  life— dead,  dark !  while  I  say,  sister 
To  hear  I  have  no  sister;  and  thou,  mother, 
Whose  love  was  as  a  bond  to  all  our  loves — 
Dead !    The  sweet  bond  broken ! 

324 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


77 


Eiiter  Camillo  mid  Guards. 

They  come !  Let  me 
Kiss  those  warm  lips  before  their  crimson  leaves 
Are  blighted — white — cold.     Say  farewell,  before 
Death  chokes  that  gentle  voice !  O  let  me  hear 
You  speak ! 

BEATRICE. 

Farewell,  my  tender  brother.     Think 
Of  our  old  fate  with  gentleness,  as  now  : 
And  let  mild,  pitying  thoughts  lighten  for  thee 
Thy  sorrow's  load.     Err  not  in  harsh  despair, 
But  tears  and  patience.     One  thing  more,  my  child. 
For  thine  own  sake  be  constant  to  the  love 
Thou  bearest  us ;  and  to  the  faith  that  I, 
Though   wrapt   in   a   strange    cloud   of  crime  and 

shame. 
Lived  ever  holy  and  unstain'd.     And  though 
111  tongues  shall  wound  me,  and  our  common  name 
Be  as  a  mark  stamp'd  on  thine  innocent  brow 


For  men  to  point  at  as  they  pass,  do  thou 

Forbear,  and  never  think  a  thought  unkind 

Of  those  who  perhaps  love  thee  in  their  graves. 

So  mayest  thou  die  as  I  do  ;  fear  and  pain 

Being  subdued.     Farewell!  Farewell!  Farewell! 

BEllNARDO. 

I  cannot  say  farewell ! 

CAMILLO. 

O,  Lady  Beatrice  ! 

BEATRICE. 

Give  yourself  no  unnecessary  pain, 

My  dear  Lord  Cardinal.     Here,  mother,  tie 

My  girdle  for  me,  and  bind  up  this  hair 

In  any  simple  knot ;  ay,  that  does  well. 

And  yours  I  see  is  coming  down.     How  often 

Have  we  done  this  for  one  another !  now 

We  shall  not  do  it  any  more.     My  Lord, 

We  are  quite  ready.     Well,  'tis  very  well. 


A  LYRICAL  DRAMA,  IN  FOUR  ACTS. 

Audisne  haec,  Amphiarae,  sub  tenam  abdite? 


PREFACE. 


The  Greek  tragic  writers,  in  selecting  as  their  subject 
any  portion  of  their  national  history  or  mythology, 
employed  in  their  treatment  of  it  a  certain  arbitrary 
discretion.  They  by  no  means  conceived  themselves 
bound  to  adhere  to  the  common  interpretation,  or  to 
imitate  in  story  as  in  title  their  rivals  and  predeces- 
sors. Such  a  system  would  have  amounted  to  a 
resignation  of  those  claims  to  preference  over  their 
competitors  which  incited  the  composition.  The 
Agamemnonian  story  was  exhibited  on  the  Athenian 
theatre  with  as  many  variations  as  dramas. 

I  have  presumed  to  employ  a  similar  license.  The 
"  Prometheus  Unbound"  of  ^schylus  supposed  the 
reconciliation  of  Jupiter  with  his  victim  as  the  price 
of  the  disclosure  of  the  danger  threatened  to  his 
empire  by  the  consummation  of  his  marriage  with 
Thetis.  Thetis,  according  to  this  view  of  the  subject, 
was  given  in  marriage  to  Peleus,  and  Prometheus, 
by  the  permission  of  Jupiter,  delivered  frem  his  cap- 
tivity by  Hercules.  Had  1  framed  my  story  on  this 
model,  I  should  have  done  no  more  than  have  at- 
tempted to  restore  the  lost  drama  of  iEschylus ;  an 
ambition,  which,  if  my  preference  to  this  mode  of 
treating  the  subject  had  incited  me  to  cherish,  the 
recollection  of  the  high  comparison  such  an  attempt 
would  challenge  might  well  abate.  But,  in  truth,  1 
was  averse  from  a  catastrophe  so  feeble  as  that  of 
reconciling  the  Champion  with  the  Oppressor  of  man 
kind.  The  moral  interest  of  the  fable,  which  is  so 
powerfully  sustained  by  the  sufferings  and  endurance 
of  Prometheus,  would  be  annihilated  if  we  could 
conceive  of  him  as  unsaying  his  high  language  and 
quailing  before  liis  successful  and  perlidioua  adver- 


sary. The  only  imaginary  being  resembling  in  any 
degree  Prometheus,  is  Satan  ;  and  Prometheus  is,  in 
my  judgment,  a  more  poetical  character  than  Satan 
because,  in  addition  to  courage,  and  majesty,  and  firm 
and  patient  opposition  to  omnipotent  force,  he  is  sus- 
ceptible of  being  described  as  exempt  from  the  taints 
of  ambition,  envy,  revenge,  and  a  desire  for  personal 
aggrandizement,  which,  in  the  Hero  of  Paradise  Lost, 
interfere  with  the  interest.  The  character  of  Satan 
engenders  in  the  mind  a  pernicious  casuistry,  which 
leads  us  to  weigh  his  faults  with  his  wrongs,  and  to 
excuse  the  former  because  the  latter  exceed  all  mea- 
sure. In  the  minds  of  those  who  consider  that  mag- 
nificent fiction  with  a  religious  feeling,  it  engenders 
something  worse.  But  Prometheus  is,  as  it  were, 
the  type  of  the  highest  perfection  of  moral  and  intel- 
lectual nature,  impelled  by  the  purest  and  the  truest 
motives  to  the  best  and  noblest  ends. 

This  Poem  was  chiefly  written  upon  the  mountain 
ous  ruins  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla,  among  the 
(lowery  glades,  and  thickets  of  odoriferous  blossom- 
ing trees,  which  are  extended  in  ever-winding  laby- 
rinths upon  its  immense  platforms  and  dizzy  arches 
suspended  in  the  air.  The  bright  blue  sky  of  Rome, 
and  the  effect  of  the  vigorous  awakening  spring  in 
that  divinest  climate,  and  the  new  life  with  which  it 
drenches  the  spirits  even  to  intoxication,  were  the 
inspiration  of  this  drama. 

The  imagery  which  I  have  employed  will  be 
found,  in  many  iastances,  to  have  been  drawn  from 
the  operations  of  the  human  mind,  or  from  those  ex- 
ternal actions  by  which  they  are  expressed.  This  is 
unusual  in  modern  poetry,  although  Dante  and  Shak- 
speare  are  full  of  instances  of  the  same  kind:  Dante 
indeed  more  than  any  other  poet,  and  with  greater 
[success.  But  the  Greek  poets,  as  writers  to  whom  no 
43  325 


78 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


resource  of  awakening  the  sympathy  of  their  con- 
temporaries was  unknown,  were  in  the  habitual  use 
of  this  power ;  and  it  is  the  study  of  their  works 
(since  a  higher  merit  would  probably  be  denied  me), 
to  which  I  am  willing  that  my  readers  should  impute 
this  singularity. 

One  word  is  due  in  candor  to  the  degree  in  which 
the  study  of  contemporary  writings  may  have  tinged 
my  composition,  for  such  has  been  a  topic  of  censure 
with  regard  to  poems  far  more  popular,  and  indeed 
more  deservedly  popular,  than  mine.  It  is  impossible 
that  any  one  who  inhabits  the  same  age  with  such 
Avriters  as  those  who  stand  in  the  foremost  ranks  of 
our  own,  can  conscientiously  assure  himself  that  his 
language  and  tone  of  thought  may  not  have  been 
modified  by  the  study  of  the  productions  of  those  ex- 
traordinary intellects.  It  is  true,  that,  not  the  spirit 
of  their  genius,  but  the  forms  in  which  it  has  mani- 
fested itself,  are  due  less  to  the  peculiarities  of  their 
own  minds  than  to  the  peculiarity  of  the  moral  and 
intellectual  condition  of  the  minds  among  which  they 
have  been  produced.  Thus  a  number  of  writers 
possess  the  form,  whilst  they  want  the  spirit  of  those 
whom,  it  is  alleged,  they  imitate  ;  because  the  former 
is  the  endowment  of  the  age  in  which  they  live,  and 
the  latter  must  be  the  imconimunicated  lightning  of 
their  own  mind. 

The  peculiar  style  of  intense  and  comprehensive 
imagery  which  distinguishes  the  modern  literature 
of  England,  has  not  been,  as  a  general  power,  the 
product  of  the  imitation  of  any  particular  writer. 
The  mass  of  capabilities  remains  at  every  period 
materially  the  same ;  the  circumstances  which  awaken 
it  to  action  perpetually  change.  If  England  were 
divided  into  forty  republics,  each  equal  in  population 
and  extent  to  Athens,  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose 
but  that,  under  institutions  not  more  perfect  than 
those  of  Athens,  each  would  produce  philosophers 
Tind  poets  equal  to  those  who  (if  we  except  Shak- 
speare)  have  never  been  surpassed.  We  owe  the 
great  writers  of  the  golden  age  of  our  literature  to 
<hat  fervid  awakening  of  the  public  mind  which 
fihook  to  dust  the  oldest  and  most  oppressive  form  of 
the  Christian  religion.  We  owe  Milton  to  the  pro- 
■gress  and  development  of  the  same  spirit :  the  sacred 
Milton  was,  let  it  ever  be  remembered,  a  republican, 
and  a  bold  inquirer  into  morals  and  religion.  The 
great  writers  of  our  own  age  are,  we  have  reason 
to  suppose,  the  companions  and  forerunners  of  some 
unimagined  change  in  our  social  condition  or  the 
opinions  which  cement  it.  The  cloud  of  mind  is 
discharging  its  collected  lightning,  and  the  equilib- 
rium between  institutions  and  opinions  is  now  re- 
storing, or  is  about  to  be  restored. 

As  to  imitation,  poetry  is  a  mimetic  art.  It  creates, 
but  it  creates  by  combination  and  representation. 
Poetical  abstractions  are  beautiful  and  new,  not  be- 
cause the  portions  of  which  they  are  composed  had 
no  previous  existence  in  the  mind  of  man  or  in  nature, 
but  because  the  whole  produced  by  their  combination 
has  some  intelligible  and  beautiful  analogy  with  those 
sources  of  emotion  and  thought,  and  with  the  con- 
temporary condition  of  them :  one  great  poet  is  a 
masterpiece  of  nature,  which  another  not  only  ought 
to  study  but  must  study.  He  might  as  wisely  and  as 
ensily  determine  that  his  mind  should  no  longer  be 


the  mirror  of  all  that  is  lovely  in  the  visible  universe, 
as  exclude  from  his  contemplation  fhe  beautiful  which 
exists  in  the  vkritings  of  a  great  contemporary.  The 
pretence  of  doing  it  would  be  a  presumption  in  any 
but  the  greatest ;  the  effect,  even  in  him,  would  be 
strained,  unnatural,  and  ineffectual.  A  poet  is  the 
combined  product  of  such  internal  powers  as  modify 
the  nature  of  others;  and  of  such  external  influences 
as  excite  and  sustain  these  powers ;  he  is  not  one, 
but  both.  -  Every  man's  mind  is,  in  this  respect, 
modified  by  all  the  objects  of  nature  and  art ;  by 
every  word  and  every  suggestion  which  he  ever  ad- 
mitted to  act  upon  his  consciousness;  it  is  the  mirror 
upon  which  all  forms  are  reflected,  and  in  which 
they  compose  one  form.  Poets,  not  otherwise  than 
philosophers,  painters,  sculptors,  and  musicians,  are, 
in  one  sense,  the  creators,  and  in  another,  the  cre- 
ations, of  their  age.  From  this  subjection  the  loftiest 
do  not  escape.  There  is  a  similarity  between  Homer 
and  Hesiod,  between  ^schylus  and  Euripides,  be- 
tween Virgil  and  Horace,  between  Dante  and  Pe- 
trarch, between  Shakspeare  and  Fletcher,  between 
Dryden  and  Pope ;  each  has  a  generic  resemblance 
under  which  their  specific  distinctions  are  arranged. 
If  this  similarity  be  the  result  of  imitation,  I  am  will- 
ing to  confess  that  I  have  imitated. 

Let  this  opportunity  be  conceded  to  me  of  ac- 
knowledging that  I  have,  what  a  Scotch  philosopher 
characteristically  terms,  "  a  passion  for  reforming  the 
world  :"  what  passion  incited  him  to  write  and  pub- 
lish his  book,  he  omits  to  explain.  For  my  part,  I 
had  rather  be  damned  with  Plato  and  Lord  Bacon, 
than  go  to  Heaven  with  Paley  and  Malthus.  But  it 
is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  I  dedicate  my  poetical 
compositions  solely  to  the  direct  enforcement  of  re- 
form, or  that  I  consider  them  in  any  degree  as  con- 
taining a  reasoned  system  on  the  theory  of  human 
life.  Didactic  poetry  is  my  abhorrence  ;  nothing  can 
be  equally  well  expressed  in  prose  that  is  not  tedious 
and  supererogatory  in  verse.  My  purpose  has  hitherto 
been  simply  to  familiarize  the  highly  refined  imagi- 
nation of  the  more  select  classes  of  poetical  readers 
with  beautiful  idealisms  of  moral  excellence ;  aware 
that  until  the  mind  can  love,  and  admire,  and  trust, 
and  hope,  and  endure,  reasoned  principles  of  moral 
conduct  are  seeds  cast  upon  the  highway  of  life, 
which  the  unconscious  passenger  tramples  into  dust, 
although  they  would  bear  the  harvest  of  his  happi- 
ness. Should  I  live  to  accomplish  what  I  purpose, 
that  is,  produce  a  systematical  history  of  what  ap- 
pear to  me  to  be  the  genuine  elements  of  human  so- 
ciety, let  not  the  advocates  of  injustice  and  super- 
stition flatter  themselves  that  I  should  take  ^schylus 
rather  than  Plato  as  my  model. 

The  having  spoken  of  myself  with  unaffected  free- 
dom will  need  little  apology  with  the  candid ;  and 
let  the  uncandid  coasider  that  they  injure  me  less 
than  their  own  hearts  and  minds  by  misrepresenta- 
tion. Whatever  talents  a  person  may  possess  to 
amuse  and  instruct  others,  be  they  ever  so  inconsider- 
able, he  is  yet  bound  to  exert  them :  if  his  attempt 
be  ineffectual,  let  the  punishment  of  an  unaccom- 
plished purpose  have  been  sufficient;  let  none  trouble 
themselves  to  heap  the  dust  of  oblivion  upon  his 
eflorLs ;  the  pile  they  raise  will  betray  his  grave, 
wliicli  might  otherwise  have  been  unknown. 
32G 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


79 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


Prometheus. 

DEiMOGORGON. 

Jupiter. 

The  Earth. 

Ocean. 

Apollo. 

Mercury. 

Hercules. 

Asia,  i 

Panthea,  >  Oceanides. 

lONE,  3 

The  Phantasm  of  Jupiter. 
The  Spirit  of  the  Earth. 
Spirits  of  the  Hours. 
Spirits.     Echoes.     Fawns. 
Furies. 


PR03IETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


ACT  I. 

Scene,  a  Ravine  of  Icy  Rocks  in  the  Indian  Cauca- 
sus. Prometheus  is  discovered  bound  to  the  Preci- 
pice. Panthea  and  Ione  are  seated  at  his  feet. 
Time,  Night.  During  the  Scene,  Morning  slowly 
b;  eaks. 

Prometheus. 

Monarch  of  Gods  and  Demons,  and  all  Spirits 
But  One,  who  throng  those  bright  and  rolling  worlds 
Which  Thou  and  I  alone  of  living  things 
Behold  with  sleepless  eyes !  regard  this  Earth, 
Made  niulritudinous  with  thy  slaves,  whom  thou 
Requilest  for  knee-worship,  prayer,  and  praise, 
And  toil,  and  hecatombs  of  broken  hearts. 
With  fear  and  self-contempt  and  barren  hope. 
Whilst  me,  who  am  thy  foe,  eyeless  in  hate. 
Hast  thou  made  reign  and  triumph,  to  thy  scorn, 
O'er  mine  own  misery  and  thy  vain  revenge. 
Three  thousand  years  of  sleep-unshelter'd  hours, 
And  moments  aye  divided  by  keen  pangs 
Till  they  seem'd  years,  torture  and  solitude, 
Scorn  and  despair, — these  are  mine  empire. 
More  glorious  far  than  that  which  thou  surveyest 
From  Ihine  unenvied  throne,  O,  Mighty  God ! 
Almighty,  had  I  deign'd  to  share  the  shame 
Of  thine  ill  tyranny,  and  hung  not  here 
Kail'd  to  this  wall  of  eagle-baffling  mountain, 
Black,  wintry,  dead,  unmeasured  ;  without  herb. 
Insect,  or  beast,  or  shape  or  sound  of  life. 
Ah  me,  alas!  pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever! 

No  change,  no  pause,  no  hope !    Yet  I  endure. 
1  ask  the  F.arth,  have  not  the  mountains  felt? 
I  ask  yon  Heaven,  the  all-beholding  Sun, 
Has  it  not  seen  ?    The  Sea,  in  storm  or  calm. 
Heaven's  ever-changing  Sh.ndow,  spread  below. 
Have  its  c'eaf  waves  not  heard  my  agony  ? 
Ah  me!  alas,  pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever! 

The  crawling  glaciers  pierce  me  with  the  spears 
Of  their  moon-freezing  crystals ;  the  bright  chains 


Eat  with  their  burning  cold  into  my  bones. 

Heaven's  winged  hound,  polluting  from  thy  lips 

His  beak  in  poison  not  his  own,  tears  up 

My  heart;  and  shapeless  sights  come  wandering  by. 

The  ghastly  people  of  the  realm  of  dream. 

Mocking  me:  and  the  Earthquake-fiends  are  charged 

To  wrench  the  riveis  from  my  quivering  wounds 

When  the  rocks  split  and  close  again  behind  : 

While  from  their  loud  abysses  howling  throng 

The  genii  of  the  storm,  urging  the  rage 

Of  whirlwind,  and  afflict  me  with  keen  hail. 

And  yet  to  me  welcome  is  day  and  night. 

Whether  one  breaks  the  hoar  frost  of  the  mom, 

Or  starry,  dim,  and  slow,  the  other  climbs 

The  leaden-eolor'd  east ;  (or  then  they  lead 

The  wingless,  crawling  hours,  one  among  whom 

— As  some  dark  Priest  hales  the  reluctant  victim — 

Shall  drag  thee,  cruel  King,  lo  kiss  the  blood 

From  these  pale  feet,  which  then  might  trample  thee 

If  they  disdain'd  not  such  a  prostrate  slave. 

Disdain !  Ah  no !  I  pity  thee.     What  ruin 

Will  hunt  thee  undefended  through  the  wide  Heaven! 

How  will  thy  soul,  cloven  to  its  depth  with  terror. 

Gape  like  a  hell  within  !  I  speak  in  grief, 

Not  exultation,  for  I  hate  no  more 

As  then,  ere  misery  made  me  wise.    The  curse 

Once  breathed  on  thee  I  would  recall.  Ye  Mountains 

Whose  many-voiced  Echoes,  through  the  mist 

Of  cataracts,  flung  the  thunder  of  that  spell ! 

Ye  icy  Springs,  stagnant  with  wrinkling  frost. 

Which  vibrated  to  hear  me,  and  then  crept 

Shuddering  through  India !  Thou  serenest  Air, 

Through  which  the  Sun  walks  burning  without  beams! 

And  ye  swift  Whirlwinds,  who  on  poised  wings 

Hung  mute  and  moveless  o'er  yon  hush'd  abyss. 

As  thunder,  louder  than  your  own,  made  rock 

The  orbed  world  I  If  then  my  words  had  power. 

Though  I  am  changed  so  that  aught  evil  wish 

Is  dead  within ;  although  no  memory-  be 

Of  what  is  hate,  let  them  not  lose  it  now ! 

What  was  that  curse  ?  for  ye  all  heard  me  speak. 

first  voice  :    FROM  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Thrice  three  hundred  thousand  years 
O'er  the  Earthquake's  couch  we  stood ; 

Oft,  as  men  convulsed  with  fears. 
We  trembled  in  our  multitude. 

SECOND  VOICE:    FROM  THE  SPRINGS. 

Thunderbolts  had  parch'd  our  water. 
We  had  been  siaiii'd  with  bitter  blood, 

And  had  run  mute,  'mid  shrieks  of  slaughter, 
Through  a  city  and  a  solitude. 

THIRD  VOICE  :    FROM  THE  AIR. 

I  had  clothed,  since  Earth  uprose, 
Its  wastes  in  colors  not  their  own ; 

And  oft  had  my  serene  repose 

Been  cloven  by  many  a  rending  groan. 

FOURTH  VOICE  :    FROM  THE   WHIRLWINDS. 

We  had  soar'd  beneath  these  mountains 
Unresting  ages  ;  nor  had  thunder. 

Nor  yon  volcano's  flaming  fountains. 
Nor  any  power  above  or  under 
Ever  made  us  mute  with  wonder. 
327 


80 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


FIRST  VOICE. 

But  never  bow'd  our  snowy  crest 
As  at  the  voice  of  thine  unrest. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Never  such  a  sound  before 

To  the  Indian  waves  we  bore. 

A  pilot  asleep  on  the  howling  sea 

Leap'd  up  from  the  deck  in  agony, 

And  heard,  and  cried,  "  Ah,  woe  is  me  !" 

And  died  as  mad  as  the  wild  waves  be. 

THIRD  VOICE. 

By  such  dread  words  from  Earth  to  Heaven 
My  still  realm  was  never  riven : 
When  its  wound  was  closed,  there  stood 
Darkness  o'er  the  day  like  blood. 

FOURTH  VOICE. 

And  we  shrank  back :  for  dreams  of  ruin 
To  frozen  caves  our  flight  pursuing 
Made  us  keep  silence — thus — and  thus — 
Though  silence  is  a  hell  to  us. 

THE  EARTH. 

The  tongueless  Caverns  of  the  craggy  hills 
Cried,  "  Misery !"  then  ;  the  hollow  Heaven  replied, 
"  Misery  ! "  And  the  Ocean's  purple  waves, 
Climbing  the  land,  hovvl'd  to  the  lashing  winds, 
And  the  pale  nations  heard  it,  "  Misery!" 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  hear  a  sound  of  voices :  not  the  voice 
Which  I  gave  forth.     Mother,  thy  sons  and  thou 
Scorn  him,  without  whose  all-enduring  will 
Beneath  the  fierce  omnipotence  of  Jove, 
Both  they  and  thou  had  vanish'd,  like  thin  mist 
Unrolled  on  the  morning  wind.     Know  ye  not  me, 
The  Titan  ?     He  who  made  his  agony 
The  baiTier  to  your  else  all-conquering  ibe  ? 
Oh,  rock-embosoui'd  lawns,  and  snow-fed  streams, 
JNow  seen  athwart  frore  vapors,  deep  below. 
Through  whose  o'ershadowing  woods  I  wander'd  once 
With  Asia,  drinking  life  from  her  loved  eyes; 
Why  scorns  the  spirit  which  informs  ye,  now 
To  commune  witli  me  ?  me  alone,  who  check'd, 
As  one  who  checks  a  (iend-drawn  charioteer. 
The  falsehood  and  the  force  of  him  who  reigns 
Supreme,  and  with  the  groans  of  pining  slaves 
Fills  your  dim  glens  and  liquid  wildernesses: 
Why  answer  ye  not,  still?    Brethren  I 

THE   EARTH. 

They  dare  not. 

PROMETHKUS. 

Who  dares  ?  for  I  would  hear  that  curse  again. 

Ha  !  what  an  awful  whisper  ri.ses  up  I 

'Tis  scarce  like  sound  :  it  tingles  llirough  the  frame 

As  lightning  tingles,  hovering  ere  it  strike. 

Speak,  Spirit !  from  thuie  inorganic  voice 

I  only  know  that  thou  art  mo\  ing  near 

And  love.     How  cursed  1  him  ? 

THE   EARTH. 

How  canst  thou  hear. 
Who  knowest  not  the  language  of  the  dead  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Thou  art  a  living  spirit ;  speak  as  they. 


THE  EARTH. 

I  dare  not  speak  like  life,  lest  Heaven's  fell  King 
Should  hear,  and  link  me  to  some  wheel  of  pain 
More  torturing  than  the  one  whereon  I  roll. 
Subtle  thou  art  and  good  ;  and  though  the  Gods 
Hear  not  this  voice,  yet  thou  art  more  than  God, 
Being  wise  and  kind  :  earnestly  hearken  now. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Obscurely  through  my  brain,  like  shadows  dim, 
Sweep  awful  thoughts,  rapid  and  thick.     I  feel 
Faint,  like  one  mingled  in  entwining  love ; 
Yet  'tis  not  pleasure. 

THE  EARTH. 

No,  thou  canst  not  hear  : 
Thou  art  immortal,  and  this  tongue  is  known 
Only  to  those  who  die. 

PROMETHEUS. 

And  what  art  thou, 
O,  melancholy  Voice  ? 

THE  EARTH. 

I  am  the  Earth, 
Thy  mother  :  she  within  whose  stony  veins, 
To  the  last  fibre  of  the  loftiest  tree 
Whose  thin  leaves  trembled  in  the  frozen  air, 
Joy  ran,  as  blood  within  a  living  frame. 
When  thou  didst  from  her  bosom,  like  a  cloud 
Of  glory,  arise,  a  spirit  of  keen  joy ! 
And  at  thy  voice  her  pining  sons  uplifted 
Their  prostrate  brows  from  the  polluting  dust, 
And  our  almighty  Tyrant  with  fierce  dread 
Grew  pale,  until  his  thunder  chain'd  thee  here. 
Then,  see  those  million  worlds  which  bum  and  roll 
Around  us  :  their  inhabitants  beheld 
My  sphered  light  wane  in  wide  Heaven ;  the  sea 
Was  lifted  by  strange  tempest,  and  new  fire 
From  earthquake-rifted  mountains  of  bright  snow 
Shook  its  portentous  hair  beneath  Heaven's  frown 
Lightning  and  Inundation  vex'd  the  plains  ; 
Blue  thistles  bloom'd  in  cities ;  foodless  toads 
Within  voluptuous  chambers  panting  crawl'd  ; 
When  Plague  had  fallen  on  man,  and  beast, and  worm 
And  Famine  ;  and  black  blight  on  herb  and  tree ; 
And  in  the  corn,  and  vines,  and  meadow-grass, 
Teem'd  ineradicable  poisonous  weeds 
Draining  their  growth,  for  my  wan  breast  was  dry 
With  grief;  and  the  thin  air,  my  breath,  was  stain'd 
With  the  contagion  of  a  mother's  hate 
Breathed  on  her  child's  destroyer ;  aye,  I  heard 
Thy  curse,  the  which,  if  thou  rememberest  not, 
Yet  my  innumerable  seas  and  streams. 
Mountains,  and  caves,  and  winds,  and  yon  wide  air, 
And  the  inarticulate  people  of  the  dead. 
Preserve,  a  treasured  spell.     We  meditate 
In  secret  joy  and  hope  those  dreadful  words, 
But  dare  not  speak  them. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Venerable  mother ! 
All  else  who  live  and  suffer  take  from  thee 
Some  comfort ;  flowers,  and  fruits,  and  happy  sounds 
And  love,  though  fleeting ;  these  may  not  be  mine. 
But  mine  own  words,  I  pray,  deny  me  not. 

THE  EARTH. 

They  shall  be  told.     Ere  Babylon  was  dust. 
The  Magus  Zoroaster,  my  dead  child. 
Met  his  own  image  walking  in  the  garden. 
That  apparition,  sole  of  men,  he  saw. 
328 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


81 


For  know  there  are  two  worlds  of  life  and  death: 

One  that  which  ihou  beholdest;  but  the  other 

Is  undernouih  the  grave,  where  do  iaiiahit 

The  shadows  of  all  forms  thai  thiidv  and  live 

Till  death  iiniie  them  and  they  part  no  more; 

Dreams  and  liie  light  imaginings  of  men. 

And  all  that  faith  creates  or  love  desires. 

Terrible,  strange,  sublime  and  beauteous  shapes. 

There  tho  i  art,  and  dost  hang,  a  writhing  shade, 

'Mid  whirlwind-peopled  mountains;  all  the  gods 

Are  there,  and  all  the  powers  of  nameless  worlds, 

Vast,  sceptred  phantoms;  heroes,  men,  and  beasts; 

And  Demogorgon,  a  tremendous  gloom  ; 

And  he,  the  supreme  Tyrant,  on  his  throne 

Of  burning  gold.    Son,  one  of  these  shall  utter 

The  curse  which  all  remember.    Call  at  will 

Thine  own  ghost,  or  the  ghost  of  Jupiter, 

Hades  or  Typhon,  or  what  miglitier  Gods 

From  all-prolific  Evil,  since  thy  ruin 

Have  sprung,  and  trampled  on  iny  prostrate  sons. 

Ask,  and  they  must  reply :  so  the  revenge 

Of  the  Supreme  may  sweep  through  vacant  shades, 

As  rainy  wind  through  the  abandoned  gate 

Of  a  fallen  palace. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Mother,  let  not  aught 
Of  that  which  may  be  evil,  pass  again 
My  lips,  or  those  of  aught  resembling  me. 
Phantasm  of  Jupiter,  arise,  appear! 

10  \E. 
My  wings  are  folded  o'er  mine  ears : 

My  wings  are  crossed  o'er  mine  eyes: 
Yet  through  their  silver  shade  appears, 

And  through  their  lulling  plumes  arise, 
A  Shape,  a  throng  of  sounds  ; 

May  it  be  no  ill  to  thee, 
O  tl.  iu  of  many  wounds ! 
Near  whom,  for  our  sw-eet  sister's  sake. 
Ever  thus  we  watch  and  wake. 


The  sound  is  of  whirlwind  tinderground, 

Earthquake,  and  fire,  and  mountains  cloven: 
The  shape  is  awful  like  the  sound, 

Clothed  in  dark  purple,  star-inwoven. 
A  sceptre  of  pale  gold 

To  stay  steps  proud,  o'er  the  slow  cloud 
His  veined  hand  doth  hold. 
Cruel  he  looks,  but  calm  and  strong, 
Like  one  who  does,  not  suffers  wrong. 

PHANTASM    OF    JDPITER. 

Why  have  the  secret  powers  of  this  strange  world 
Driven  me,  a  frail  and  empty  phantom,  hither 
On  direst  storms?  What  unaccustom'd  sotmds 
.\re  havering  on  my  lips,  unlike  the  voice 
With  which  our  pallid  race  hold  ghastly  talk 
In  darkness  ?  And,  proud  sufferer,  who  art  thou  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Tremendous  Image  !  as  thou  art  must  he 
He  whom  thou  shadowest  forth.    I  am  his  foe. 
The  Titan.    Speak  the  words  which  I  would  hear, 
Although  no  thought  inform  thine  empty  voice. 

THE    EARTir. 

Listen !  And  though  your  echoes  must  be  mute, 
2  R 


Gray  mountains,  and  old  woods,  and  haunted  springa. 
Prophetic  caves,  and  isle-surrounding  streams. 
Rejoice  to  hear  what  yet  ye  cannot  speak. 

PHANTASM. 

A  spirit  seizes  me  and  speaks  wit'nin: 
It  tears  me  as  fire  tears  a  thunder-cloud. 

PANTHEA. 

See,  how  he  lifts  his  mighty  looks,  the  Heaven 
Darkens  above. 

lONE. 

He  speaks !  O  shelter  me  ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  see  the  curse  on  gestures  proud  and  cold, 
And  looks  of  firm  defiance,  and  calm  hate, 
And  such  despair  as  mocks  itself  with  smiles, 
Written  as  on  a  scroll:  yet  speak:  Oh,  speak! 

PHANTASM. 

Fiend,  I  defy  thee!  with  a  calm,  fix'd  mind, 
All  that  thou  canst  inflict  I  bid  thee  do ; 

Foul  Tyrant  both  of  Gods  and  Human-kind, 
One  only  being  shalt  thou  not  subdue. 

Rain  then  thy  plagues  upon  me  here. 

Ghastly  disease,  and  frenzying  fear; 

And  let  alternate  frost  and  fire 

Eat  into  me,  and  be  thine  ire 
Lightning,  and  cutting  hail,  and  legion'd  forms 
Of  furies,  driving  by  upon  the  wounding  storms. 

Ay,  do  thy  worst.    Thou  art  omnipotent. 

O'er  all  things  but  thyself  I  gave  thee  power, 

And  my  own  will.    Be  thy  swift  mischiefs  sent 
To  blast  mankind,  from  yon  ethereal  tower. 

Let  thy  malignant  spirit  move 

In  darkness  over  those  I  love : 

On  me  and  mine  I  imprecate 

The  utmost  torture  of  thy  hate ; 
And  thus  devote  to  sleepless  agony. 
This  undeclining  head  while  thou  must  reign  on  high. 

But  thou,  who  art  the  God  and  Lord :  O,  thou. 
Who  fillest  with  thy  soul  this  world  of  woe, 

To  whom  all  things  of  Earth  and  Heaven  do  bow 
In  fear  and  worship:  all-prevailing  foe! 

I  curse  thee  !  let  a  sufferer's  curse 

Clasp  thee,  his  torturer,  like  remorse; 

Till  thine  Infinity  shall  be 

A  robe  of  envenom'd  agony ; 
And  thine  Omnipotence  a  crown  of  pain. 
To  cling  like  burning  gold  round  thy  dissolving  brain. 

Heap  on  thy  soul,  by  virtue  of  this  Curse, 

111  deeds,  then  be  thou  damn'd,  beholding  good; 
Both  infinite  as  is  the  universe, 

And  thou,  and  thy  self-torturing  solitude. 
An  awful  image  of  calm  power 
Though  now  thou  sittest,  let  the  hour 
Come,  when  thou  must  appear  to  be 
That  which  thou  art  internally. 
And  after  many  a  false  and  fruitless  crime. 
Scorn  track  thy  lagging  fall  through  boundless  ipaca 
and  time. 


PROMETHEUS. 

Were  these  my  words,  O  Parent  ? 


329 


82 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAju  WORKS. 


THE    EARTH. 

They  were  thine. 

PROMETHEUS. 

It  doth  repent  me :  words  are  quick  and  vain  : 
Grief  for  awhile  is  bhiid,  and  so  was  mine. 
I  wish  no  living  thing  to  suffer  pain. 

THE    EARTH. 

Misery,  Oh  misery  to  me, 
That  Jove  at  length  should  vanquish  thee. 
Wail,  howl  aloud.  Land  and  Sea, 
The  Earth's  rent  heart  shall  answer  ye. 
Howl,  Spirits  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Your  refuge,  your  defence  lies  fallen  and  van- 
quished. 

FIRST    ECHO. 

Lies  fallen  and  vanquished ! 

SECOND    ECHO. 

Fallen  and  vanqui-shed ! 


Fear  not:  'tis  but  some  passing  spasm, 

The  Titan  is  unvanquish'd  still. 
But  see,  where  through  the  azure  chasm 

Of  yon  fork'd  and  snowy  hill 
Trampling  the  slant  winds  on  high 

With  golden-sandall'd  feet,  that  glow 
Under  plumes  of  purple  dye, 
Like  rose-ensanguined  ivory, 

A  Shape  comes  now, 
Stretching  on  high  from  his  right  hand 
A  serpent-cinctured  wand. 

PAiXTHEA. 

'Tis  Jove's  world-wandering  herald.  Mercury. 

10  NE. 

And  who  are  those  with  hydra  tresses 
And  iron  wings  that  climb  the  wind, 

Whom  the  frowning  God  represses 
Like  vapors  steaming  up  behind, 

Clanging  loud,  an  endless  crowd — 


These  are  Jove's  tempest-walking  hounds, 
Whom  he  gluts  with  groans  and  blood, 
When  charioted  on  sulphurous  cloud 

He  bursts  Heaven's  bounds. 

lONE. 

Are  they  now  led,  from  the  thin  dead 
On  new  pangs  to  be  fed  ? 

PANTHEA. 

The  Titan  looks  as  ever,  firm,  not  proud. 


FIRST    FURY. 


Ha !  I  scent  life  . 


SECOND   FURY. 

Let  me  but  look  into  his  eyes ! 

THIRD    FURY. 

The  hope  of  torturing  him  smells  like  a  heap 
Of  corpses,  to  a  death-bird  after  battle. 

FIRST   FURY. 

Barest  thou  delay,  O  Herald !  take  cheer,  Hounds 


Of  Hell :  what  if  the  Son  of  Maia  soon 

Should  make  us  food  and  sport — who  can  please  long 

The  Omnipotent  ? 

MERCURY. 

Back  to  your  towers  of  iron. 
And  gnash  beside  the  streams  of  iire,  and  wail 
Your  Ibodless  teeth.    Geryon,  arise!  and  Gorgon, 
Chimaera,  and  thou  Sphinx,  subtlest  of  fiends. 
Who  minister'd  to  Thebes  Heaven's  poison'd  wine, 
Unnatural  love,  and  more  unnatural  hate  : 
These  shall  perform  your  task. 

-FIRST    FURY. 

Oh,  mercy!  mercy 
We  die  with  our  desire :  drive  us  not  back ! 


Crouch  then  in  silence. 

Awful  Sufferer! 
To  thee  unwilling,  most  unwillingly 
I  come,  by  the  great  Father's  will  driven  down, 
To  execute  a  doom  of  new  revenge. 
Alas !  I  pity  thee,  and  hate  myself 
That  I  can  do  no  more :  aye  from  thy  sight 
Returning,  for  a  season.  Heaven  seems  hell. 
So  thy  worn  form  pursues  me  night  and  day. 
Smiling  reproach.    Wise  art  thou,  firm  and  good, 
But  vainly  wouldst  stand  forth  alone  in  strife 
Against  ihe  Omnipotent ;  as  yon  clear  lamps 
That  measure  and  divide  the  weary  years 
From  which  there  is  no  refuge,  long  have  taught 
And  long  must  teach.    Even  now  thy  Torturer  arras 
With  the  strange  might  of  unimagined  pains 
The  powers  who  scheme  slow  agonies  in  Hell, 
And  my  commission  is  to  lead  them  here. 
Or  what  more  subtle,  foul,  or  savage  fiends 
People  the  abyss,  and  leave  them  to  their  task. 
Be  it  not  so  !  there  is  a  secret  known 
To  thee,  and  to  none  else  of  living  thinps. 
Which  may  transfer  the  sceptre  of  wide  Heaven, 
The  fear  of  which  perplexes  the  Supreme  : 
Clothe  it  in  words,  and  bid  it  clasp  his  throne 
In  intercession;  bend  thy  soul  in  prayer, 
And  like  a  suppliant  in  some  gorgeous  fane. 
Let  the  will  kneel  within  thy  haughty  heart : 
For  benefits  and  meek  submission  tame 
The  fiercest  and  the  mightiest. 

r 

PROMETHEUS. 

Evil  minds 
Change  good  to  their  own  nature.    I  gave  all 
He  has  ;  and  in  return  he  chains  me  here 
Years,  ages,  night  and  day :  whether  the  Sun 
Split  my  parch'd  skin,  or  in  Ihe  moony  night 
The  crystal-winged  snow  cling  round  my  hair 
Whilst  my  beloved  race  is  trampled  down 
By  his  thought-executing  ministers. 
Such  is  the  tyrant's  recompense:  'tis  just; 
He  who  is  evil  can  receive  no  good ; 
And  for  a  world  bestow'd,  or  a  friend  lost. 
He  can  feel  hate,  fear,  shame;  not  gratitude  . 
He  but  requites  me  for  his  own  misdeed. 
Kindness  to  such  is  keen  reproach,  which  breala 
With  bitter  stings  the  light  sleep  of  Revenge. 
Submission,  thou  dost  know  I  cannot  try : 
For  what  submission  but  that  fatal  word. 
The  death-seal  of  mankind's  captivity, 
Like  the  Sicilian's  hair-suspended  sword. 
Which  trembles  o'er  his  crown,  would  he  accept 
330 


I 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


83 


Or  could  I  yield  ?    Which  yet  I  will  not  yield. 
Let  others  llattcr  Crime,  where  it  sits  throned 
In  brief  OmniiMience  :  secure  are  they  : 
For  Justice,  when  triumphant,  will  weep  down 
Pity  not  punishment,  on  her  own  wrongs, 
Too  much  avenged  by  those  who  err.    I  wait, 
Enduring  thus,  the  retributive  hour 
Which  since  we  spake  is  even  nearer  now. 
But  hark,  the  hell-hounds  clamor :  fear  delay  : 
Behold !  Heaven  lowers  under  thy  Father's  frown. 

MERCURY. 

Oh,  that  wp  might  be  spared.    I  to  inflict, 
And  tliou  to  suffer     Once  more  answer  me : 
Thou  knowest  not  the  period  of  Jove's  power? 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  know  but  this,  that  it  must  come. 

MERCURY. 

Alas! 
Thou  canst  not  count  thy  years  to  come  of  pain  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

They  last  while  Jove  must  reign  :  nor  more  nor  less 
Do  1  desire  or  fear. 

MERCURY. 

Yet  pause,  and  plunge 
Into  Eternity,  where  recorded  time. 
Even  all  that  we  imagine,  age  on  age. 
Seems  but  a  point,  and  the  reluctant  mind 
Flags  wearily  in  its  unending  flight. 
Till  it  sink,  dizzy,  blind,  lost,  shelterless ; 
Perchance  it  has  not  number'd  the  slow  years 
^\■l^ich  thou  must  spend  in  torture,  unreprieved  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Perchance  no  thought  can  count  them,  yet  they  pass. 

MERCURY. 

If  thou  might'st  dwell  among  the  Gods  the  while, 
Lapp'd  in  voluptuous  joy  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  would  not  quit 
Tliis  bleak  ravine,  these  unrepentant  pains. 

MERCURY. 

Alas !  I  v\onder  at,  yet  pity  thee. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Pity  the  self-despising  slaves  of  Heaven, 
Pv'ot  me,  within  whose  mind  sits  peace  serene, 
As  light  in  the  sun,  throned :    how  vain  is  talk ! 
Call  up  the  fiends. 

TONE. 

O,  sister,  look !    White  fire 
Has  cloven  to  the  roots  yon  huge  snow-loaded  cedar; 
How  fearfully  God's  thunder  howls  behind  ! 

MERCURY. 

I  must  obey  his  words  an(J  thine  :  alas ! 
Most  heavily  remorse  hangs  at  my  heart ! 

PANTHEA. 

See  where  the  child  of  Heaven,  with  winged  feet, 
Runs  down  the  slanted  sunlight  of  the  dawn. 

lONE. 

Dear  sister,  close  thy  plumes  over  thine  eyes, 
Lest  thou  behold  and  die  :  they  come  :  they  come, 
Blackening  the  birth  of  day  with  countless  wind's. 
And  hollow  underneath,  like  death. 


FIRST  FURY. 


SECOND  Ft/RY. 


Prometheus ! 


Immortal  Titan! 


THIRD  FURY. 

Champion  of  Heaven's  slaves! 

PROMETHEUS. 

He  whom  some  dreadful  voice  invokes  is  here, 
Prometheus,  ihe  chain'd  Titan.    Horrible  forms, 
Wiiat  and  who  are  ye  ?    jVevcr  yet  there  cuine 
Piiantasms  so  foul  through  nionsier-teeming  Hell 
From  the  all-miscreative  brain  of  Jove  ; 
Whilst  I  behold  such  execrable  shapes, 
Methinks  I  grow  like  what  I  contemplate. 
And  laugh  and  stare  in  lothesome  sympathy. 

FIRST  FURY. 

We  are  the  ministers  of  pain  and  fear, 
And  disappointment,  and  mistrust,  and  hate. 
And  clinging  crime;  and  as  lean  dogs  pursue 
Through  wood  and  lake  some  struck  and  sobbing  fawn 
We  track  all  things  that  weep,  and  bleed,  and  live, 
When  the  great  King  betrays  them  to  our  will. 

PRO.METHEUS. 

Oh  !  many  fearful  natures  in  one  name, 
I  know  ye  ;  and  these  lakes  and  echoes  know 
The  darkness  and  the  clangor  of  your  wings. 
But  why  more  hideous  than  your  lothed  selves 
Gather  ye  up  in  legions  from  the  deep  ? 

SECOND  FURY. 

We  knew  not  that :   Sisters,  rejoice,  rejoice ! 

PROMETHEUS. 

Can  aught  exult  in  its  deformity! 

SECOND  FURY. 

The  beauty  of  delight  makes  lovers  glad, 

Gazing  on  one  another  :  so  are  we. 

.As  from  the  rose  which  the  pale  priestess  kneels 

To  gather  for  her  festal  crown  of  flowers 

The  aerial  crimson  falls,  flushing  her  cheek. 

So  from  our  victims'  destined  agony 

The  shade  which  is  our  form  invests  us  round, 

Else  we  are  shapeless  as  our  mother  Night. 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  laugh  your  power,  and  his  who  sent  you  here, 
To  lowest  scorn.    Pour  forth  the  cup  of  pain. 

FIRST  FURY. 

Thou  thinkest  we  will  rend  thee  bone  from  bone 
And  nerve  from  nerve,  working  like  fire  within  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

Pain  is  my  element,  as  hate  is  thine ; 
Ye  rend  me  now :    I  care  not. 

SECOND  FUPvY. 

Dost  imagine 
We  will  but  laugh  into  thy  lidless  eyes  I 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  weigh  not  what  ye  do,  but  what  ye  suffer. 
Being  evil.    Cruel  was  the  power  which  call'd 
You,  or  aught  else  so  wretched,  into  light, 

THIRD  FURY. 

Thou  think'st  we  will  live  through  thee,  one  by  one, 
Like  -animal  life,  and  thougii  we  can  obscure  not 
The  soul  which  burns  within,  that  we  will  dwell 
Beside  it,  like  a  vain  loud  multitude 
Vexing  the  self-content  of  wisest  men  : 
That  we  will  be  dread  thought  beneath  thy  brain, 
And  foul  desire  round  thine  astonish'd  heart, 
.^nd  blood  within  thy  labyrinthine  veins. 
Crawling  Uke  agony. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Why  ye  are  thus  now  ; 
Yet  am  I  king  over  myself;  and  rule 
331 


84 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  torturing  and  conflicting  throngs  within, 
As  Jove  rules  you  when  Hell  grows  mutinous. 

CHORUS  OF  FURIES. 

From  the  ends  of  the  earth,  from  the  ends  of  the 

earth, 
Where  the  night  has  its  grave  and  the  morning  its 
birth, 

Come,  come,  come ! 
Oh,  ye  who  shake  hills  with  the  scream  of  your  mirth. 
When  cities  sink  howling  in  ruin ;  and  ye 
Who  with  wingless  footsteps  trample  the  sea. 
And  close  upon  Shipwreck  and  Famine's  track. 
Sit  chattering  with  joy  on  the  foodless  wreck : 
Come,  come,  come ! 
Leave  the  bed,  low,  cold,  and  red, 
Strevv'd  beneath  a  nation  dead  ; 
Leave  the  hatred,  as  in  ashes 

Fire  is  left  for  future  burning : 
It  will  burst  in  bloodier  flashes 

When  ye  stir  it,  soon  returning : 
Leave  the  selfcontempt  implanted 
In  young  spirits,  sense-enchanted. 

Misery's  yet  unkindled  fuel : 
Leave  Hell's  secrets  half  unchanteil, 

To  the  maniac  dreamer;  cruel 
More  than  ye  can  be  with  hate 
Is  he  with  fear. 

Come,  come,  come! 
We  are  steaming  up  from  Hell's  wide  gate. 
And  we  burthen  the  blasts  of  the  atmosphere. 
But  vainly  we  toil  till  ye  come  here. 

10  NE. 

Sister,  I  hear  the  thunder  of  new  wings. 

PANTHEA. 

These  solid  mountains  quiver  with  the  sound 
Lven  as  the  tremulous  air:  their  shadows  make 
The  space  within  my  plumes  more  black  than  night. 

FIRST  FURY. 

Your  call  w^as  as  a  winged  car. 
Driven  on  whirlwinds  fast  and  far : 
It  wrapt  us  from  red  gulfs  of  war. 

SECOND  FURY. 

From  wide  cities,  famine-wasted  ; 

THIRD  FURY. 

Groans  half  heard,  and  blood  untasted ; 

FOURTH  FURY. 

Kingly  conclaves,  stern  and  cold, 

Where  blood  with  gold  is  bought  and  sold; 

FIFTH   FURY. 

From  (he  furnace,  white  and  hot. 
In  which — 

A  FURY. 

Speak  not ;  whisper  not : 
I  know  all  that  ye  would  tell, 
But  to  speak  might  break  the  spell 
Which  must  bend  the  Invincible, 

The  stern  of  thought ; 
He  yet  defies  the  deepest  power  of  Hell 

FURY. 

Tear  the  veil ! 


ANOTHER  FURY. 

It  is  torn. 

CHORUS. 

The  pale  stars  of  the  morn 
Shine  on  a  misery  to  be  borne. 

Dost  thou  faint,  mighty  Titan  ?  We  laugh  thee  to  scorn. 
Dost  thou  boast  the  clear  knowledge  thou  waken'dst 

for  man  ? 
Then  was  kindled  within  him  a  thirst  which  outran 
Those  perishing  waters ;  a  thirst  of  fierce  fever, 
Hope,  love,  doubt,  desire,  which  consume  him  for  ever. 
One  came  forth  of  gentle  worth. 
Smiling  on  the  sanguine  earth ; 
His  words  outlived  him,  like  swift  poison 

Withering  up  truth,  peace,  and  pity. 
Look  I  where  round  the  wide  horizon 

Many  a  million-peopled  city 
Vomits  smoke  in  the  bright  air. 
Mark  that  outcry  of  despair! 
'Tis  his  mild  and  gentle  ghost 

Wailing  for  the  faith  he  kindled  : 
Look  again  I  llie  flames  almost 

To  a  glow-worm's  lamp  have  dwindled: 
The  survivors  round  the  embers 
Gather  in  dread. 

Joy,  joy,  joy ! 
Past  ages  crowd  on  thee,  but  each  one  remembers , 
And  tlie  future  is  dark,  and  the  present  is  spread 
Like  a  pillow  of  thorns  for  thy  slumberless  head. 

SEMICIIORUS  I. 
Drops  of  bloody  agony  flow 
From  his  white  and  quivering  brow. 
Grant  a  little  respite  now  ; 
See  !  a  disenchanted  nation 
Springs  like  day  from  desolation; 
To  Truth  its  state  is  dedt<-ate. 
And  Freedom  leads  it  forth,  her  mate ; 
A  legion'd  band  of  linked  brothers, 
Whom  Love  calls  children — 

SEAIICHORUS  II. 

'Tis  another's 
See  how  kindred  murder  kin! 
'Tis  the  vintage-time  for  death  and  sin. 
Blood,  like  new  wine,  bubbles  within : 
Till  despair  smothers 
The  struggling  world,  wliich  slaves  and  tyrants  win 
[All  the  Furies  vayiish,  except  or<-i 

lONE. 

Hark,  sister !  what  a  low  yet  dreadful  groan 
Quite  unsuppress'd  is  tearing  up  the  heart 
Of  the  good  Titan,  as  storms  tear  the  deep. 
And  beasts  hear  the  sea  moan  in  inland  caves. 
Darest  thou  observe  how  the  fiends  torture  hiro  ! 

PANTHEA. 

Alas !  I  look'd  fortli  twice,  but  will  no  more. 

lONE. 

What  didst  thou  see  ? 

PANTHEA. 

A  woful  sight .  a  youth 
With  patient  looks  nail'd  to  a  crucifix. 


lONE. 


What  next  ? 


332 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


85 


PANTHEA. 

The  heaven  around,  tlie  earth  helovv 
Was  peopled  vviih  Uiick  shapes  of  human  death, 
All  horriltlc,  and  wrought  by  human  hands, 
And  some  appear'd  the  work  of  human  hearts, 
For  men  were  slowly  kill'd  by  frowns  and  smiles: 
And  other  sights  loo  foul  to  speak  and  live 
Were  wandering  by.     Let  us  not  tempt  worse  fear 
By  looking  forth ;  those  groans  are  grief  enough. 

FURV. 

Behold  an  emblem  :  those  who  do  endure 

Deep  wrongs  for  man,  and  scorn,  and   chains,  but 

heap 
Thousandfold  torment  on  themselves  and  him. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Remit  the  anguish  of  that  lighted  stare  ; 

Close  those  wan  lips ;  let  that  thorn- wounded  brow 

Siream  not  with  blood  ;  it  mingles  with  thy  tears ! 

Fix,  fix  those  tortured  orbs  in  peace  and  death. 

So  thy  sick  throes  shake  not  that  crucifix. 

So  those  pale  (ingers  play  not  with  thy  gore. 

O,  horrible  !  Thy  name  I  will  not  speak. 

It  hath  become  a  curse.     I  see,  I  see 

The  wise,  the  mild,  the  lofty,  and  the  just. 

Whom  thy  slaves  hate  for  being  like  to  thee, 

Some  hunted  by  foul  lies  from  their  heart's  home. 

An  eprly-chosen,  late-lamented  home  ; 

As  hooded  ounces  cling  to  the  driven  hind  ; 

Some  link'd  to  corpses  in  unwholesome  cells : 

Some — Hear  I  not  the  multitude  laugh  loud  ? — 

Impaled  in  lingering  fire :  and  mighty  realms 

Float  by  my  feet,  like  sea-uprooted  isles. 

Whose  sons  are  kneaded  down  in  common  blood 

By  the  red  light  of  their  own  burning  homes. 

FURV. 

Blood  thou  canst  see,  and  fire  ;  and  canst  hear  groans  : 
Worse  things  unheard,  unseen,  remain  behind. 


PRO.METHEUS. 


Worse  ? 


FURY. 

In  each  human  heart  terror  survives 
The  ruin  it  has  gorged :  the  loftiest  fear 
All  that  they  would  disdain  to  think  were  true : 
Hypocrisy  and  custom  make  their  minds 
The  fanes  of  many  a  worship,  now  outworn. 
They  dare  not  devise  good  for  man's  estate, 
And  yet  they  know  not  that  they  do  not  dare. 
The  good  want  power,  but  to  weep  barren  tears. 
The  powerful  goodness  want :  worse  need  for  them. 
The    wise  want  love ;   and  those  who  love,  want 

wisdom  ; 
And  all  best  things  are  thus  confused  to  ill. 
Many  are  strong  and  rich,  and  would  be  just, 
But  live  among  their  suffering  fellow-men 
As  if  none  felt :  they  know  not  what  they  do. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Thy  words  are  like  a  cloud  of  winged  snakes ; 
And  yet  1  pity  those  they  torture  not. 

FtTRV. 

Thou  pitiest  them  ?  I  speak  no  more  I         [  Vanishes. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Ah  woe! 
Ah  woe  !  Alas  !  pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever ! 
I  close  my  tearless  eyes,  but  see  more  clear 
Thy  works  within  my  woe-illumined  mind. 
Thou  subtle  tyrant!  Peace  is  in  the  grave. 
The  grave  hides  all  things  beautiful  and  good: 
I  am  a  God,  and  cannot  find  it  there, 


Nor  would  I  seek  it:  for,  though  dread  revenge. 
This  is  defeat,  fierce  king  !  not  victory. 
The  sights  with  which  thou  tortures!,  gird  my  soul 
With  new  endurance,  till  the  hour  arrives 
When  they  shall  be  no  types  of  things  which  are 

PANTHEA. 

Alas!  what  sawest  thou? 

PROMETHEUS. 

There  are  two  woes; 
To  speak  and  to  behold  ;  thou  spare  nie  one. 
Names  are  there,  Nature's  sacred  watch-words,  they 
Were  borne  aloft  in  bright  emblazonry; 
The  nations  throng'd  around,  and  cried  aloud, 
As  with  one  voice.  Truth,  liberty,  and  love! 
Suddenly  fierce  confusion  fell  from  heaven 
Among  them  :  there  was  strife,  deceit,  and  fear; 
Tyrants  rush'd  in,  and  did  divide  the  spoil. 
This  was  the  shadow  of  the  truth  I  saw. 

THE  EARTH. 

I  felt  thy  torture,  son,  with  such  mix'd  joy 

As  pain  and  virtue  give.     To  cheer  thy  state 

I  bid  ascend  those  subtle  and  fair  spirits. 

Whose  homes  are  the  dim  caves  of  human  thought. 

And  who  inhabit,  as  birds  wing  the  wind. 

Its  world-surrounding  ether:  they  behold 

Beyond  that  twilight  realm,  as  in  a  glass, 

The  future  :  may  they  speak  comfort  to  thee  ! 

PANTHEA. 

Look,  sister,  where  a  troop  of  spirits  gather. 

Like  fiocks  of  clouds  in  spring's  delightful  weather 

Thronging  in  the  blue  air ! 

lONE. 

And  see  !  more  come. 
Like  fountain  vapors  when  the  winds  are  dumb, 
That  climb  up  the  ravine  in  scatter'd  lines. 
And,  hark  !  is  it  the  music  of  the  pines? 
Is  it  the  lake  ?  Is  it  the  waterfall  ? 

PANTHEA. 

'T  is  something  sadder,  sweeter  far  than  all. 

CHORUS  OF  SPIRITS. 
From  unremember'd  ages  we 
Gentle  guides  and  guardians  be 
Of  heaven-oppress'd  mortality; 
And  we  breathe,  and  sicken  not, 
The  atmosphere  of  human  thought : 
Be  it  dim,  and  dank,  and  gray. 
Like  a  siorm-extinguish'd  day, 
Travell'd  o'er  by  dying  gleams; 

Be  it  bright  as  all  between 
Cloudless  skies  and  windless  streara.s. 

Silent,  liquid,  and  serene  ; 
As  the  birds  within  the  wind, 

As  the  fish  within  the  wave 
As  the  thoughts  of  man's  own  mind 

Float  through  all  above  the  grave  , 
We  make  these  our  liquid  lair, 
Voyaging  cloudlike  and  unpont 
Through  the  boundless  element: 
Thei'.ce  we  bear  the  prophecy 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee ! 

«  lONE. 

More  yet  come,  one  by  one :  the  air  around  them 
Looks  radiant  as  the  air  around  a  star. 
44  333 


86 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


FIRST  SPIRIT. 

On  a  battle-trumpet's  blast 
I  fled  hither,  fast,  fast,  fast, 
'Mid  the  darkness  upward  cast. 
From  the  dust  of  creeds  outworn, 
From  the  tyrant's  banner  torn. 
Gathering  round  me,  onward  borne, 
There  was  mingled  many  a  cry — 
Freedom  !  Hope  !  Death  !  Victory ! 
Till  they  faded  through  the  sky; 
And  one  sound  above,  around, 
One  sound  benealh,  around,  above, 
Was  moving  ;  't  was  the  soul  of  love  ; 
'Twas  the  hope,  the  prophecy, 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee. 

SECOND  SPIRIT. 

A  rainbow's  arch  stood  on  the  sea, 
Which  rock'd  beneath,  immovably ; 
And  the  triumphant  storm  did  flee. 
Like  a  conqueror,  swift  and  proud. 
Between  with  many  a  captive  cloud 
A  shapeless,  dark  and  rapid  crowd, 
Each  by  lightning  riven  in  half: 
I  heard  llie  thunder  hoarsely  laugh  : 
Mighty  fleets  were  strewn  like  chaff 
And  spread  beneath  a  hell  of  death 
O'er  the  white  waters.     I  alit 
On  a  great  ship  lightning-split. 
And  speeded  hither  on  the  sigh 
Of  one  who  gave  an  enemy 
His  plank,  then  plunged  aside  to  die. 

THIRD  SPIRIT. 

I  sat  beside  a  sage's  bed. 

And  the  lamp  was  burning  red 

Near  the  book  where  he  had  fed, 

When  a  Dream  with  plumes  of  flame, 

To  his  pillow  hovering  came. 

And  I  knew  it  was  ihe  same 

Which  had  kindled  long  ago 

Pity,  eloquence,  and  woe  ; 

And  the  world  awhile  below 

Wore  the  shade  its  lustre  made. 

It  has  borne  me  here  as  fleet 

As  Desire's  lightning  feet : 

I  must  ride  it  back  ere  morrow, 

Or  the  sage  will  wake  in  sorrow. 

FOURTH  SPIRIT. 

On  a  poet's  lips  I  slept. 

Dreaming  like  a  love-adept 

In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept ; 

Nor  seeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blisses. 

But  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses 

Of  shapes  that  haimt  thought's  wildernesses. 

He  will  watch  from  dawn  to  gloom 

The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 

The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom. 

Nor  heed  nor  see,  what  things  they  be  ; 

But  from  these  create  he  can 

Forms  more  real  than  living  man, 

Nurslings  of  immortality! 

One  of  these  awaken'd  me, 

And  1  sped  to  succor  thee. 


Behold'st  thou  not  two  shapes  from  the  east  and  west 

Come,  as  two  doves  to  one  beloved  nest. 

Twin  nurslings  of  the  all-sustaining  air 

On  swift  still  wings  glide  down  the  atmosphere  ? 

And,  hark  !  their  sweet,  sad  voices  !  't  is  despair 

Mingled  with  love  and  then  dissolved  in  sound. 

PANTHEA. 

Canst  thou  speak,  sister  ?  all  my  words  are  drown'd. 

lONE. 

Their  beauty  gives  me  voice.     See  how  they  float 
On  their  sustaining  wings  of  skiey  grain, 
Orange  and  azure  deepening  into  gold  : 
Their  soft  smiles  light  the  air  like  a  star's  fire. 

CHORUS  OF  SPIRITS. 

Hast  thou  beheld  the  form  of  Love  ? 

FIFTH  SPIRIT. 

As  over  wide  dominions 
I  sped,  like  some  swift  cloud  that  wings  the  wide 

air's  wildernesses. 
That   planet-crested  shape    swept  by  on  lightning- 
braided  pinions, 
Scattering  the  liquid  joy  of  life  from  his  ambrosial 

tresses : 
His  footsteps  paved  the  world  with  light ;  but  as  I 

pass'd  't  was  fading. 
And  hollow  Ruin  yawn'd  behind :  great  sages  bound 

in  madness. 
And  headless  patriots,  and  pale  youths  who  perish'd, 

unupbraiding, 
Gleam'd  in  the  night.     I  wander'd  o'er,  till  thou,  O 

King  of  sadness, 
Turn'd  by  thy  smile  the  worst  I  saw  to  recollected 

gladness. 

SIXTH  SPIRIT. 

Ah,  sister  !  Desolation  is  a  delicate  thing  : 

It  walks  not  on  the  earth,  it  floals  not  on  the  air, 

But  treads  with  silent  footstep,  and  fans  with  silent 

wing 
The  tender  hopes  which  in  their  hearts  the  best  and 

gentlest  bear ; 
Who,  soothed  to  false  repose  by  the  fanning  plumes 

above. 
And  the  music-stirring  motion  of  its  soft  and  busy  feet, 
Dream  visionsof  aerial  joy,  and  call  the  monster.  Love 
And  wake  and  find  the  shadow  Pain,  as  he  whom 

now  we  greet. 

CHORUS. 

Though  Ruin  now  Love's  shadow  be, 
p'ollovving  him,  destroyingly. 

On  Death's  white  and  winged  steed, 
Which  the  fleetest  cannot  flee. 

Trampling  down  both  flower  and  weed, 
Man  and  beast,  and  foul  and  fair. 
Like  a  tempest  through  the  air; 
Thou  shall  quell  this  horseman  grim. 
Woundless  though  in  heart  or  limb. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Spirits  !  how  know  ye  this  shall  be  ? 

CHORUS. 

In  the  atmosphere  we  breathe, 
As  buds  grow  red  w  hen  the  snow-storms  flee, 
334 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


87 


From  spring  gathering  up  beneath, 
Whose  mild  winds  shake  the  elder  brake, 
And  ihe  wandering  herdsmen  know 
That  the  while-thorn  swon  will  blow: 
Wisdom,  Justice,  Love,  and  Peace, 
When  they  struggle  to  increase, 
Are  to  us  as  soft  winds  be 
To  shepherd  boys,  the  prophecy 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee. 

lO.NE. 

Where  are  the  spirits  fled  ? 

PANTHEA. 

Only  a  sense 
Remains  of  them,  like  the  omnipotence 
Of  music,  when  Ihe  inspired  voice  and  lute 
Languish,  ere  yet  the  responses  are  mute. 
Which  through  the  deep  and  labyrinthine  soul, 
Like  echoes  through  long  caverns,  wind  and  roll. 

PROMETHEUS. 

How  fair  these  air-borne  shapes  I  and  yet  I  feel 

Most  vain  all  hope  but  love ;  and  thou  art  far, 

Asia  I  who,  w  hen  my  being  overflow'd, 

Wert  like  a  golden  chalice  to  bright  wine 

Which  else  had  sunk  into  the  thirsty  dust 

All  things  are  still:  alas!  how  heavily 

This  quiet  morning  weighs  upon  my  heart ; 

Though  I  should  dream  1  could  even  sleep  with  grief. 

If  slumber  were  denied  not.     I  would  fain 

Be  what  it  is  my  destiny  to  be, 

The  savior  and  the  strength  of  suffering  man. 

Or  smk  into  the  original  gulf  of  things: 

There  is  no  agony,  and  no  solace  left ; 

Earth  can  console,  Heaven  can  torment  no  more. 

PAN'TIIEA. 

Hast  thou  forgotten  one  who  watches  thee 

The  cold  dark  night,  and  never  sleeps  but  when 

The  shadow  of  thy  spirit  falls  on  her  ? 

PROMETHEUS. 

I  said  all  hope  was  vain  but  love :  thou  lovest. 

PANTHEA. 

Deeply,  in  truth  ;  but  the  eastern  star  looks  white. 
And  Asia  waits  in  that  far  Indian  vale 
The  scene  of  her  sad  exile  ;  rugged  once 
And  desolate  and  frozen,  like  this  ravine  ; 
But  now  invested  with  fair  flowers  and  herbs. 
And  haunted  by  sweet  airs  and  sounds,  which  flow 
Among  the  woods  and  waters,  from  the  ether 
Of  her  transforming  presence,  which  would  fade 
If  il  were  mingled  not  with  thine.    Farewell ! 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  L 

Morning.     A  lovely  Vale  in  the  Indian  Caucasus. 

Asia,  alone. 


From  all  the  blasts  of  heaven  thou  hast  descended 
Yes,  like  a  spirit,  like  a  thought,  which  makes 
Unwonted  tears  throng  to  the  horny  eyes, 
And  beatings  haunt  the  desolated  heart, 


Which  should  have  leanit  repose :  thou  hast  descend- 
ed 
Cradled  in  tempests;  thou  dost  wake,  O  Spring! 
O  child  of  many  winds !  As  suddenly 
Thou  comest  as  the  memory  of  a  dream. 
Which  now  is  sad  because  it  hath  been  sweet ! 
Like  genius,  or  like  joy  which  riseth  up 
As  from  the  earth,  clothing  with  golden  clouds 
The  desert  of  our  life. 
This  is  the  season,  this  the  day,  the  hour; 
At  sunrise  thou  shouldst  come,  sweet  sister  mine, 
Too  long  desired,  too  long  delaying,  come ! 
How  like  death-worms  the  wingless  moments  crawl! 
The  point  of  one  white  star  is  quivering  still 
Deep  in  the  orange  light  of  widening  morn 
Beyond  the  purple  mountains :  through  a  chasm 
Of  wind-divided  mist  the  darker  lake 
Reflects  it :  now  it  wanes  :  it  gleams  again 
As  the  waves  fade,  and  as  the  burning  threads 
Of  woven  cloud  unravel  in  pale  air : 
'T  is  lost !  and  through  yon  peaks  of  cloudlike  snow 
The  roseate  sunlight  quivers :  hear  I  not 
The  iEolian  music  of  her  sea-green  plumes 
Winnowing  the  crimson  dawn  ? 

Panthea  enters. 

I  feel,  I  see 
Those  eyes  which  burn  through  smiles  that  fade  in 

tears. 
Like  stars  half  quench'd  in  mists  of  silver  dew. 
Beloved  and  most  beautiful,  who  wearest 
The  shadow  of  that  soul  by  which  I  live, 
How  late  thou  art !  the  sphered  sun  had  climb'd 
The  sea ;  my  heart  was  sick  with  hope,  before 
The  printless  air  felt  thy  belated  plumes. 


Pardon,  great  Sister !  but  my  wings  were  faint 
With  the  delight  of  a  remember'd  dream. 
As  are  the  noontide  plumes  of  summer  winds 
Satiate  with  sweet  flowers.     I  was  wont  to  sleep 
Peacefully,  and  awake  refresh'd  and  calm 
Before  the  sacred  Titan's  fall,  and  thy 
Unhappy  love,  had  made,  through  use  and  pity. 
Both  love  and  woe  familiar  to  my  heart 
As  they  had  grown  to  thine :    erewhile  I  slept 
Under  the  glaucous  caverns  of  old  Ocean 
Within  dim  bovvers  of  green  and  purple  moss, 
Our  young  lone's  soft  and  milky  arms 
Lock'd  then,  as  now,  behind  my  dark,  moist  hair. 
While  my  shut  eyes  and  cheek  were  press'd  within 
The  lidded  depth  of  her  life-breathing  bosom  ; 
But  not  as  now,  since  T  am  made  the  wind 
Which  fails  beneath  the  music  that  I  bear 
Of  thy  most  wordless  converse ;  since  dissolved 
Into  the  sense  with  which  love  talks,  my  rest 
Was  troubled  and  yet  sweet ;  my  waking  hours 
Too  full  of  care  and  pain. 


Lift  up  thine  eyes, 
And  let  me  read  thy  dream. 

PANTHEA. 

As  I  have  said 
With  our  sea-sister  at  his  feet  I  slept. 
The  mountain  mists,  condensing  at  our  voice 
Under  the  moon,  had  spread  their  snowy  flakes, 
From  the  keen  ice  shielding  our  linked  sleep. 
Then  two  dreams  came.     One,  I  remember  not 
But  in  the  other  his  pale  wound-wom  limbs 
335 


88 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Fell  from  Prometheus,  and  the  azure  night 

Grew  radiant  with  the  glory  of  that  form 

Which  lives  unchanged  within,  and  his  voice  fell 

Like  music  which  makes  giddy  the  dim  brain, 

Faint  with  intoxication  of  keen  joy : 

"  Sister  of  her  whose  footsteps  pave  the  world 

With  loveliness — more  fair  than  aught  but  her. 

Whose  shadow  thou  art — lift  thine  eyes  on  me." 

I  lifted  them :  the  overpowering  light 

Of  that  immortal  shape  was  shadow'd  o'er 

By  love ;  which,  from  his  soft  and  flowing  limbs, 

And  passion-parted  lips,  and  keen,  faint  eyes, 

Steam'd  forth  like  vaporous  fire ;  an  atmosphere 

Which  wrapt  me  in  its  all-dissolving  power. 

As  the  warm  ether  of  the  morning  sun 

Wraps  ere  it  drinks  some  cloud  of  wandering  dew. 

I  saw  not,  heard  not,  moved  not,  only  felt 

His  presence  flow  and  mingle  through  my  blood 

Till  it  became  his  life,  and  his  grew  mine, 

And  I  was  thus  absorb'd,  until  it  past, 

And  like  the  vapors  when  the  sun  sinks  down 

Gathering  again  in  drops  upon  the  pines. 

And  tremulous  as  they,  in  the  deep  night 

My  being  was  condensed ;  and  as  the  rays 

Of  thought  were  slowly  gather'd,  I  could  hear 

His  voice,  whose  accents  linger'd  ere  they  died 

Like  footsteps  of  weak  melody :  thy  name 

Among  the  many  sounds  alone  I  heard 

Of  what  might  be  articulate ;  though  still 

I  listen'd  through  the  night  when  sound  was  none. 

lone  waken'd  then,  and  said  to  me : 

"  Canst  thou  divine  what  troubles  me  to-night  ? 

I  always  knew  what  I  desired  before, 

Nor  ever  found  delight  to  wish  in  vain. 

But  now  I  cannot  tell  thee  what  I  seek; 

I  know  not ;  something  sweet,  since  it  is  sweet 

Even  to  desire ;  it  is  thy  sport,  false  sister ; 

Thou  hast  discover'd  some  enchantment  old. 

Whose  spells  have  stolen  my  spirit  as  I  slept 

And  mingled  it  with  thine :  for  when  just  now 

We  kiss'd,  I  felt  within  thy  parted  lips 

The  sweet  air  that  sustairr'd  me,  and  the  warmth 

Of  the  life-blood,  for  loss  of  which  I  faint, 

Quiver'd  between  our  intertwining  arms." 

I  answer'd  not,  for  the  Eastern  star  grew  pale, 

But  fled  to  thee. 

ASIA. 

Thou  speakest,  but  thy  words 
Are  as  the  air :  I  feel  them  not :  Oh,  lift 
Thine  eyes,  that  I  may  read  his  written  soul ! 

PANTHEA. 

I  lift  them,  though  they  drop  beneath  the  load 
Of  that  they  would  express :  what  canst  thou  see 
But  thine  own  fairest  shadow  imaged  there  ? 


Thine  eyes  are  like  the  deep-blue,  boundless  heaven 
Contracted  to  two  circles  underneath 
Their  long,  fine  lashes ;  dark,  far,  measureless, 
Orb  within  orb,  and  line  through  luie  inwoven. 

PANTHKA. 

Why  lookest  thou  as  if  a  spirit  past  ? 

ASIA. 

There  is  a  change :  beyond  their  inmost  depth 
I  see  a  shade,  a  shape  :  'tis  He,  array'd 
fn  the  soft  light  of  his  own  smiles,  which  spread 
Like  radiance  from  the  cloud-surrotmded  morn. 


Prometheus,  it  is  thine  !  depart  not  yet ! 

Say  not  those  smiles  that  we  shall  meet  again 

Within  that  bright  pavilion  which  their  beams 

Shall  build  on  the  waste  world  ?  The  dream  is  told 

What  shape  is  that  between  us  ?    Its  rude  hair 

Roughens  the  wind  that  lifts  it,  its  regard 

Is  wild  and  quick,  yet  'tis  a  thing  of  air. 

For  through  its  gray  robe  gleams  the  golden  dew 

Whose  stars  the  noon  has  quench'd  not. 

DREAM. 

Follow!  Follow! 

PANTHEA. 

It  is  mine  other  dream. 

ASIA. 

It  disappears. 

PANTHEA. 

It  passes  now  into  my  mind.     Methought 
As  we  sate  here,  the  flower-infolding  buds 
Burst  on  yon  lightning-blasted  almond-tree. 
When  swift  from  the  white  Scythian  wilderness 
A  wind  swept  forth  wrinkling  the  Earth  with  frost 
1  look'd,  and  all  the  blossoms  were  blown  down ; 
But  on  each  leaf  was  stamp'd,  as  the  blue  bells 
Of  Hyacinth  tell  Apollo's  written  grief, 
O,  follow,  follow ! 

ASIA. 

As  you  speak,  your  words 
Fill,  pause  by  pause,  my  own  forgotten  sleep 
With  shapes.    Methought  among  the  lawns  together 
We  wander'd,  underneath  the  young  gray  dawn, 
And  multitudes  of  dense  white  fleecy  clouds 
Were  wandering  in  thick  flocks  along  the  mountains 
Shepherded  by  the  slow,  unwilling  wind  ; 
And  the  white  dew  on  the  new-bladed  grass. 
Just  piercing  the  dark  earth,  hung  silently ; 
And  there  was  more  which  I  remember  not : 
But  on  the  shadows  of  the  morning  clouds. 
Athwart  the  purple  mountain  slope,  was  written, 
Follow,  O,  follow  !    As  they  vanish'd  by. 
And  on  each  herb,  from  which  Heaven's  dew  had 

fallen. 
The  like  was  stamp'd,  as  with  a  withering  fire. 
A  wind  arose  among  the  pines :  it  shook 
The  clinging  music  from  their  boughs,  and  then 
Low,  sweet,  faint  sounds,  like  the  farewell  of  ghostSi 
Were  heard  :  Oh,  follow,  follow,  follow  me  ! 
And  then  I  said  ;  "  Panthea,  look  on  me." 
But  in  the  depth  of  those  beloved  eyes 
Still  I  saw,  follow,  follow ! 

ECHO. 

Follow,  follow ! 

PANTHEA 

The  crags,   this  clear   spring   morning,  mock  our 

voices. 
As  they  were  spirit-tongued. 

ASIA. 

It  is  some  being 
Around  the  crags.     What  fine  clear  sounds !  O,  list , 

ECHOES  {unseen). 
Echoes  we  :  listen ! 
We  cannot  stay : 
As  dew-stars  glisten 
Then  fade  away — 
Child  of  Ocean ! 

336 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


89 


ASIA. 

Hark  !  Spirits,  speak.    The  liquid  responses 
01'  tlieir  aerial  tongues  yet  sound. 


PANTHEA. 


I  hear. 


O,  follow,  follow, 
*    As  our  voice  recedeth 
Through  the  caverns  hollow, 
Where  the  forest  spreadeih ; 
(More  distant.) 
O,  follow,  follow  I 
Through  the  caverns  hollow, 
As  the  song  floats  thou  pursue, 
Where  the  wild  bee  never  flew, 
Through  the  noontide  darkness  deep. 
By  the  odor-breathing  sleep 
Of  faint  night-flowers,  and  the  waves 
At  the  fountain-lighted  caves, 
While  our  music,  wild  and  sweet, 
Mocks  thy  gently  falling  feet, 
Child  of  Ocean  I 


^all  we  pursue  the  sound  ?  It  grows  more  faint 
And  distant. 

PANTHEA. 

List !  the  strain  float-s  nearer  now 

ECHOES. 

In  the  world  unknown 
Sleeps  a  voice  unspoken  ; 

By  thy  step  alone 

Can  its  rest  be  broken ; 
Child  of  Ocean ! 


How  the  notes  sink  upon  the  ebbing  wind .' 


O,  follow,  follow  ! 

Through  the  caverns  hollow, 
As  the  song  floats  thou  pursue, 
By  the  woodland  noontide  dew; 
By  the  forests,  lakes,  and  fountains. 
Through  the  many-folded  mountains  ; 
To  the  rents,  and  gulfs,  and  chasms, 
Where  the  Earth  reposed  from  spasms, 
On  the  day  when  He  and  thou 
Parted,  to  commingle  now  ; 
Child  of  Ocean ! 


Come,  sweet  Panthea,  link  thy  hand  in  mine, 
And  follow,  ere  the  voices  fade  away. 


SCENE  II. 


A  Forest,  intermingled  with  Rocks  and  Caverns.  Asia 
and  Pa.nthea  pass  into  it.  Two  young  Fauns  are 
sitting  on  a  Rock,  listening 

SEMICHORUS  1.  OF  SPIRITS. 

The  path  through  which  that  lovely  twain 

Have  past,  by  cedar,  pine,  and  yew, 

And  each  dark  tree  that  ever  grew. 

Is  curtain'd  out  from  Heaven's  wide  blue; 

2S 


Nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  wind,  nor  rain. 
Can  pierce  its  inlerwoven  bovvers. 

Nor  aught,  save  where  some  cloud  of  dew, 
Drifted  along  the  earth-creeping  breeze. 
Between  the  trunks  of  the  hoar  trees. 

Hangs  each  a  pearl  in  the  pale  flowers 

Of  the  green  laurel,  blown  anew ; 
And  bends,  and  then  fades  silently, 
One  frail  and  fair  anemone: 
Or  when  some  star  of  many  a  one 
That  climbs  and  wanders  through  steep  night, 
Has  found  the  cleft  through  which  alone 
Beams  fall  from  high  those  depths  upon 
Ere  it  is  borne  away,  away. 
By  the  swift  Heavens  that  cannot  stay. 
It  scatters  drops  of  golden  light. 
Like  lines  of  rain  that  ne'er  unite: 
And  the  gloom  divine  is  all  around  ; 
And  underneath  is  the  mossy  ground. 


SEMICHORUS    II. 

There  the  voluptuous  nightingales. 

Are  awake  through  all  the  broad  noonday, 

When  one  with  bliss  or  sadness  fails. 

And  through  the  windless  ivy-boughs. 
Sick  with  sweet  love,  droops  dying  away 

On  its  mate's  music-panting  bosom ; 

Another  from  the  swinging  blossom. 

Watching  to  catch  the  languid  close 
Of  the  last  strain,  then  lifis  on  high 
The  wings  of  the  weak  melody. 

Till  some  new  strain  of  feeling  bear 
The  song,  and  all  the  woods  are  mute  ; 

AVhen  there  is  heard  through  the  dim  air 

The  rush  of  wings,  and  rising  there 
Like  many  a  lake-surrounding  flute, 

Sounds  overflow  the  listener's  brain 

So  sweet,  that  joy  is  almost  pain. 


SEMICHORUS    I. 

There  those  enchanted  eddies  play 

Of  echoes,  music-iongued,  which  draw. 
By  Demogorgon's  mighty  law, 
With  meliing  rapture,  or  sweet  awe. 

All  spirits  on  that  secret  way; 

As  inland  boats  are  tl riven  to  Ocean 

Down  streams  made  strong  with  mouniain-lhaw 
And  lirst  there  comes  a  gentle  sound 
To  those  ill  talk  or  slumber  bound. 
And  wakes  the  destined  sod  emotion. 

Attracts,  impels  them  :  those  who  saw 
Say  from  the  breathing  earih  behind 
There  streams  a  plumc-uplil'iinL'  vNJnd 

Which  drives  iliem  on  their  path,  while  they 
Believe  their  own  swift  wings  and  feet 

The  sweet  desires  within  obey: 

And  so  they  float  upon  their  way, 

llnlil,  still  sweet,  but  loud  and  strong. 

The  siorm  of  sound  is  driven  along, 
Suck'd  up  and  hurrying  as  they  fleet 
Behind,  its  gathering  billows  meet, 

And  to  the  fatal  mountain  bear 

Like  clouds  amid  the  yielding  air. 

FIRST    FAUN. 

Canst  thou  imagine  where  those  spirits  live 
337 


90 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Which  make  such  delicate  music  in  the  woods? 
We  haunt  within  the  least  frequented  caves 
And  closest  coverts,  and  we  know  these  wilds, 
Yet  never  meet  them,  though  we  hear  them  oft : 
Where  may  they  hide  themselves  ? 

SECOND    FAUN. 

'Tis  hard  to  tell: 
I  have  heard  those  more  skill'd  in  spirits  say, 
The  bubbles,  which  enchantment  of  the  sun 
Sucks  from  the  pale  faint  water-flowers  that  pave 
The  oozy  bottom  of  clear  lakes  and  pools. 
Are  the  pavilions  where  such  dwell  and  float 
Under  the  green  and  golden  atmosphere 
Which  noontide  kindles  through  the  woven  leaves ; 
And  when  these  burst,  and  the  thin  fiery  air, 
The  which  they  breathed  within  those  lucent  domes, 
Ascends  to  flow  like  meteors  through  the  night, 
They  ride  on  ihem,  and  rein  their  headlong  speed, 
And  bow  their  burning  crests,  and  glide  in  fire 
Under  the  waters  of  the  earth  again. 

FIRST    FAUN. 

If  such  live  thus,  have  others  other  lives, 
Under  pink  blossoms  or  within  the  bells 
Of  meadow  flov^ers,  or  folded  violets  deep, 
Or  on  their  dying  odors,  when  they  die, 
Or  on  the  sunlight  of  the  sphered  dew  ? 

SECOND    FAUN. 

Ay,  many  more  which  we  may  well  divine. 
But  should  we  stay  to  speak,  noontide  would  come, 
And  thwart  Silenus  find  his  goats  undrawn, 
And  grudge  to  sing  those  wise  and  lovely  songs 
Of  fate,  and  chance,  and  God,  and  Chaos  old. 
And  Love,  and  the  chain  d  Titan's  woful  dooms. 
And  how  he  shall  be  loosed,  and  make  the  earth 
One  brotherhood  :  delightful  strains  which  cheer 
Our  solitary  twilights,  and  which  charm 
To  silence  the  unenvying  nightingales. 


SCENE  III. 


A  Pinnacle  of  Rock  among  Mountains.    Asia  and 
Panthea. 

PANTHEA. 

Hither  the  sound  has  borne  us — to  the  realm 

Of  Demogorgon,  and  the  mighty  portal, 

Like  a  volcano's  meteor-breathing  chasm, 

Whence  the  oracular  vapor  is  hurl'd  up 

Which  lonely  men  drink  wandering  in  their  youth, 

And  call  truth,  virtue,  love,  genius,  or  joy. 

That  maddening  wine  of  life,  whose  dregs  they  drain 

To  deep  intoxication  ;  and  U|)lift, 

Like  Msenads  who  cry  loud,  Evoe!  Evoe! 

The  voice  which  is  contagion  to  the  world. 


Fit  throne  for  such  a  Power!  Magnificent! 
How  glorious  art  thou.  Earth '  And  if  thou  be 
The  shadow  of  some  spirit  lovelier  still. 
Though  evil  stain  its  work,  and  it  should  be 
Like  its  creation,  weak  yet  beautiful, 
I  could  fall  down  and  worship  that  and  thee. 
Even  now  ray  heart  adoreth  :  Wonderful ! 
Look,  sister,  ere  the  vapor  dim  thy  brain: 
Beneath  is  a  wide  plain  of  billowy  mist, 
As  a  lake,  paving  in  the  morning  sky, 
With  azure  waves  which  burst  in  silver  light, 
Some  Indian  vale.    Behold  it,  rolling  on 


Under  the  curdling  winds;  and  islanding 
The  peak  whereon  we  stand,  midway,  around, 
Encinctured  by  the  dark  and  blooming  forests, 
Dim  twilight-lawns,  and  stream-illumined  caves, 
And  wind-enchanted  shapes  of  wandering  mist; 
And  far  on  high  the  keen  sky-cleaving  mountains 
From  icy  spires  of  sunlike  radiance  fling 
The  dawn,  as  lifted  Ocean's  dazzling  spray. 
From  some  Atlantic  islet  scatter'd  up, 
Spangles  the  wind  with  lamp-like  wateT-drops, 
The  vale  is  girdled  with  their  walls,  a  howl 
Of  cataracts  from  their  thaw-cloven  ravines 
Satiates  the  listening  wind,  continuous,  vast. 
Awful  as  silence.    Hark!  the  rushing  snow  ! 
The  sun-awaken'd  avalanche  !  whose  mass. 
Thrice  sifted  by  the  storm,  had  gather'd  there 
Flake  after  flake,  in  Heaven-defying  minds 
As  thought  by  thought  is  piled,  till  some  great  truth 
Is  loosen'd,  and  the  nations  echo  round. 
Shaken  to  their  roots,  as  do  the  mountains  now. 

PANTHEA. 

Look  how  the  gusty  sea  of  mist  is  breaking 
In  crimson  foam,  even  at  our  feet!  it  rises 
As  Ocean  at  the  enchantment  of  the  moon 
Round  foodless  men  wreck'd  on  some  oozy  isle. 


The  fragments  of  the  cloud  are  scatter'd  up ; 
The  wind  that  lifts  them  disentwines  my  hair ; 
Its  billows  now  sweep  o'er  mine  eyes  ;  my  brain 
Grows  dizzy ;  I  see  thin  shapes  within  the  mist. 

PANTHEA. 

A  countenance  with  beckoning  smiles :  there  bum» 
An  azure  fire  within  its  golden  locks ! 
Another  and  another :  hark !  they  speak ! 

SONG    OF    spirits. 

To  the  deep,  to  the  deep, 

Down,  down ! 
Through  the  shade  of  sleep, 
Through  the  cloudy  strife 
Of  Death  and  of  Life ; 
Through  the  veil  and  the  bar 
Of  things  which  seem  and  are. 
Even  to  the  steps  of  the  remotest  throne, 

Down,  down  I 

Wliile  the  sound  whirls  around, 

Down,  down! 
As  the  fawn  draws  the  hound, 
As  the  lightning  the  vapor. 
As  a  weak  moth  the  taper  ; 
Death,  despair ;  love,  sorrow; 
Time  both  ;  to-day,  to-morrow ; 
As  steel  obeys  the  spirit  of  the  stono, 

Down,  down! 

Tlirough  the  gray,  void  abysm, 

Down,  down! 
Where  the  air  is  no  prism, 
And  the  moon  and  stars  are  not, 
And  the  cavern-crags  wear  not 
The  radiance  of  Heaven, 
Nor  the  gloom  to  Earth  given. 
Where  there  is  one  pervading,  one  alone 

Down,  down ! 

338 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND.     " 


91 


In  the  depth  of  the  deep 

Down,  down ! 
Like  veil'd  lightning  asleep, 
Like  the  spark  nursed  in  embers, 
The  last  look  Love  remembers, 
Like  a  diamond,  wliich  shines 
On  the  dark  wealth  of  mines, 
A  spell  is  treasured  but  for  thee  alone. 

Down,  down ! 

We  have  bound  thee,  we  guide  thee : 

Down,  down ! 
With  the  bright  form  beside  thee ; 
Kesist  not  the  weakness. 
Such  strength  is  in  meekness 
That  the  Eternal,  the  Immortal, 
Must  unloose  through  life's  portal 
The    snake-like    Doom   coil'd    underneath   his 
throne 

By  that  alone. 


SCENE  IV. 


The  Cave  of  Demogorgon,  Asia  and  Panthea. 

PANTHEA. 

What  veiled  form  sits  on  that  ebon  throne  ? 


Tb    veil  has  fallen. 

PANTHEA. 

I  see  a  mighty  darkness 
Filling  the  seat  of  power,  and  rays  of  gloom 
Dart  round,  as  light  from  the  meridian  sun, 
Ungazed  upon  and  shapeless  ;  neither  limb, 
Nor  form,  nor  outline  ;  yet  we  feel  it  is 
A  living  Spirit. 

de.mogorgon. 
Ask  what  thou  wouldst  know. 

ASIA. 

Wliat  canst  thou  tell  ? 

DEMOGORGOIV. 

All  things  thou  darcst  demand. 

ASIA. 

Who  made  the  living  world  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

God. 

ASIA. 

Who  made  all 
That  it  contains  ?  thought,  passion,  reason,  will, 
Imagination  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

God :  Almighty  God. 

ASIA. 

Who  made  that  sense  which,  when  the  winds  of  sprin" 

In  rarest  visitation,  or  the  voice 

Of  one  beloved  heard  in  youth  alone. 

Fills  the  faint  eyes  with  falling  tears  which  dim 

The  radiant  looks  of  unbevvailing  flowers, 

And  leaves  this  peopled  earth  a  solitude 

When  it  returns  no  more  ? 

DE.MOGORGON. 

Merciful  God. 

ASIA. 

And  who  made  terror,  madness,  crime,  remorse. 
Which  from  the  links  of  the  great  chain  of  things, 
To  every  thought  within  the  mind  of  man 


Sway  and  drag  heavil)',  and  each  one  reels 
Under  the  load  towanls  the  pit  of  death  ; 
Abandon'd  hope,  and  love  that  turns  to  hate; 
And  self-contempt,  bitterer  to  drink  than  blood  ; 
Pain,  whose  unheeding  and  familiar  speech 
Is  howling,  and  keen  shrieks,  day  after  day; 
And  Hell,  or  the  sharp  fear  of  IIoU  ? 


DEMOGORGON. 


He  r'iigns. 


Utter  his  name  :  a  world  pining  in  pain 

Asks  but  his  name :  curses  shall  drag  him  down 


He  reigns. 


DEMOGORGON. 
ASIA. 

I  feel,  I  know  it :  who  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 


He  reigns. 

ASIA. 

Who  reigns  ?    There  was  the  Heaven  and  Earth  at 

first, 
And  Light  and  Love ;  then  Saturn,  from  w-hose  throne 
Time  fell,  an  envious  shadow :  such  the  state 
Of  the  earth's  primal  spirits  beneath  his  sway. 
As  the  calm  joy  of  flow  ers  and  living  leaves 
Before  the  wind  or  sun  has  wither'd  them 
And  semi-vital  worms ;  but  he  refused 
The  birthright  of  their  being,  knowledge,  power, 
The  skill  which  wields  the  elements,  the  thought 
Which  pierces  the  dim  universe  like  light, 
Self-empire,  and  the  majesty  of  love  ; 
For  thirst  of  which  they  fainted.    Then  Prometheus 
Gave  wisdom,  which  is  strength,  to  Jupiter. 
And  wilh  this  law  alone,  "Let  man  be  free," 
Clothed  him  with  the  dominion  of  wide  Heaven. 
To  know  nor  faith,  nor  love,  nor  law ;  to  be 
Omnipotent  but  friendless,  is  to  reign ; 
And  Jove  now  reign'd ;  for  on  the  race  of  man 
First  famine  and  then  toil,  and  then  disease, 
Strife,  wounds,  and  ghastly  death  unseen  before, 
Fell ;  and  the  unseasonable  seasons  drove. 
With  alternating  shafts  of  frost  and  fire. 
Their  shelterless,  pale  tribes  to  mountain  caves : 
And  in  their  desert  hearts  fierce  wants  he  sent, 
And  mad  disquietudes,  and  shadows  idle 
Of  unreal  good,  which  levied  mutual  war. 
So  ruining  the  lair  wherein  they  raged. 
Prometheus  saw,  and  waked  tlie  legion'd  hopes 
Which  sleep  within  folded  Elysian  flowers. 
Nepenthe,  Moly,  Amaranth,  fadeless  blooms. 
That  they  might  hide  with  thin  and  rainbow  wings 
The  shape  of  Death  ;  and  Love  he  sent  to  bind 
The  disunited  tendrils  of  that  vine 
Which  bears  the  wine  of  life,  the  human  heart; 
And  he  tamed  lire,  which,  like  some  bejist  of  prey, 
.Most  terrible,  but  lovely,  play'd  beneath 
The  frown  of  man ;  and  tortured  to  his  will 
Iron  and  gold,  the  slaves  and  signs  of  power. 
And  gems  and  poisons,  and  all  subtlest  forms 
Hidden  beneath  the  mountains  and  the  waves, 
lie  gave  man  speech,  and  speech  created  thought. 
Which  is  the  measure  of  tiie  universe ; 
And  Science  struck  the  thrones  of  earth  and  heaven, 
Which  shook  but  fell  not;  and  the  harmonious  mind 
Pour'd  itself  forth  in  all-prophetic  song; 
And  music  lifled  up  the  listening  spirit 
Until  it  walk'd,  exempt  from  mortal  care, 
339 


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SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Godlike,  o'er  the  clear  billows  of  sweet  sound ; 

And  human  hands  first  mimick'd  and  then  mock'd, 

With  moulded  limbs  more  lovely  than  its  own, 

The  liuman  form,  till  marble  grew  divine ; 

And  mothers,  gazing,  drank  the  love  men  see 

Reflected  in  their  race,  behold,  and  perish. 

He  told  the  hidden  power  of  herbs  and  springs, 

And  Disease  drank  and  slept.  Death  grew  like  sleep. 

He  taught  the  implicated  orbits  woven 

Of  the  wide-wandering  stars;  and  how  the  sun 

Changes  his  lair,  and  by  what  secret  spell 

The  pale  moon  is  transform'd,  when  her  broad  eye 

Gazes  not  on  the  interlunar  sea  : 

He  taught  to  rule,  as  life  directs  the  limbs, 

The  tempest-winged  chariots  of  the  Ocean, 

And  the  Celt  knew  the  Indian.     Cities  then 

Were  built,  and  through  their  snow-like  columns  flow'd 

The  warm  winds,  and  the  azure  ether  shone. 

And  the  blue  sea  and  shadowy  hills  were  seen. 

Such,  the  alleviations  of  his  state, 

Prometheus  gave  to  man,  for  which  he  hangs 

Withering  in  destined  pain  :  but  who  rains  down 

Evil,  the  immedicable  plague,  which,  wliile 

Man  looks  on  liis  creation  like  a  God 

And  sees  that  it  is  glorious,  drives  him  on 

The  wreck  of  his  own  will,  the  scorn  of  earth, 

The  outcast,  the  abandon'd,  the  alone  ? 

Not  Jove :  while  yet  his  frown  shook  heaven,  aye 

when 
His  adversary  from  adamantine  chains 
Cursed  him,  he  trembled  like  a  slave.    Declare 
Who  is  his  master  ?    Is  he  too  a  slave  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

All  spirits  are  enslaved  which  serve  things  evil : 
Thou  knowest  if  Jupiter  be  such  or  no. 

ASIA. 

Whom  called 'st  thou  God  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

I  spoke  but  as  ye  speak, 
I'or  Jove  is  the  supreme  of  living  things. 

ASIA. 

Who  is  the  master  of  the  slave  ? 

DEMOGORGON. 

If  the  abysm 
Could  vomit  forth  its  secrets — But  a  voice 
Is  wanting,  the  deep  truth  is  imageless ; 
For  what  would  it  avail  to  bid  thee  gaze 
On  the  revolving  world  ?    What  to  bid  speak 
Fate,  Time,  Occasion,  Chance  and  Change  ?  To  these 
All  things  are  subject  but  eternal  Love. 

ASIA. 

So  much  I  ask'd  before,  and  my  heart  gave 
The  response  thou  hast  given ;  and  of  such  truths 
Each  to  itself  must  be  the  oracle. 
One  more  demand  ;  and  do  thou  answer  me 
As  my  own  soul  would  answer,  did  it  know 
That  which  I  ask.     Prometheus  shall  arise 
Henceforth  the  sun  of  this  rejoicing  world : 
When  shall  the  destined  hour  arrive? 


DEMOGORGON. 


Behold ! 


The  rocks  are  cloven,  and  through  the  purple  night 
I  see  cars  drawn  by  rainbow-winged  steeds 
Which  trample  the  dim  winds :  in  each  there  stands 
A  wild-eyed  charioteer  urging  their  flight. 
Some  look  behind,  as  fiends  pursued  them  there, 


And  yet  I  see  no  shapes  but  the  keen  stars  • 

Others,  with  burning  eyes,  lean  forth,  and  drink 

With  eager  lips  the  wind  of  their  own  speed, 

As  if  the  thing  they  loved  fled  on  before, 

And  now,  even  now,  they  clasp'd  it    Their  bright 

locks 
Stream  like  a  comet's  flashing  hair :  they  all 
Sweep  onward. 

DEMOGORGON. 

These  are  the  immortal  Hours, 
Of  whom  thou  didst  demand.    One  waits  for  thee. 

ASIA. 

A  spirit  with  a  dreadful  countenance 

Checks  its  dark  chariot  by  the  craggy  gulf 

Unlike  thy  brethren,  ghastly  charioteer, 

Who  art  thou?  Whither  wouldst  thou  bear  me  ?  Speak! 

SPIRIT. 

I  am  the  shadow  of  a  destiny 
More  dread  than  is  my  aspect :  ere  yon  planet 
Has  set,  the  darkness  which  ascends  with  me 
Shall  wrap  in  lasting  night  heaven's  kingless  throne 

ASIA. 

What  meanest  thou  ? 

PANTHEA. 

That  terrible  shadow  floats 
Up  from  its  throne,  as  may  the  lurid  smoke 
Of  earthquake-ruin'd  cities  o'er  the  sea. 
Lo !  it  ascends  the  car ;  the  coursers  fly 
Terrified  :  watch  its  path  among  the  stars 
Blackening  the  night ! 

ASIA. 

Thus  I  am  answer'd :  strange ! 

PANTHEA. 

See,  near  the  verge,  another  chariot  stays  ; 
An  ivory  shell  inlaid  with  crimson  fire. 
Which  comes  and  goes  within  its  sculptured  rim 
Of  delicate  strange  tracery ;  the  young  spirit 
That  guides  it  has  the  dove-like  eyes  of  hope ; 
How  its  soft  smiles  attract  the  soul !  as  light 
Lures  winged  insects  through  the  lampless  air. 

SPIRIT. 

My  coursers  are  fed  with  the  lightning. 
They  drink  of  the  whirlwind's  stream, 

And  when  the  red  morning  is  bright'ning 
They  bathe  in  the  fresh  sunbeam ; 
They  have  strength  for  their  swiftness  J  deem. 

Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 

I  desire :  and  their  speed  makes  night  kindle ; 
I  fear:  they  outstrip  the  Typhoon; 

Ere  the  cloud  piled  on  Atlas  can  dwindle 
We  encircle  the  earth  and  the  moon  : 
We  shall  rest  from  long  labors  at  noon : 

Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 


I 


SCENE  V. 


Ttie  Car  pauses  within  a  Cloud  on  the  Top  of  a  snowy 
Mountain.  Asia,  Panthea,  and  the  Spirit  of  thk 
Hour. 

SPIRIT. 

On  the  brink  of  the  night  and  the  morning 
My  coursers  are  wont  to  respire ; 

But  the  Earth  has  just  whisper'd  a  warning 
That  their  flight  must  be  swifter  than  fire: 
They  shall  drink  the  hot  speed  of  desire! 
340 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


93 


Thou  breathest  on  their  nostrils,  but  my  breath 
Would  give  them  swifter  speed. 


Alas !  it  could  not. 

PANTHEA. 

Oh  Spirit !  pause,  and  tell  whence  is  the  light 
Which  fdls  the  cloud  ?  the  sun  is  yet  unrisen. 

SPIRIT. 

The  sun  will  rise  not  until  noon.     Apollo 
Is  held  in  heaven  by  wonder ;  and  the  light 
■WTiich  fills  this  vapor,  as  the  aerial  hue 
Of  fountain-gazing  roses  fills  the  water, 
Flows  from  thy  mighty  sister. 

PANTHEA. 

Yes,  I  feel — 

ASIA. 

What  Is  it  Avith  tliee,  sister  ?  Thou  art  pale. 

PANTHEA. 

How  thou  art  changed !  I  dare  not  look  on  thee  ; 

I  feel  but  see  thee  not.     I  scarce  endure 

The  radiance  of  thy  beauty,     Some  good  change 

Is  working  in  the  elements,  which  suffer 

Thy  presence  thus  unveil'd.     The  Nereids  tell 

That  on  the  day  when  the  clear  hyaline 

Was  cloven  at  thy  uprise,  and  thou  didst  stand 

Within  a  veined  shell,  which  floated  on 

Over  the  calm  floor  of  the  crystal  sea. 

Among  the  Egean  isles,  and  by  the  shores 

Which  bear  thy  name ;  love,  like  the  atmosphere 

Of  the  sun's  fire  filling  the  living  world, 

Burst  from  thee,  and  illumined  earth  and  heaven 

And  the  deep  ocean  and  the  sunless  caves 

And  all  that  dwells  within  them ;  till  grief  cast 

Eclipse  upon  the  soul  from  which  it  came : 

Such  art  thou  now ;  nor  is  it  I  alone, 

Thy  sister,  thy  companion,  thine  own  chosen  one. 

But  the  whole  world  which  seeks  thy  sympathy. 

Hearest  thou  not  sounds  i'  the  air  which  speak  the  love 

Of  all  articulate  beings  ?  Feelest  thou  not 

The  inanimate  winds  enamor'd  of  thee  ?  List ! 

[Music. 

ASIA. 

Thy  words  are  sweeter  than  aught  else  but  his 
Whose  echoes  tliey  are  ;  yet  all  love  is  sweet, 
Given  or  return'd.     Common  as  light  is  love, 
And  its  familiar  voice  wearies  not  ever. 
Like  the  wide  heaven,  the  all-sustaining  air. 
It  makes  the  reptile  equal  to  the  God  : 
They  who  inspire  it  most  are  fortunate, 
As  I  am  now ;  but  those  who  feel  it  most 
Are  happier  still,  after  long  sufferings, 
As  I  shall  soon  become. 

PANTHEA. 

List !  Spirits,  spyeak. 

VOICE  (in  the  air,  singing). 
Life  of  Life  !  thy  lips  enkindle 

With  their  love  the  breath  between  them ; 
And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 

Make  the  cold  air  fire  ;  then  screen  them 


In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 
Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light !  thy  lips  are  burning 

Through  the  vest  which  seems  to  hide  them ; 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 

Through  the  clouds  ere  they  divide  them ; 

And  this  atmosphere  divinest 

Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shinest. 

Fair  are  others  ;  none  beholds  thee, 
But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 

Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 
From  the  sight,  that  liquid  splendor, 

And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never, 

As  I  feel  now,  lost  for  ever ! 

Lamp  of  Earth !  where'er  thou  movest 

Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  brightness, 
And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest 

Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness, 

Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  faihng, 

Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing ! 


My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat. 

Which,  like  a  sleeping  swan,  doth  float 
Upon  the  silver  waves  of  thy  sweet  singing ; 

And  thine  doth  like  an  angel  sit 

Beside  the  helm  conducting  it. 
Whilst  all  the  winds  with  melody  are  ringing 

It  seems  to  float  ever,  for  ever. 

Upon  that  many-winding  river. 

Between  mountains,  woods,  abysses, 

A  paradise  of  wildernesses! 
Till,  like  one  in  slumber  bound, 
Borne  to  the  ocean,  I  float  down,  around, 
Into  a  sea  profound,  of  ever-spreading'  eound  : 

Meanwhile  thy  spirit  lifts  its  pinions 

In  music's  most  serene  dominions  ; 
Catching  the  winds  that  fan  that  happy  heaven. 

And  we  sail  on,  away,  afar. 

Without  a  course,  without  a  star. 
But,  by  the  instinct  of  sweet  music  driven ; 

Till  through  Elysian  garden  islets 

By  thee,  most  beautiful  of  pilots. 

Where  never  mortal  pinnace  glided. 

The  boat  of  my  desire  is  guided  : 
Realms  where  the  air  we  breathe  is  love, 
Which  in  the  winds  on  the  waves  doth  move, 
Harmonizing  this  earth  with  what  we  feel  above 

We  have  pass'd  Age's  icy  caves. 

And  Manhood's  dark  and  tossing  waves, 
And  Youth's  smooth  ocean,  smiling  to  betray : 

Beyond  the  glassy  gulfs  we  flee 

Of  shadow-peopled  Infancy, 
Through  Death  and  Birth,  to  a  diviner  day: 

A  paradise  of  vaulted  bowers 

Lit  by  downward-gazing  flowers. 

And  watery  paths  that  wind  between 

Wildernesses  calm  and  green. 
Peopled  by  shapes  too  bright  to  see. 
And  rest,  having  beheld  ;  somewhat  like  thee  , 
Which  walk  upon  the  sea,  and  chant  melodioi»ljr  • 
45  341 


94 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


ACT  IIL 

SCENE  I. 

Heaven     Jupiter  on  Ids  Throne;  Thetis  and  the 
other  Deities  assembled. 

JUPITER. 

Ye  congregated  powers  of  heaven,  who  share 

The  glory  and  the  strength  of  him  ye  serve, 

Rejoice !  henceforth  I  am  omnipotent. 

All  else  had  been  subdued  to  me ;  alone 

The  soul  of  man,  like  an  unextinguish'd  fire. 

Yet  burns  towards  heaven  with  fierce  reproach,  and 

doubt, 
And  lamentation,  and  reluctant  prayer. 
Hurling  up  insurrection,  which  might  make 
Our  antique  empire  insecure,  though  built 
On  eldest  faith,  and  hell's  coeval,  fear ; 
And  though  my  curses  through  the  pendulous  air. 
Like  snow  on  herbless  peaks,  fall  flake  by  flake. 
And  cling  to  it ;  though  under  my  wrath's  might 
It  climb  the  crags  of  life,  step  after  step. 
Which  wound  it,  as  ice  wounds  unsandall'd  feet. 
It  yet  remains  supreme  o'er  misery. 
Aspiring,  unrepress'd,  yet  soon  to  fall : 
Even  now  have  I  begotten  a  strange  wonder, 
That  fatal  child,  the  terror  of  the  earth. 
Who  waits  but  till  the  distant  hour  arrive, 
Bearing  from  Demogorgon's  vacant  throne 
The  dreadful  might  of  ever-living  limbs 
Which  clothed  that  awful  spirit  unbeheld. 
To  redescend,  and  trample  out  the  spark. 
Pour  forth  heaven's  wine,  Idaean  Ganymede, 
And  let  it  fill  the  Daedal  cups  like  fire. 
And  from  the  flower-inwoven  soil  divine 
Ye  all-triumphant  harmonies  arise. 
As  dew  from  earth  under  the  twilight  stars : 
Drink !  be  the  nectar  circling  through  your  veins 
The  soul  of  joy,  ye  ever-living  Gods, 
Till  exultation  burst  in  one  wide  voice 
Like  music  from  Elysian  winds. 

And  thou 
Ascend  beside  me,  veiled  in  the  light 
Of  the  desire  which  makes  thee  one  with  me, 
Thetis,  bright  image  of  eternity  ! 
When  thou  didst  cry,  "  Insufferable  might ! 
God  !  Spare  me !  I  sustain  not  the  quick  flames. 
The  penetrating  presence ;  all  my  being. 
Like  him  whom  the  Numidian  seps  did  thaw 
Into  a  dew  with  poison,  is  dissolved. 
Sinking  through  its  foundations :"  even  then 
Two  mighty  spirits,  mingling,  made  a  third 
Mightier  than  either,  which,  unbodied  now. 
Between  us  floats,  felt,  although  unbeheld. 
Waiting  the  incarnation,  which  ascends, 
(Hear  ye  the  thunder  of  the  fiery  wheels 

'  Griding  the  winds  ?)  from  Demogorgon's  throne. 
Victory  !  victory !  Feel'st  thou  not,  O  world  ! 

'  The  earthquake  of  his  chariot  thundering  up 
Olympus  ? 

[The  Car  of  the  Hour  arrives.      Demogorgon  de- 
scends, and  moves  towards  the  Throne  of  Jupiter. 
Awful  shape,  what  art  thou?  Speak! 

demogorgon. 

Etermty.     Demand  no  direr  name. 
Descend,  and  follow  me  down  the  abyss. 


I  am  thy  child,  as  thou  wert  Saturn's  child ; 
Mightier  than  thee :  and  we  must  dwell  together 
Henceforth  in  darkness.     Lift  thy  lightnings  not. 
Tlie  tyranny  of  heaven  none  may  retain, 
Or  reassume,  or  hold,  succeeding  thee  : 
Yet  if  thou  wilt,  as  't  is  the  destiny 
Of  trodden  worms  to  writhe  till  they  are  dead, 
Put  forth  thy  might. 

JUPITER. 

Detested  prodigy ! 
Even  thus  beneath  the  deep  Titanian  prisons 
I  trample  thee  !  thou  lingerest  ? 

Mercy !  mercy ! 
No  pity,  no  release,  no  respite!  Oh, 
That  thou  wouldst  make  mine  enemy  my  judge, 
Even  where  he  hangs,  sear'd  by  my  long  revenge 
On  Caucasus  !  he  would  not  doom  me  thus. 
Gentle,  and  just,  and  dreadless,  is  he  not 
The  monarch  of  the  world  ?  What  art  thou  ? 
No  refuge !  no  appeal ! 

Sink  with  me  then, 
We  two  will  sink  on  the  wide  waves  of  ruin, 
Even  as  a  vulture  and  a  snake  outspent 
Drop,  twisted  in  inextricable  fight. 
Into  a  shoreless  sea.     Let  hell  unlock 
Its  mounded  oceans  of  tempestuous  fire. 
And  whelm  on  them  into  the  bottomless  void 
This  desolated  world,  and  thee,  and  me. 
The  conqueror  and  the  conquer'd,  and  the  wreck 
Of  that  for  which  they  combated. 

Ai!  Ai! 
The  elements  obey  me  not     I  sink 
Dizzily  down,  ever,  for  ever,  down. 
And,  like  a  cloud,  mine  enemy  above 
Darkens  my  fall  with  victory !  Ai,  Ai ! 


SCENE  II. 


The  Mouth  of  a  great  river  in  the  Island  Atlantis. 
Ocean  is  discovered  reclining  near  the  Shore, 
Apollo  stands  beside  him 

OCEAN. 

He  fell,  thou  sayest,  beneath  his  conquerors  frown? 

APOLLO. 

Aye,  when  the  strife  was  ended  which  made  dim 

The  orb  I  rule,  and  shook  the  solid  stars. 

The  terrors  of  his  eye  illumined  heaven 

With  sanguine  light,  through  the  thick  ragged  shirts 

Of  the  victorious  darkness,  as  he  fell : 

Like  the  last  glare  of  day's  red  agony. 

Which,  from  a  rent  among  the  fiery  clouds, 

Burns  far  along  the  tempest-wrinkled  deep. 

OCEAN. 

He  sunk  to  the  abyss  ?  To  the  dark  void  ? 

APOLLO. 

An  eagle  so  caught  in  some  bursting  cloud 
On  Caucasus,  his  thunder-baffled  wings 
Entangled  in  the  whiriwind,  and  his  eyes 
Which  gazed  on  the  undazzling  sun,  now  blinded 
By  the  white  lightning,  while  the  ponderous  hail 
Beats  on  his  struggling  form,  which  sinks  at  length 
Prone,  and  the  aerial  ice  clings  over  it. 

OCEAN. 

Henceforth  the  fields  of  Heaven-reflecting  sea 
Which    are  my  realm,  will    heave,  unstain'd  with 

blood. 
Beneath  the  uplifting  winds,  like  plains  of  com 
342 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUiND. 


95 


Sway'd  by  the  summer  air ;  my  streams  will  flow 
Round  many  peopled  continents,  and  round 
Fortunate  isles ;  and  from  their  glassy  thrones 
Blue  Proteus  and  his  humid  nymphs  shall  mark 
The  shadow  of  fair  ships,  as  mortals  see 
The  floating  bark  of  the  light-laden  moon 
With  that  white  star,  its  sightless  pilot's  crest, 
Borne  down  the  rapid  sunset's  el)bing  sea  ; 
Tracking  their  path  no  more  l>y  blood  and  groans, 
And  desolation,  and  the  mingled  voice 
Of  slavery  and  command  ;  but  by  the  light 
Of  wave-reflected  flowers,  and  floating  odors. 
And  music  soft,  and  mild,  free,  gentle  voices, 
That  sweetest  music,  such  as  spirits  love. 

APOLLO. 

And  I  shall  gaze  not  on  the  deeds  which  make 
My  mind  obscure  with  sorrow,  as  eclipse 
Darkens  the  sphere  I  guide ;  but  list,  I  hear 
The  small,  clear,  silver  lute  of  the  young  Spirit 
That  sits  on  the  morning  star. 

OCEAN. 

Tliou  must  away; 
Thy  steeds  will  pause  at  even,  till  when  farewell : 
The  loud  deep  calls  me  home  even  now  to  feed  it 
With  azure  calm  out  of  the  emerald  urns 
Which  stand  for  ever  full  beside  my  throne. 
Behold  the  Nereids  under  the  green  sea. 
Their  wavering  limbs  borne  on  the  wind-like  stream. 
Their  white  arms  lifted  o'er  their  streaming  hair 
With  garlands  pied  and  starry  sea-flower  crowns, 
Hastening  to  grace  their  mighty  sister's  joy. 

[A  sound  of  waves  is  heard. 
It  is  the  unpastured  sea  hungering  for  calm. 
Peace,  monster;  I  come  now.    Farewell. 

APOLLO. 

Farewell. 


SCENE  in. 


Caucasus.  Prometheus,  Hercules,  Ione,  the  Earth, 
Spirits,  Asia,  and  Panthea,  borne  in  ike  Car  with 
the  Spirit  of  the  Hour. 

Hercules  unbinds  Prometheus,  who  descends. 

HERCULES. 

Most  glorious  among  spirits !  thus  doth  strength 
To  wisdom,  courage,  and  long-suffering  love, 
And  thee,  who  art  the  form  they  animate, 
Minister  like  a  slave. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Thy  gentle  words 
Are  sweeter  even  than  freedom  long  desired 
And  long  delay 'd. 

Asia,  thou  light  of  life, 
Shadow  of  beauty  unbeheld  :  and  ye, 
Fair  sister  nymphs,  who  made  long  years  of  pain 
Sweet  to  remember,  through  your  love  and  care: 
Henceforth  we  will  not  part.    There  is  a  cave, 
All  overgrown  with  trailing  odonnis  plants. 
Which  curtain  out  the  day  with  leaves  and  flowers. 
And  paved  with  veined  emerald,  and  a  fountain 
Leaps  in  the  midst  with  an  awakening  sound. 
From  its  curved  roof  the  mountain's  frozen  tears 
Like  snow,  or  silver,  or  long  diamond  spires, 
Hang  downward,  raining  forth  a  doubtful  light: 
And  there  is  heard  the  ever-moving  air. 


Whispering  without  from  tree  to  tree,  and  birds, 

And  bees;  and  all  around  are  mossy  seats. 

And  the  rough  walls  are  clothed  with  long  soft  grass; 

A  simple  dwelling,  which  shall  be  our  own  ; 

Where  we  will  sit  and  talk  of  time  and  change, 

As  the  world  ebbs  and  flows,  ourselves  unchanged 

What  can  hide  man  from  mutability  ? 

And  if  ye  sigh,  then  I  will  smile;  and  thou, 

lone,  shalt  chant  fragments  of  sea-music. 

Until  I  weep,  when  ye  shall  smile  away 

The  tears  she  brought,  which  yet  were  sweet  to  shed 

We  will  entangle  buds  and  flowers  and  beams 

Which  twinkle  on  the  fountain's  brim,  and  make 

Strange  combinations  out  of  common  things. 

Like  human  babes  in  their  brief  innocence ; 

And  we  will  search,  with  looks  and  words  of  love 

For  hidden  thoughts,  each  lovelier  than  the  last, 

Our  unexhausted  spirits ;  and  like  lutes 

Touch'd  by  the  skill  of  the  enamor'd  wind, 

Weave  harmonies  divine,  yet  ever  new. 

From  difference  sweet  where  discord  cannot  be ; 

And  hither  come,  sped  on  the  charmed  winds, 

Which  meet  from  all  the  points  of  Heaven,  as  bees 

From  every  flower  aerial  Enna  feeds. 

At  their  known  island-homes  in  Himera, 

The  echoes  of  the  human  world,  which  tell 

Of  the  low  voice  of  love,  almost  unheard. 

And  dove-eyed  pity's  murmur'd  pain,  and  music, 

liself  the  echo  of  the  heart,  and  all 

That  tempers  or  improves  man's  life,  now  free ; 

And  lovely  apparitions,  dim  at  first. 

Then  radiant,  as  the  mind,  arising  bright 

From  the  embrace  of  beauty,  whence  the  forms 

Of  which  these  are  the  phantoms,  casts  on  them 

The  gather'd  rays  which  are  reality, 

Shall  visit  us,  the  progeny  immortal 

Of  Painting,  Sculpture,  and  wrapt  Poesy, 

And  arts,  though  unimagined,  yet  to  be. 

The  wandering  voices  and  the  shadows  these 

Of  all  that  man  becomes,  the  mediators 

Of  that  best  worship  love,  by  him  and  us 

Given  and  return'd  ;  swift  shapes  and  sounds,  which 

grow 
More  fair  and  soft  as  man  grows  wise  and  kind, 
And  veil  by  veil,  evil  and  error  fall : 
Such  virtue  has  the  cave  and  place  around. 

[Turning  to  the  Spirit  of  the  Hour 
For  thee,  fair  Spirit,  one  toil  remains.    lone. 
Give  her  that  curved  shell,  which  Proteus  old 
Made  Asia's  nuptial  boon,  breathing  within  it 
A  voice  to  be  accomplish'd,  and  which  thou 
Didst  hide  in  grass  under  the  hollow  rock. 


Thou  most  desired  Hour,  more  loved  and  lovely 
Than  all  thy  sisters,  this  is  the  mystic  shell; 
See  the  pale  azure  fading  into  silver 
Lining  it  with  a  soft  yet  glowing  light : 
Looks  it  not  like  luU'd  music  sleeping  there ' 

spirit. 
It  seems  in  truth  the  fiirest  shell  of  Ocean : 
Its  sound  must  be  at  once  lx)th  sweet  and  strange. 

PROMETHEUS. 

Go,  borne  over  the  cities  of  mankind 
On  whirlwind-footed  coursers  :  t)nce  again 
Outspeed  the  sun  around  the  orbed  world ; 
And  as  thy  chariot  cleaves  the  kindling  air, 
343 


96 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thou  breathe  into  the  many-folded  shell, 
Loosening  its  mighty  music ;  it  shall  be 
As  thunder  mingled  with  clear  echoes :  then 
Return ;  and  thou  shalt  dwell  beside  our  cave. 
And  thou,  O,  Mother  Earth ! — 

THE    EARTH. 

I  hear,  I  feel ; 
Thy  lips  are  on  me,  and  thy  touch  runs  down 
Even  to  the  adamantine  central  gloom 
Along  these  marble  nerves;  'tis  life,  'tis  joy. 
And  through  my  wither'd,  old,  and  icy  frame 
The  warmth  of  .in  immortal  youth  shoots  down 
Circling.    Henceforth  the  many  children  fair 
Folded  in  my  sustaining  arms  ;  all  plants. 
And  creeping  forms,  and  insects  rainbow-wing'd, 
And  birds,  and  beasts,  and  fish,  and  human  shapes. 
Which  drew  disease  and  pain  from  my  wan  bosom. 
Draining  the  poison  of  despair,  shall  take 
And  interchange  sweet  nutriment ;  to  me 
Shall  they  become  like  sister-antelopes 
By  one  fair  dam,  snow-white  and  swift  as  wind, 
Kursed  among  lilies  near  a  brimming  stream. 
The  dew-mists  of  my  sunless  sleep  shall  float 
Under  the  stars  like  balm :  night-folded  flowers 
Shall  suck  unwitting  hues  in  their  repose : 
And  men  and  beasts  in  happy  dreams  shall  gather 
Strength  for  the  coming  day,  and  all  its  joy  : 
And  death  shall  be  the  last  embrace  of  her 
Who  takes  the  life  she  gave,  even  as  a  mother 
Folding  her  child,  says,  "  Leave  me  not  again." 


Oh,  mother !  wherefore  speak  the  name  of  death  ? 
Cease  they  to  love,  and  move,  and  breathe,  and  speak; 
Who  die  ? 

THE    EARTH. 

It  would  avail  not  to  reply: 
Thou  art  immortal,  and  this  tongue  is  known 
But  to  the  uncommuriicating  dead. 
Death  is  the  veil  which  those  who  live  call  life : 
They  sleep,  and  it  is  lifted :  and  meanwhile 
In  mild  variety  the  seasons  mild 
With  rainbow-skirted  showers,  and  odorous  winds, 
And  long  blue  meteors  cleansing  the  dull  night, 
And  the  life-kindling  shafis  of  the  keen  sun's 
All-piercing  bow,  and  the  dew-mingled  rain 
Of  the  calm  moonbeams,  a  soft  influence  mild. 
Shall  clothe  tlie  forests  and  the  fields,  ay,  even 
The  crag-built  deserts  of  the  barren  deep. 
With  ever-living  leaves,  and  fruits,  and  flowers. 
And  thou !  There  is  a  cavern  where  my  spirit 
Was  panted  forth  in  anguish  whilst  thy  pain 
Made  my  heart  mad,  and  those  that  did  inhale  it 
Became  mad  too,  and  built  a  temple  there. 
And  spoke,  and  were  oracular,  and  lured 
The  erring  nations  round  to  mutual  war. 
And  faithless  faith,  such  as  Jove  kept  with  thee ; 
Which  breath  now  rises,  as  amongst  tall  weeds 
A  violet's  exhalation,  and  it  fills 
With  a  serener  light  and  crimson  air 
Intense,  yet  soft,  the  rocks  and  woods  around ; 
It  feeds  the  quick  growth  of  the  serpent  vine. 
And  the  dark-link"d  ivy  tangling  wild. 
And  budding,  blown,  or  odor-faded  blooms 
Which  star  the  winds  with  points  of  color'd  light, 
As  they  rain  through  them,  and  bright  golden  globes 
Of  fruit,  suspended  in  their  own  green  Heaven, 


And  through  their  veined  leaves  and  amber  stems 
The  flowers  whose  purple  and  translucid  bowls 
Stand  ever  mantling  with  aerial  dew. 
The  drink  of  spirits  :  and  it  circles  round, 
Like  the  soft  wa^'ing  wings  of  noonday  dreams. 
Inspiring  calm  and  happy  thoughts,  like  mine. 
Now  thou  art  thus  restored.    This  cave  is  thine. 
Arise!  Appear! 

[A  Spirit  rises  in  the  likeness  of  a  winged  child 
This  is  my  torch-bearer ; 
Who  let  his  lamp  out  in  old  time  with  gazing 
On  eyes  from  which  he  kindled  it  anew 
With  love,  which  is  as  fire,  sweet  daughter  mine, 
For  such  is  that  within  thine  own.    Run,  wayward, 
And  guide  this  company  beyond  the  peak 
Of  Bacchic  Nysa,  Maenad-haunted  mountain, 
And  beyond  Indus  and  its  tribute  rivers. 
Trampling  the  torrent  streams  and  glassy  lakes 
With  feet  unwet,  unwearied,  undelaying, 
And  up  the  green  ravine,  across  the  vale, 
Beside  the  windless  and  crystalline  pool, 
Where  ever  lies,  on  unerasing  waves. 
The  image  of  a  temple,  built  above. 
Distinct  with  column,  arch,  and  architrave. 
And  palm-like  capital,  and  over-wrought. 
And  populous  most  with  living  imagery, 
Praxitelean  shapes,  whose  marble  smiles 
Fill  the  hush'd  air  with  everlasting  love. 
It  is  deserted  now,  but  once  it  bore 
Thy  name,  Prometheus ;  there  the  emulous  youths 
Bore  to  thy  honor  through  the  divine  gloom 
The  lamp  which  was  thine  emblem ;  even  as  those 
Who  bear  the  untransmitted  torch  of  hope 
Into  the  grave,  across  the  night  of  life, 
As  thou  hast  borne  it  most  triumphantly 
To  this  far  goal  of  Time.    Depart,  farewell. 
Beside  that  temple  is  the  destined  cave. 


SCENE  n^, 


A  Forest.  In  the  hack-ground  a  Cave.  Prometheus, 
Asia,  Panthea,  Ione,  and  the  Spirit  of  the 
Earth. 

IONE. 

Sister,  it  is  not  earthly :  how  it  glides 
Under  the  leaves !  how  on  its  head  there  bums 
A  light,  like  a  green  star,  whose  emerald  beams 
Are  twined  with  its  fair  hair!  how,  as  it  moves, 
The  splendor  drops  in  flakes  upon  the  grass ! 
Knowest  thou  it  ? 

pa.ijthea. 
It  is  the  delicate  spirit 
That  guides  the  earth  through  Heaven.    From  afar 
The  populous  constellations  call  that  light 
The  loveliest  of  tlie  planets ;  and  sometimes 
It  floats  along  the  spray  of  the  salt  sea, 
Or  makes  its  chariot  of  a  foggy  cloud, 
Or  walks  through  fields  or  cities  while  men  sleep, 
Or  o'er  the  mountain-tops,  or  down  the  rivers. 
Or  through  the  green  waste  wilderness,  as  now 
Wondering  at  all  it  sees.    Before  Jove  reign'd, 
It  loved  our  sister  Asia,  and  it  came 
Each  leisure  hour  to  drink  the  liquid  light 
Out  of  her  eyes,  for  which  it  said  it  thirsted 
As  one  bit  by  a  dipsas,  and  with  her 
It  made  its  childish  confidence,  and  told  her 
344 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


97 


All  it  had  known  or  seen,  for  it  saw  much, 
Yet  idly  reason'd  what  it  saw;  and  call'd  her, 
For  wlience  it  sprung  it  knew  not,  nor  do  I, 
Mother,  dear  mother. 

THE  sriRiT  OF  THE  EARTH  {running  to  Asia). 
Mother,  dearest  mother ; 
May  I  then  talk  with  thee  as  1  was  wont  I 
May  I  then  hide  my  eyes  in  thy  soft  arms. 
After  thy  looks  have  made  them  tired  of  joy  ? 
May  I  then  play  beside  thee  the  long  noons. 
When  work  is  none  in  the  bright  silent  air  ? 


I  love  thee,  gentlest  being  I  and  henceforth 
Can  cherish  thee  unenvied  :  speak,  I  pray  : 
Thy  simple  talk  once  solaced,  now  delights. 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  EARTH. 

Mother,  I  am  grown  wiser,  though  a  child 
Cannot  be  wise  Uke  thee,  within  this  day ; 
And  happier  too  ;  happier  and  wiser  both. 
Thou  knowest  that  toads,  and  snakes,  and  lothely 

worms. 
And  venomous  and  malicious  beasts,  and  boughs 
That  bore  ill  berries  in  the  woods,  were  ever 
A  hindrance  to  my  walks  o'er  tlie  green  world  : 
And  that,  among  the  haunts  of  human-kind, 
Hard-featured  men,  or  with  proud,  angry  looks, 
Or  cold,  staid  gait,  or  false  and  hollow  smiles, 
Or  the  dull  sneer  of  self-loved  ignorance. 
Or  otlier  such  foul  masks,  WTth  which  ill  thoughts 
Hide  that  fair  being  whom  we  spirits  call  man  ; 
An4  women  too,  ugliest  of  all  things  evil 
(Though  fair,  even  in  a  world  where  thou  art  fair, 
When  good  and  kind,  free  and  sincere  like  thee), 
When  false  or  frowning  made  me  sick  at  heart 
To  pass  them,  though  ihey  slept,  and  I  unseen. 
Well,  my  path  lately  lay  through  a  great  city 
Into  the  woody  hills  surrounding  it  : 
A  sentinel  was  sleeping  at  the  gate : 
When  there  was  heard  a  sound,  so  loud,  it  shook 
The  towers  amid  the  moonlight,  yet  more  sweet 
Tlian  any  voice  but  thine,  sweetest  of  all  ; 
A  long,  long  sound,  as  it  would  never  end  : 
And  all  the  inhabitants  leapt  suddenly 
Out  of  their  rest,  and  gather'd  in  the  streets. 
Looking  in  wonder  up  to  Heaven,  while  yet 
The  music  peal'd  along.     I  hid  myself 
Within  a  fountain  in  the  public  square. 
Where  I  lay  like  the  reflex  of  the  moon 
Seen  in  a  w'ave  under  green  leaves  :  and  soon 
Those  ugly  human  shapes  and  visages 
Of  which  I  spoke  as  having  wrought  me  pain, 
Past  floating  through  the  air,  and  fiiding  still 
Into  the  winds  that  scatter'd  them ;  and  those 
From  whom  they  past  sceni'd  mild  and  lovely  forms 
After  some  foul  disguise  had  fallen,  and  all 
Were  somewhat  changed,  and  after  brief  surprise 
And  greetings  of  delighted  wonder,  all 
Went  to  their  sleep  again ;  and  when  the  dawn 
Came,  vvouldst  thou  think  that  toads,  and  snakes,  and 

efts. 
Could  e'er  be  beautiful  ?  yet  so  they  were, 
And  that  with  little  change  of  shape  or  hue : 
All  things  had  put  their  evil  nature  off: 
I  cannot  tell  my  joy,  when  o'er  a  lake 
Upon  a  drooping  bough  with  nightshade  twined, 
I  saw  two  azure  halcyons  clinging  downward 
2T 


And  tliinning  one  bright  bunch  of  amber  berries, 
W^ith  quick  long  beaks,  and  in  the  deep  there  lay 
Those  lovely  forms  imaged  as  in  a  sky ; 
So  with  my  thoughts  full  of  these  happy  changes. 
We  meet  again,  the  happiest  change  of  all. 

ASIA. 

And  never  will  we  part,  till  thy  chaste  sister 
Who  guides  the  frozen  and  inconstant  moon 
Will  look  on  thy  more  warm  and  equal  light 
Till  her  heart  thaw  like  flakes  of  April  snow 
And  love  thee. 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  EARTH. 

What!  as  Asia  loves  Prometheus? 

ASIA. 

Peace,  wanton :  thou  art  yet  not  old  enough. 
Think  ye  by  gazing  on  each  other's  eyes 
To  multiply  your  lovely  selves,  and  fill 
With  sphered  fires  the  interlunar  air? 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  EARTH. 

Nay,  mother,  while  my  sister  trims  her  lamp, 
'Tis  hard  I  should  go  darkling. 


•  listen ;  look ! 
The  Spirit  of  the  Hour  enters. 

PROMETHEUS. 

We  feel  what  thou  hast  heard  and  seen :  yet  speak. 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  HOUR. 

Soon  as  the  sound  had  ceased  whose  thunder  fill'd 
The  abysses  of  the  sky  and  the  wide  earth, 
There  was  a  change :  the  impalpable  thin  air 
And  the  all-circling  sunlight  were  transform'd, 
As  if  the  sense  of  love  dissolved  in  them 
Had  folded  itself  round  the  sphered  world. 
My  vision  then  grew  clear,  and  I  could  see 
Into  the  mysteries  of  the  miiverse : 
Dizzy  as  with  delight  I  floated  down. 
Winnowing  the  lightsome  air  with  languid  plumes 
My  coursers  sought  their  birth-place  in  the  sun. 
Where  they  henceforth  will  live  exempt  from  toil 
Pasturing  flowers  of  vegetable  fire. 
And  \vhere  my  moonlike  car  will  stand  within 
A  temple,  gazed  upon  by  Phidian  forms 
Of  thee,  and  Asia,  and  the  Earth,  and  me. 
And  you  fair  nymphs  looking  the  love  we  feel ; 
In  memory  of  the  tidings  it  has  borne ; 
Beneath  a  dome  fretted  with  graven  flowers, 
Poised  on  twelve  colunms  of  resplendent  stone, 
And  open  to  the  bright  and  liquid  sky. 
Yoked  to  it  by  an  amphisbenic  snake. 
The  likeness  of  those  winged  steeds  will  mock 
The  light  from  which  they  fuid  rejwse.     Alas, 
Whither  has  wander'd  now  my  partial  tongue 
Wlien  all  remains  untold  which  ye  would  hear  ? 
As  I  have  said,  I  floated  to  the  earth : 
It  was,  as  it  is  still,  the  pain  of  bliss 
To  move,  to  breathe,  to  be  ;  I  wandering  went 
Among  the  haunts  and  dweUings  of  maidiind, 
And  first  was  disappointed  not  to  see 
Such  mighty  change  as  I  had  felt  within 
Express'd  in  outward  things ;  but  soon  I  look'd, 
And  behold,  thrones  were  kingless,  and  men  walk'd 
One  with  the  other  even  as  spirits  do. 
None  favvn'd,  none  trampled  ;  hate,  disdain,  or  fear. 
Self-love  or  self-contempt,  on  human  brows 
No  more  inscribed,  as  o'er  the  gate  of  hell, 
345 


98 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  All  hope  abandon  ye  who  enter  here  ;" 

None  frown'd,  none  trembled,  none  with  eager  fear 

Gazed  on  another's  eye  of  cold  command, 

Until  the  subject  of  a  tyrant's  will 

Became,  worse  fate,  the  abject  of  his  own, 

Which  spurr'd  him,  like  an  outspent  horse,  to  death. 

None  wrought  his  hps  in  truth-entangling  lines 

Wliich  smiled  the  lie  his  tongue  disdain'd  to  speak  ; 

None,  with  firm  sneer,  trod  out  in  his  own  heart 

The  sparks  of  love  and  hope  till  there  remain'd 

Those  bitter  ashes,  a  soul  self  consumed, 

And  the  wretch  crept  a  vampire  among  men, 

Infectmg  all  with  his  own  hideous  ill ; 

None  talk'd  that  common,  false,  cold,  hollow  talk 

Which  makes  the  heart  deny  the  yes  it  breathes, 

Yet  question  that  unmeant  hypocrisy 

With  such  a  self-mistrust  as  has  no  name. 

And  women,  too,  frank,  beautiful,  and  kind 

As  the  free  heaven  which  rains  fresh  light  and  dew 

On  the  wide  earth,  past ;  gentle,  radiant  forms. 

From  custom's  evil  taint  exempt  and  pure ; 

Speaking  the  wisdom  once  they  could  not  think, 

Looking  emotions  once  they  fear'd  to  feel. 

And  changed  to  all  which  once  they  dared  not  be, 

Yet  being  now,  made  earih  like  heaven  ;  nor  pride, 

Nor  jealousy,  nor  envy,  nor  ill  shame, 

The  bitterest  of  those  drops  of  treasured  gall. 

Spoilt  the  sweet  taste  of  the  nepenthe,  love. 

Thrones,  altars,  judgment-seats,  and  prisons;  wherein. 
And  beside  which,  by  wretched  men  were  borne 
Sceptres,  tiaras,  swords,  and  chains,  and  tomes 
Of  reason'd  wrong,  glozed  on  by  ignorance, 
W^ere  like  those  monstrous  and  barbaric  shapes. 
The  ghosts  of  a  no  more  remember'd  fama 
Wliich,  from  their  unworn  obelisks,  look  forth 
In  triumph  o'er  the  palaces  and  tombs 
Of  those  who  were  their  conquerors :  mouldering 

round 
Those  imaged  to  the  pride  of  kings  and  priests, 
A  dark  yet  mighty  faith,  a  power  as  wide 
As  is  the  world  it  wasted,  and  are  now 
But  an  astonishment ;  even  so  the  tools 
And  emblems  of  its  last  captivity. 
Amid  the  dwellings  of  the  peopled  earth. 
Stand,  not  o'erthrovvn,  but  unregarded  now. 
And  those  foul  shapes,  abhorr'd  by  god  and  man, 
Which,  under  many  a  name  and  many  a  form 
Strange,  savage,  ghastly,  dark,  and  execrable, 
Were  Jupiter,  the  tyrant  of  the  world  ; 
And  which  the  nations,  panic-stricken,  served 
With  blood,  and  hearts  broken  by  long  hope,  and  love 
Dragg'd  to  his  altars  soil'd  and  garlandless, 
And  slain  among  men's  unreclaiming  tears, 
Flattering  the  thing  they  fear'd,  which  fear  was  hate, 
Frown,  mouldering  fast,  o'er  their  abandon'd  shrines  : 
The  painted  veil,  by  those  who  were,  call'd  life. 
Which  mimick'd,  as  with  colors  idly  spread, 
All  men  believed  and  hoped,  is  torn  aside  ; 
The  lothesome  mask  has  fiillen,  the  man  remains 
Sceptreless,  free,  uncircumscribed,  but  man 
Equal,  unclass'd,  tribeless,  and  nationless. 
Exempt  from  awe,  worship,  degree,  the  king 
Over  himself;  just,  gentle,  wise :  but  man 
Passionless ;  not  yet  free  from  guilt  or  pain. 
Which  were,  for  his  will  made  or  sufTer'd  them. 
Nor  yet  e.xempt,  though  ruling  them  like  slaves, 


From  chance,  and  death,  and  mutability. 
The  clogs  of  that  which  else  might  oversoar 
The  loftiest  star  of  unascended  heaven, 
Pinnacled  dim  in  the  intense  inane. 


ACT  IV. 

Scene — A  part  of  the  Forest  near  the  Cave  of  Pro- 
metheus. Panthea  and  Zone  are  sleejnng  ;  they 
awaken  gradually  during  the  first  Song. 

voice  of  unseen  spirits. 
The  pale  stars  are  gone ! 
For  the  sun,  their  swift  shepherd, 
To  their  fold  them  compelling. 
In  the  depths  of  the  dawn, 
Hastes,  in  meteor-eclipsing  array,  and  they  flee 
Beyond  his  blue  dwelling. 
As  fawns  flee  the  leopard, 
But  where  are  ye  ? 

A  Train  of  dark  Forms  and  Shadows  passes  by  con- 
fusedly, singing. 

Here,  oh !  here : 

We  bear  the  bier 
Of  the  Father  of  many  a  cancell'd  year ! 

Spectres  we 

Of  the  dead  Hours  be. 
We  bear  Time  to  his  tomb  in  eternity. 

Strew,  oh !  strew 

Hair,  not  yew ! 
Wet  the  dusky  pall  with  tears,  not  dew ! 

Be  the  faded  flowers 

Of  Death's  bare  bowers 
Spread  on  the  corpse  of  the  King  of  Hours  ! 

Haste,  oh,  haste ! 

As  shades  are  chased. 
Trembling,  by  day,  from  Heaven's  blue  waste. 

We  melt  away. 

Like  dissolving  spray, 
From  the  children  of  a  diviner  day. 

With  the  lullaby 

Of  winds  that  die 
On  the  bosom  of  their  own  harmony ! 

lONE. 

What  dark  forms  were  they  ? 


The  past  Hours  weak  and  gray, 
With  the  spoil  which  their  toil 

Raked  together 
From  the  conquest  but  One  could  foil 

lONE. 

Have  they  past  ? 

PANTHEA. 

They  have  past ; 
They  outspeeded  the  blast. 
While  'tis  said,  they  are  fled : 


lONE. 

Whither,  oh !  whither  ? 


346 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


99 


PANTHEA. 

To  the  dark,  to  the  past,  to  the  dead. 

VOICE  OF  UNSEEN  SPIRITS. 

Bright  clouds  float  in  heaven, 
Dew-stars  gleam  on  earth, 
Waves  assemble  on  ocean, 
Tliey  are  gather'd  and  driven 
By  the  .storm  of  delight,  by  the  panic  of  glee ! 
They  shake  with  emotion. 
They  dance  in  their  mirth. 
But  where  are  ye  ? 

Tlie  pine-boughs  are  singing 
Old  songs  with  new  gladness  ; 
The  billows  and  fountains 
Fresh  music  are  flinging, 
Like  the  notes  of  a  spirit  from  land  and  from  sea ; 
The  storms  mock  the  mountains 
With  the  thunder  of  gladness. 
But  where  are  ye  ? 

lONE. 

What  charioteers  are  these  ? 

PANTHEA. 

Where  are  their  chariots  ? 

SEMICHORUS  OF  HOURS. 

The  voice  of  the  Spirits  of  Air  and  of  Earth 
Has  drawn  back  the  figured  curtain  of  sleep 
Which  cover'd  our  being  and  darken'd  our  birth 
In  the  deep. 

A  VOICE. 

In  the  deep  ? 

SEMICHORUS  li 

Oh !  below  (ne  aeep. 

SEMICHORUS  I. 

A  hundred  ages  we  had  been  kept 
Cradled  in  visions  of  hate  and  care, 
And  each  one  who  waked  as  his  brother  slept, 
Found  the  truth — 

SEMICHORUS  II. 

Worse  than  his  visions  were ! 

SEMICHORUS  I. 

We  have  heard  the  lute  of  Hope  in  sleep ; 
We  have  known  the  voice  of  Love  in  dreams. 
We  have  felt  the  wand  of  Power,  and  leap — 

SEMICHORUS  II. 

As  the  billows  leap  in  the  morning  beams  ! 

CHORUS. 

Weave  the  dance  on  the  floor  of  the  breeze, 
Pierce  with  song  heaven's  silent  light. 

Enchant  the  day  that  too  swiftly  flees. 
To  check  its  flight  ere  the  cave  of  night 

Once  the  hungry  Hours  were  hoimds 

Which  chased  the  day  like  a  bleeding  deer, 

And  it  lirap'd  and  stumbled  with  many  wounds 
Through  the  nightly  dells  of  the  desert  year. 


But  now,  oh !  weave  the  mystic  measure 
Of  music,  and  dance,  and  shapes  of  light, ; 

Let  ihe  Hours,  and  the  spirits  of  might  and  pleasure, 
Like  the  clouds  and  sunbeams,  unite 

A  VOICE. 

Unite. 

PANTHEA. 

See,  where  the  Spirits  of  the  human  mmd 

Wrapt  in  sweet  sounds,  as  in  bright  veils,  approach- 

CHORUS  OF  SPIRITS. 

We  join  the  throng 

Of  the  dance  and  llie  song. 
By  the  whirlwind  of  gladness  borne  along ; 

As  the  flying-fish  leap 

From  the  Indian  deep. 
And  mix  with  the  sea-birds,  half-asleep. 

CHORUS  OF  HOURS. 

Whence  come  ye,  so  wild  and  so  fleet. 
For  sandals  of  lightning  are  on  your  feet. 
And  your  wings  are  soft  and  swift  as  thought. 
And  your  eyes  are  as  love  which  is  veiled  not  ? 

CHORUS  OF  SPIRITS. 

We  come  from  the  mind 

Of  human-kind. 
Which  was  late  so  dusk,  and  obscene,  and  blind ; 

Now  'tis  an  ocean 

Of  clear  emotion, 
A  heaven  of  serene  and  mighty  motion. 

From  that  deep  abyss 

Of  wonder  and  bliss, 
Whose  caverns  are  crystal  palaces 

From  those  skiey  towers 

Where  Thought's  crowned  powers 
Sit  watching  your  dance,  ye  happy  Hem's ! 

From  the  dim  recesses 

Of  vioven  caresses. 
Where  lovers  catch  ye  by  your  loose  tresses ; 

From  the  azure  isles 

Where  sweet  Wisdom  smiles, 
Delaying  your  ships  with  her  syren  wiles. 

From  the  temples  high 

Of  Man's  ear  and  eye, 
Roof'd  over  Sculpture  and  Poesy  ; 

From  the  murmurings 

Of  Ihe  unseal'd  springs 
Where  Science  bedews  his  Da;dal  wings. 

Years  after  years, 

Through  blood,  and  tears. 
And  a  thick  hell  of  hatreds,  and  hopes,  and  fears  , 

We  waded  and  flew. 

And  the  islets  were  few 
Where  the  bud-blighted  flowers  of  happiness  grew^ 

Our  feet  now,  every  palm. 

Are  sandall'd  with  calm. 
And  the  dew  of  our  wings  is  a  rain  of  balm  . 

And,  beyond  our  eyes. 

The  human  love  lies 
^Vhich  makes  all  it  gazes  on  Paradise. 
347 


100 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


CHOROS  OF  SPIRITS  AND  HOURS. 

Then  weave  the  web  of  the  mystic  measure  ; 
From  the  depths  of  the  sky  and  the  ends  of  the  earth, 

Come,  swift  Spirits  of  might  and  of  pleasure. 
Fill  the\lance  and  the  music  of  mirth. 

As  the  waves  of  a  thousand  streams  rush  by 

To  an  ocean  of  splendor  and  harmony ! 

CHORDS  OF  SPIRITS. 

Our  sfwil  is  won, 

Our  task  is  done. 
We  are  free  to  dive,  or  soar,  or  run ; 

Beyond  and  around, 

Or  within  the  bound 
Which  clips  the  world  with  darkness  round. 

We'll  pass  the  eyes 

Of  the  starry  skies 
Into  the  hoar  deep  to  colonize  : 

Death,  Chaos,  and  Night, 

From  the  soimd  of  our  flight, 
Shall  flee,  like  mist  from  a  tempest's  might. 

And  Earth,  Air,  and  Light, 

And  the  Spirit  of  Might, 
Which  drives  round  the  stars  in  their  fiery  flight  ; 

And  Love,  Thought,  and  Breath, 

The  powers  that  quell  Death, 
Wherever  we  soar  shall  assemble  beneath. 

And  our  singing  shall  build 

In  the  void's  loose  field 
A  world  for  the  Spirit  of  Wisdom  to  wield  ; 

We  will  take  our  plan 

From  the  new  world  of  man. 
And  our  work  shall  be  call'd  the  Promethean. 

CHORUS  or  HOURS. 

Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song  ; 
Let  some  depart,  and  some  remain. 

SEMICHORUS  I. 

We,  beyond  heaven,  are  driven  along : 

SRMICHORUS  II. 

Us  the  enchantments  of  earth  retain : 

SEMICHORUS  I. 

Ceaseless,  and  rapid,  and  fierce,  and  free, 

With  the  Spirits  which  build  a  new  earth  and  sea, 

And  a  heaven  where  yet  heaven  could  never  be. 

SEMICHORUS  II. 

Solemn,  and  slow,  and  serene,  and  bright. 
Leading  the  Day  and  outspeeding  the  Night, 
Wiih  the  powers  of  a  world  of  perfect  light. 

SEMICHORUS  I. 

We  whirl,  singing  loud,  round  the  gathering  sphere. 
Till  the  trees,  and  the  beasts,  and  the  clouds  appear 
From  its  chaos  made  calm  by  love,  not  fear. 

SEMICHORUS  II. 

We  encircle  the  ocean  and  mountains  of  earth. 
And  the  happy  forms  of  its  death  and  birth 
Change  to  the  music  of  our  sweet  mirth. 


CHORUS  OF  HOURS  AND  SPIRITS. 

Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song, 
Let  some  depart,  and  some  remain  ; 
Wherever  we  fly  we  lead  along 
In  leashes,  like  star-beams,  soft  yet  strong. 

The  clouds  that  are  heavy  with  love's  sweet  rain 

PANTHEA. 

Ha !  they  are  gone .' 

lONE. 

Yet  feel  you  no  delight 
From  the  past  sweetness  ? 

PANTHEA. 

As  the  bare  green  hill 
When  some  soft  cloud  vanishes  into  rain. 
Laughs  with  a  thousand  drops  of  sunny  water 
To  the  unpavilion'd  sky ! 

lONE. 

Even  whilst  we  speak 
New  notes  arise.     What  is  that  awful  sound? 

PANTHEA. 

"Tis  the  deep  music  of  the  rolling  world. 
Kindling  within  the  strings  of  the  waved  air 
^olian  modulations. 

TONE. 

Listen  too. 
How  every  pause  is  fill'd  with  under-notes. 
Clear,  silver,  icy,  keen  awakening  tones. 
Which  pierce  the  sense,  and  live  within  the  soul. 
As  the  sharp  stars  pierce  winter's  crystal  air 
And  gaze  upon  themselves  within  the  sea. 

PANTHEA. 

But  see  where,  through  two  openings  in  the  forest 
Which  hanging  branches  over-canopy, 
And  where  two  runnels  of  a  rivulet, 
Between  the  close  moss  violet  inwoven. 
Have  made  their  path  of  melody,  like  sisters 
Who  part  with  sighs  that  they  may  meet  in  smilea 
Turning  their  dear  disunion  to  an  isle 
Of  lovely  grief,  a  wood  of  sweet  sad  thoughts ; 
Two  visions  of  strange  radiance  float  upon 
The  ocean-like  enchantment  of  strong  sound, 
Which  flows  intenser,  keener,  deeper  yet 
Under  the  ground  and  through  the  windless  air. 

lONE. 

I  see  a  chariot  like  that  thinnest  boat 
In  which  the  mother  of  the  months  is  borne 
By  ebbing  night  into  her  western  cave. 
When  she  upsprings  from  interlunar  dreams, 
O'er  which  is  curved  an  orblike  canopy 
Of  gentle  darkness,  and  the  hills  and  woods 
Distinctly  seen  through  that  dusk  airy  veil, 
Regard  like  shapes  m  an  enchanter's  glass ; 
Its  wheels  are  solid  clouds,  azure  and  gold, 
Such  as  the  genii  of  the  thunder-storm 
Pile  on  the  floor  of  tlie  illumined  sea 
When  the  sun  rushes  under  it ;  they  roll 
And  move  and  grow  as  with  an  inward  wind; 
Within  it  sits  a  winged  infant,  white 
Its  countenance,  like  the  whiteness  of  bright  snow, 
Its  plumes  are  as  feathers  of  sunny  frost. 
Its  limbs  gleam  white,  through  the  wind-flowing  Iblds 
Of  its  white  robe,  woof  of  ethereal  pearl. 
Its  hair  is  white,  the  brightness  of  white  light 
Scatter'd  in  strings ;  yet  its  two  eyes  are  heavens 
Of  liquid  darkness,  which  the  Deity 
348 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


101 


Within  seems  pouring,  as  a  storm  is  pour'd 

From  jagged  clouds,  out  of  their  arrov\y  lashes, 

Tempering  the  cold  and  radiant  air  around, 

With  fire  iliat  is  not  brighuiess ;  in  its  hand 

It  sways  a  (juivering  moonbeam,  from  whose  point 

A  guiding  power  directs  the  chariot's  prow 

Over  its  wheeled  clouds,  which  as  they  roll 

Over  the  grass,  and  flowers,  and  waves,  wake  sounds 

Sweet  as  a  singing  rain  of  silver  dew. 

PA\THEA. 

And  from  the  other  opening  in  the  wood 

Rushes,  with  loud  and  wliirlwind  harmony, 

A  sphere,  which  is  as  many  tliousand  spheres. 

Solid  as  crystal,  yet  tlirough  all  its  mass 

Flow,  as  through  empty  space,  music  and  light : 

Ten  thousand  orbs  involving  and  involved, 

Purple  and  azure,  white,  green,  and  golden. 

Sphere  w  ithiii  sphere ;  and  every  space  between 

Peopled  with  unimaginable  shapes, 

Sucli  as  ghosts  dream  dwell  in  the  lampless  deep, 

Yet  each  inter-transpicuous,  and  tliey  whirl 

Over  each  other  with  a  tliousand  motions, 

Upon  a  thousand  sightless  axles  spinning. 

And  with  the  force  of  self  destroying  swiftness, 

Intensely,  slowly,  solemnly  roll  on. 

Kindling  with  mingled  sounds,  and  many  tones, 

Intelligible  words  and  music  wild. 

With  mighty  whirl  the  multitudinous  orb 

Grinds  the  bright  brook  into  an  azure  mist 

Of  elemental  subtlety,  like  light ; 

And  the  wild  odor  of  the  forest  flowers. 

The  music  of  the  living  grass  and  air, 

The  emerald  light  of  leal-entangled  beams 

Roiuid  its  intense  yet  self-conflicting  speed, 

Seem  kneaded  into  one  aerial  mass 

Which  drowns  the  sense.    Within  the  orb  itself, 

Pillow'd  upon  its  alabaster  arms, 

Like  to  a  child  o'erwearied  with  sweet  toil, 

On  its  own  folded  wings,  and  wavy  hair, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  is  laid  a-sleep. 

And  you  can  see  its  little  lips  are  moving, 

Amid  the  changing  light  of  their  own  smiles. 

Like  one  who  talks  of  what  he  loves  in  dream. 

lONE. 

Tis  only  mocking  the  orb's  harmony. 


And  from  a  star  upon  its  forehead,  shoot. 

Like  swords  of  azure  fire,  or  golden  spears 

With  tyrant-quelling  myrtle  overtwined, 

Embleming  heaven  and  earth  united  now, 

Vast  beams  like  s|K)ke  of  some  invisible  wheel 

Which  whirl  as  the  orb  whirls,  swifter  than  thought, 

Filling  the  abyss  with  sunlike  lightnings. 

And  perpendicular  now,  and  now  transverse, 

Pierce  the  dark  soil,  and  as  they  pierce  and  pass. 

Make  bare  the  secrets  of  the  earth's  deep  heart ; 

Infinite  mine  of  adamant  and  gold. 

Valueless  stones,  and  unimagined  gems. 

And  caverns  on  cr\'stalline  columns  poised 

With  vegetable  sdver  overspread  ; 

Wells  of  unfathom'd  fire,  and  water  springs 

Wlience  the  great  sea,  even  as  a  child  is  fed. 

Whose  vapors  clothe  earth's  monarch  mountain-tops 

With  kingly,  ermine  snow.   The  beams  flash  on 

And  make  appear  the  melancholy  ruins 

Of  cancell'd  cycles ;  anchors,  beaks  of  ships  ; 


Planlis  turn'd  to  marble ;  quivers,  helms,  and  spears 

And  gorgon-headed  targes,  and  the  wheels 

Of  scythed  chariots,  and  the  emblazonry 

Of  trophies,  standards,  and  armorial  beasts, 

Round  which  death  laugh'd,  sepulchred  emblems 

Of  dread  destruction,  ruin  within  ruin ! 

The  wrecks  beside  of  many  a  city  vast, 

Whose  population  which  the  earth  grew  over 

Was  mortal,  but  not  human ;  see,  they  lie 

Their  monstrous  works,  and  uncouth  skeletons, 

Their  statues,  domes  and  fanes ;  ]irodigious  shapes 

Huddled  in  gray  annihilation,  split, 

Jamm'd  in  the  hard,  black  deep ;  and  over  these. 

The  anatomies  of  unknown  winged  things. 

And  fishes  which  were  isles  of  living  scale, 

And  serpents,  bony  chains,  twisted  around 

The  iron  crags,  or  within  heaps  of  dust 

To  which  the  torturous  strength  of  their  last  pangs 

Had  erush'd  the  iron  crags ;  and  over  these 

The  jagged  alligator,  and  the  might 

Of  earth-convulsing  behemoth,  which  once 

Were  monarch  beasts,  and  on  the  slimy  shores, 

And  weed-overgrown  continents  of  earth. 

Increased  and  multiplied  like  summer  worms 

On  an  abandon'd  corpse,  till  the  blue  globe 

Wrapt  deluge  round  it  like  a  cloak,  and  they 

Yell'd,  gasp'd,  and  were  abolish'd  ;  or  some  God 

Whose  throne  was  in  a  comet,  past,  and  cried, 

Be  not !  And  Uke  my  words  they  were  no  more. 

THE  EARTH. 

The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  delight,  the  madness ! 

The  lx)undless,  overflowing,  bursting  gladness. 

The  vaporous  exultation  not  to  be  confined ! 
Ha  !  ha !  the  animation  of  delight 
Which  wraps  me,  hke  an  atmosphere  of  light, 

And  bears  me  as  a  cloud  is  bonie  by  its  own  wind. 

THE  MOON. 

Brother  mine,  calm  wanderer, 

Happy  globe  of  land  and  air, 
Some  Spirit  is  darted  like  a  beam  from  thee, 

Which  penetrates  my  frozen  frame, 

And  passes  with  the  warmth  of  flame, 
With  love,  and  odor,  and  deep  melody 

Through  me,  through  me  ! 

THE  EARTir. 

Ha !  ha !  the  caverns  of  my  hollow  mountains. 
My  cloven  fire-crags,  sound-exulting  fountains, 
Laugh  with  a  vast  and  inextinguishable  laughter. 
The  oceans,  and  the  deserts,  and  the  abysses. 
And  the  deep  air's  unmeasured  wildernesses, 
Answer  from  all  their  clouds  and  billows,  echoing  after. 

They  cry  aloud  as  I  do.    Sceptred  curse, 
Who  all  our  green  and  azure  universe 
Threaten'dst  to  muffle  round  with  black  destruction, 
sending 
A  solid  cloud  to  rain  hot  thunder-stones, 
And  splinter  and  knead  dowTi  my  children's  bones. 
All  I  bring  forth,  to  one  void  mass  battering  and 
blending. 

Until  each  crag-like  tower,  and  storied  coliunn, 
Palace,  and  obelisk,  and  temple  solemn 
46  349 


102 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


My  imperial  mountains  crown'd  with  cloud,  and  snow, 
and  fire ; 
My  sea-like  forests,  every  blade  and  blossom 
Which  finds  a  grave  or  cradle  in  my  bosom. 

Were  stamp'd  by  thy  strong  hate  into  a  lifeless  mire. 

How  art  thou  sunk,  withdrawn,  cover'd,  drunk  up 

By  thirsty  nothing,  as  the  brackish  cup 
Drain'd  by  a  desert  troop,  a  little  drop  for  all  ; 

And  from  beneath,  around,  within,  above, 

Fining  thy  void  annihilation,  love 
Bursts  in  like  light  on  caves  cloven  by  thimder-ball. 

THE  MOON. 

The  snow  upon  my  lifeless  mountains 
Is  loosen'd  into  living  fountains. 
My  solid  oceans  flow,  and  sing,  and  shine  : 
A  spirit  from  my  heart  bursts  forth, 
It  clothes  with  unexpected  birth 
My  cold  bare  bosom :  Oh !  it  must  be  thine 
On  mine,  on  mine ! 

Gazing  on  thee  I  feel,  I  know 
Green  stalks  burst  forth,  and  bright  flowers 
grow. 
And  living  shapes  upon  my  bosom  move  : 
Music  is  in  the  sea  and  air. 
Winged  clouds  soar  here  and  there. 
Dark  with  the  rain  new  buds  are  dreaming  of: 
'Tis  love,  all  love! 

THE  EARTH. 

It  interpenetrates  my  granite  mass. 

Through  tangled  roots  and  trodden  clay  doth  pass, 

Into  the  utmost  leaves,  and  delicatest  flowers ; 
Upon  the  winds,  among  the  clouds  'tis  spread, 
It  wakes  a  life  in  tlie  forgotten  dead. 

They  breathe  a  spirit  up  from  their  obscurest  bowers, 

And  like  a  storm  bursting  its  cloudy  prison 
With  thunder,  and  with  whirlwind,  has  arisen 
Out  of  the  lampless  caves  of  unimagined  being : 

With  earthquake  shock  and  swiftness  making 

shiver 
Thought's  stagnant  chaos,  unremoved  for  ever, 
Till  hate,  and  fear  and  pain,  light-vanquish'd  shadows, 
fleeing. 

Leave  man,  who  was  a  many-sided  mirror. 
Which  could  distort  to  many  a  shape  of  error. 

This  true  fair  world  of  things,  a  sea  reflecting  love ; 
Which  over  all  his  kind,  as  tlie  sun's  heaven 
Gliding  o'er  ocean,  smooth,  serene,  and  even 

Darting  from  starry  depths  radiance  and  light,  doth 


Leave  man,  even  as  a  leprous  child  is  left. 
Who  follows  a  sick  beast  to  some  warm  cleft 

Of  rocks,  through  which  the  might  of  healing  springs 
is  pour'd  ; 
Then  when  it  wanders  home  with  rosy  smile. 
Unconscious,  and  its  mother  fears  awhile 

It  is  a  spirit,  then  weeps  on  her  child  restored. 

Man,  oh,  not  men !  a  chain  of  linked  thought, 

Of  love  and  might  to  be  divided  not, 
Compelling  the  elements  with  adamantine  stress; 

As  the  sun  rules,  even  with  a  tyrant's  gaze, 

The  unquiet  republic  of  the  maze 
Of  planets,  struggling  fierce  towards  heaven's  free 
wilderness. 


Man,  one  harmonious  soul  of  many  a  soul, 

Whose  nature  is  its  own  divine  control, 
Where  all  things  flow  to  all,  as  rivers  to  the  sea ; 

Familiar  acts  are  beautiful  through  love ; 

Labor,  and  pain,  and  ^Tief,  in  life's  green  grove 
Sport  like  tame  beasts,  none  knew  how  gentle  thev 
could  be ! 

His  vsdll,  with  all  mean  passions,  bad  delights 
And  selfish  cares,  its  trembling  satellites, 

A  spirit  ill  to  guide,  but  mighty  to  obey. 

Is  as  a  tempest-winged  ship,  whose  helm 
Love  rules,  through  waves  which  dare  not  over- 
whelm. 

Forcing  life's  wildest  shores  to  own  its  sovereign  sway 

All  things  confess  his  strength.     Through  the 

cold  mass 
Of  marble  and  of  color  his  dreams  pass  ; 
Bright  threads  whence  mothers  weave  the  robes  their 
children  wear ; 
Language  is  a  perpetual  orphic  song. 
Which  rules  with  Dsedal  harmony  a  throng 
Of  thoughts  and  forms,  which  else  senseless  and  shape- 
less were. 

The  lightning  is  his  slave ;  heaven's  utmost  deep 
Gives  up  her  stars,  and  like  a  flock  of  sheep 

They  pass  before  his  eye,  are  number'd,  and  roll  on' 
The  tempest  is  his  steed,  he  strides  the  air 
And  the  abyss  shouts  from  her  depth  laid  bare, 

Heaven,  hast  thou  secrets  ?  Man  luiveils  me  ;  I  have 
none. 

THE  MOON. 

The  shadow  of  white  death  has  past 

From  my  path  in  heaven  at  last, 
A  clinging  shroud  of  solid  frost  and  sleep; 

And  through  my  newly-woven  bowers. 

Wander  happy  paramours. 
Less  mighty,  but  as  mild  as  those  who  keep 
Thy  vales  more  deep. 


THE  EARTH. 

As  the  dissolving  warmth  of  dawn  may  fold 
A  half infrozen  dew-globe,  green,  and  gold, 

And  crystalline,  till  it  becomes  a  winged  mist, 
And  wanders  up  the  vault  of  the  blue  day, 
Outlives  the  noon,  and  on  the  sun's  last  ray 

Hangs  o'er  the  sea,  a  fleece  of  fire  and  amethyst. 

THE  MOON. 

Thou  art  folded,  thou  art  lying 

In  the  light  which  is  undying 
Of  thine  own  joy,  and  heaven's  smile  divine  , 

All  suns  and  constellations  shower 

On  thee  a  light,  a  life,  a  power 
Which  doth  array  thy  sphere  ;  thou  pourest  thine 

On  mine,  on  mine ! 

THE  EARTH. 

I  spin  beneath  my  pyramid  of  night. 
Which  points  into  the  heavens  dreaming  delight 
Murmuring  victorious  joy  in  my  enchanted  sleep ; 
As  a  youth  lull'd  in  love-dreams  faintly  sighing 
Under  the  shadow  of  his  beauty  lying. 
Which  round  his  rest  a  watch  of  light  and  warmth 
doth  keep. 

350 


1 


PROMETHEUS  UNBOUND. 


103 


THE   MOOX. 

As  in  tlie  soft  and  sweet  eclipse, 

When  soul  meets  soul  on  lovers'  lips, 
High  hearts  are  calm,  and  brightest  eyes  are  dull ; 

So  when  thy  shadow  falls  on  me, 

Then  am  I  mute  and  still,  by  thee 
Cfyver'd  ;  of  thy  love.  Orb  most  beautiful, 

Full,  oh !  too  full ! 

Tliou  art  speeding  round  the  sun, 

Brightest  world  of  many  a  one ; 

Green  and  azure  sphere  which  shinest 

With  a  light  which  is  divinest 

Among  all  the  lamps  of  Heaven 

To  whom  life  and  light  is  given  ; 

I,  thy  crj'stal  paramour 

Borne  beside  thee  by  a  power 

Like  the  polar  Paradise, 

Magnet-like,  of  lovere'  eyes ; 

I,  a  most  enamour'd  maiden. 

Whose  weak  brain  is  overladen 

With  the  pleasure  of  her  love. 

Maniac-like  around  thee  move 

Gasdng,  an  insatiate  bride. 

On  thy  form  from  every  side 

Like  a  Ma;nad,  round  the  cup 

Which  Agave  lifted  up 

In  the  vveird  Cadmagan  forest. 

Brother,  wheresoe'er  thou  soarest 

I  must  hurry,  whirl  and  follow 

Through  the  Heavens  vvide  and  hollow, 

Shelter'd  by  tlie  warm  embrace 

Of  thy  soul  from  hungry  space, 

Drmking  from  thy  sense  and  sight 

Beaut}',  majesty,  and  might. 

As  a  lover  or  a  cameleon 

Grows  hke  what  it  looks  upon, 

As  a  violet's  gentle  eye 

Gazes  on  the  azure  sky 
Until  its  hue  groves  like  what  it  beholds, 

As  a  gray  and  watery  mist 

Glows  like  solid  amethyst 
Athwart  the  western  mountain  it  infolds, 

When  the  sunset  sleeps 
Upon  its  snow. 

THE    EARTH. 

And  the  weak  day  weeps 

That  it  should  be  so. 
Oh,  gentle  Moon !  the  voice  of  thy  delight 
Falls  on  me  like  thy  clear  and  tender  light 
Soothing  the  seaman,  borne  the  summer  night 

Through  isles  for  ever  calm  ; 
Oh,  gentle  Moon  I  tliy  crystal  accents  pierce 
The  caverns  of  my  pride's  deep  universe. 
Charming  the  tiger  jo}',  whose  tramplings  fierce 

Made  wounds  which  need  thy  balm. 

PANTHEA. 

nse  as  from  a  bath  of  sparkling  water, 
A  bath  of  azure  light,  among  dark  rocks. 
Out  of  the  stream  of  sound. 


Ah  me !  sweet  sister. 
The  stream  of  sound  has  ebb'd  away  from  us, 
And  you  pretend  to  rise  out  of  its  wave. 


Because  your  words  fall  like  the  clear,  soft  dew 
Shaken  from  a  bathing  wood-nymph's  limbs  and  hair 

PANTHEA. 

Peace  !  peace !  A  mighty  Power,  which  is  as  darkness 
Is  rising  out  of  Eartli,  and  from  the  sky 
Is  shower'd  like  night,  and  from  within  the  air 
Bursts,  hke  eclipse  which  had  been  gathcr'd  up 
Into  the  pores  of  sunlight :  the  bright  visions, 
WTierein  the  singing  spirits  rode  and  shone, 
Gleam  like  pale  meteors  through  a  watery  night 


There  is  a  sense  of  words  upon  mine  ear. 

PANTHEA. 

A  universal  sound  like  words  :  Oh,  list ! 


DEMOGORGON. 

Thou,  Earth,  calm  empire  of  a  happy  soul ! 

Sphere  of  divinest  shapes  and  harmonies, 
Beautiful  orb !  gathering  as  thou  dost  roll 

The  love  which  paves  thy  path  along  the  skies ; 

THE   EARTH. 

I  hear :  I  am  as  a  drop  of  dew  that  dies. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Thou,  Moon,  which  gazest  on  the  nightly  Earth 

With  wonder,  as  it  gazes  upon  thee; 
Whilst  each  to  men,  and  beasts,  and  the  swift  birth 

Of  birds,  is  beauty,  love,  calm,  harmony : 

THE   MOON. 

I  hear :  I  am  a  leaf  shaken  by  thee ! 

DEMOGORGON. 

Ye  kings  of  suns  and  stars !  Demons  and  Gods, 

Ethereal  Dominations  !  who  possess 
Elysian,  windless,  fortunate  abodes 

Beyond  Heaven's  constellated  wilderness : 

A    VOICE    FROM    ABOVE. 

Our  great  Republic  hears :  we  are  blest,  and  bless 

DEMOGORGON. 

Ye  happy  dead !  whom  beams  of  brightest  verse 
Are  clouds  to  hide,  not  colors  to  portray, 

Whether  your  nature  is  that  universe 
Which  once  ye  saw  and  sufTer'd — 

A    VOICE   FROM    BENEATH. 

Or  as  they 
Whom  we  have  left,  we  change  and  pass  away 

DEMOGORGON. 

Ye  elemental  Genii,  who  have  homes 

From  man's  high  mind  even  to  the  central  stone 

Of  sullen  lead ;  from  Heaven's  star-fretted  domes 
To  the  dull  weed  some  sea- worm  battens  on 

A    CONFUSED    VOICE. 

We  hear:  thy  words  waken  Oblivion. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Spirits !  whose  homes  are  flesh ;  ye  beasts  and  birds. 

Ye  worms,  and  fish  ;  ye  living  leaves  and  buds; 
Lightning  and  wind  ;  and  ye  untamable  herds, 

Meteors  and  mists,  which  throng  air's  solitudes: 
351 


104 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A    VOICE. 

Thy  voice  to  us  is  wind  among  still  woods. 

DEMOGORGON. 

Man,  who  wert  once  a  despot  and  a  slave ; 

A  dupe  and  a  deceiver;  a  decay; 
A  traveller  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 

Through  the  dim  night  of  this  immortal  day : 

ALL. 

Speak !  thy  strong  words  may  never  pass  away. 

DEMOGORGON. 

This  is  the  day,  which  down  the  void  abysm 

At  the  Earth-bom's  spell  yawns  for  Heaven's  despotism, 

And  Conquest  is  dragg'd  captive  through  the  deep; 
Love,  from  its  awful  throne  of  patient  power 
In  the  wise  heart,  from  the  last  giddy  hour 

Of  dead  endurance,  from  the  slippery,  steep, 
And  narrow  verge  of  crag-like  agony,  springs 
And  folds  over  the  world  its  healing  wings. 


Gentleness,  Virtue,  Wisdom,  and  Endurance, 
These  are  the  seals  of  that  most  firm  assurance 

Which  bars  the  pit  over  Destruction's  strength  ; 
And  if,  with  infirm  hand.  Eternity, 
Mother  of  many  acts  and  hours,  should  free 

The  serpent  that  would  clasp  her  with  his  lengtu 
These  are  the  spells  by  which  to  reassume 
An  empire  o'er  the  disentangled  doom. 


To  suffer  woes  which  Hope  thinks  infinite ; 
To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  death  or  night , 

To  defy  Power,  which  seems  omnipotent ; 
To  love,  and  bear;  to  hope  till  Hope  creates 
From  its  owti  wreck  the  thing  it  contemplates ; 

Neither  to  change,  nor  flatter,  nor  repent ; 
This,  like  thy  glory.  Titan !  is  to  be 
Good,  great  and  joyous,  beautiful  and  free ; 
This  is  alone  Life,  Joy,  Empire,  and  Victory. 


i 


#.tteen  J^iati* 


L 

How  wonderful  is  Death, 

Death  and  his  brother  Sleep! 
One,  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon, 

With  lips  of  lurid  blue  ; 
The  other,  rosy  as  the  morn 

When,  throned  on  ocean's  wave, 

It  blushes  o'er  the  world : 
Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful ! 

Hath  then  the  gloomy  Power 
Whose  reign  is  in  the  tainted  sepulchres 
Seized  on  her  sinless  soul  ? 
Must  then  that  peerless  form 
Which  love  and  admiration  cannot  view 
Without  a  beating  heart,  those  azure  veins 
Which  steal  like  streams  along  a  field  of  snow, 
That  lovely  outline,  which  is  fair 
As  breathing  marble,  perish? 
Must  putrefaction's  breath 
Leave  nothing  of  this  heavenly  sight 

But  lothesomeness  and  ruin  ? 
Spare  nothing  but  a  gloomy  theme. 
On  which  the  lightest  heart  might  moralize  ? 
Or  is  it  only  a  sweet  slumber 

Stealing  o'er  sensation. 
Which  the  breath  of  roseate  morning 
Chaseth  into  darlvness  ? 
Will  lanthe  wake  again. 
And  give  that  faithful  bosom  joy 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Light,  life  and  rapture  from  her  smile  ? 

Yes !  she  will  wake  again, 
Although  her  glowing  limbs  are  motionless, 

And  silent  those  sweet  lips, 

Once  breathing  eloquence. 
That  might  have  soothed  a  tiger's  rage, 
Or  thaw'd  the  cold  heart  of  a  conqueror. 


Her  dewy  eyes  are  closed. 
And  on  their  lids,  whose  texture  fine 
Scarce  hides  the  dark-blue  orbs  beneath, 

The  baby  Sleep  is  pillow'd : 

Her  golden  tresses  shade 

The  bosom's  stainless  pride. 
Curling  like  tendrils  of  the  parasite 

Around  a  marble  column. 

Hark !  whence  that  rushing  sound  ? 

'Tis  like  the  wondrous  strain 
That  round  a  lonely  ruin  swells. 
Which,  wandering  on  the  echoing  shore, 

The  enthusiast  hears  at  evening : 
'Tis  softer  than  the  west  wind's  sigh  ; 
'Tis  wilder  than  the  unmeasured  notes 
Of  that  strange  lyre  whose  strings 
The  genii  of  the  breezes  sweep : 

Those  lines  of  rainbow  light 
Are  like  the  moonbeams  when  they  fall 
Through  some  cathedral  window,  but  the  teints 

Are  such  as  may  not  find 

Comparison  on  earth. 

Behold  the  chariot  of  the  Fairy  Queen ! 

Celestial  coursers  paw  the  unyielding  air; 

Their  filmy  pennons  at  her  word  they  furl. 

And  stop  obedient  to  the  reins  of  light : 
These  the  Queen  of  spells  drew  in. 
She  spread  a  charm  around  the  spot. 

And  leaning  graceful  from  the  ethereal  car. 
Long  did  she  gaze,  and  silently. 
Upon  the  slumbering  maid. 

Oh  !  not  the  vision'd  poet  in  his  dreams, 
AVhen  silvery  clouds  float  through  the  wilder'd  brain, 
When  every  sight  of  lovelj',  wild  and  grand, 
Astonishes,  enraptures,  elevafes. 
When  fancy  at  a  glance  combines 
352 


QUEEN  MAB. 


105 


The  wondrous  and  the  beautiful, — 
So  bright,  so  fair,  so  wild  a  shape 

llath  ever  yet  beheld, 
As  that  which  rein'd  the  coursers  of  the  air. 
And  pour'd  the  magic  of  her  gaze 

Upon  the  maiden's  sleep. 

Tlie  broad  and  yellow  moon 
Shone  dimly  through  her  form — 

That  form  of  faultless  symmetry ; 

The  pearly  and  pellucid  car 

Moved  not  the  moonlight's  line  : 
'T  was  not  an  earthly  pageant ; 

Those  who  had  look'd  upon  the  sight, 
Passing  all  human  glorj^ 
Saw  not  the  yellow  moon, 
Saw  not  the  mortal  scene, 
Heard  not  the  night-wind's  rush, 
Heard  not  an  earthly  sound. 
Saw  but  the  fairy  pageant, 
Heard  but  the  heavenly  straijis 
That  fiU'd  the  lonely  dwelling. 

The  Fairy's  frame  was  slight :  j'on  fibrous  cloud 
That  catches  but  the  palest  tinge  of  even. 
And  which  the  straining  eye  can  hardly  seize 
When  melting  into  eastern  twilight's  shadow. 
Were  scarce  so  thin,  so  slight ;  but  the  fair  star 
That  gems  the  glittering  coronet  of  morn. 
Sheds  not  a  light  so  mild,  so  powerful. 
As  that  which,  bursting  from  the  Fairy's  form, 
Spread  a  purpurea!  halo  round  the  scene, 

Yet  with  an  undulating  motion, 

Svvay'd  to  her  outline  gracefully. 

From  her  celestial  car 

The  Fairy  Queen  descended. 

And  thrice  she  waved  her  wand 
Circled  with  wreaths  of  amaranth  : 

Her  thin  and  misty  form 

Moved  with  the  moving  air, 

And  the  clear  silver  tones, 

As  thus  she  spoke,  were  such 
As  are  unheard  by  all  but  gifted  ear. 


Stars !  your  balmiest  influence  shed  ! 
Elements !  your  wrath  suspend  ! 
Sleep,  Ocean,  in  the  rocky  bounds 
That  circle  thy  domain ! 
Let  not  a  breath  be  seen  to  stir 
Around  yon  grass-grown  ruin's  height. 
Let  even  the  restless  gossamer 
Sleep  on  the  moveless  air  I 
I  Soul  of  lanthe  I  thou, 

I   Judged  alone  worthy  of  the  envied  boon 
I   That  waits  the  good  and  the  sincere  ;  that  waits 
Those  who  have  struggled,  and  with  resolute  will 
Vanquish'd  earth's  pride  and  meanness,  burst  the 
^  chains, 

i   The  icy  chains  of  custom,  and  have  shone 
The  day-stars  of  their  age  : — Soul  of  lanthe ! 
Awake !  arise ! 

Sudden  arose 
iunthe's  Soul ;  it  stood 
All  beautiful  in  naked  purity, 
2U 


The  perfect  semblance  of  its  bodily  frame, 
Instinct  with  inexpressible  beauty  and  grace. 
Each  stain  of  earlhliness 
Had  pass'd  away,  it  reassumed 
Its  native  dignity,  and  stood 
Immortal  amid  ruin. 

Upon  the  couch  the  body  lay 
Wrapt  in  the  depth  of  slumber: 
Its  features  were  fix'd  and  meaningless. 

Yet  animal  life  was  there. 
And  every  organ  yet  peribrm'd 
Its  natural  functions  :  't  was  a  sight 
Of  wonder  to  behold  the  body  and  soul 
The  self-same  lineaments,  the  same 
Marks  of  identity  were  there ■• 
Yet,  oh  how  different !  One  aspires  to  Heaven, 
Pants  for  its  sempiternal  heritage, 
And  ever-changing,  ever-rising  still. 

Wantons  in  endless  being. 
The  other,  for  a  time  the  unwilling  sport 
Of  circumstance  and  passion,  struggles  on  ; 
Fleets  through  its  sad  duration  rapidly; 
Then  like  a  useless  and  worn-out  macliine, 
Rots,  perishes,  and  passes. 


Spirit!  who  hast  dived  so  deep; 
Spirit !  who  hast  soar'd  so  high  ; 
Thou  the  fearless,  thou  the  mild, 
Accept  the  boon  thy  worth  hath  eam'd, 
Ascend  the  car  with  me. 


Do  I  dream?  is  this  new  feeling 
But  a  vision 'd  ghost  of  slumber  ? 

If  indeed  I  am  a  soul, 
A  free,  a  disembodied  soul. 
Speak  again  to  me. 


I  am  the  Fairy  Mab  :  to  me  't  is  given 
The  wonders  of  the  human  world  to  keep ; 
The  secrets  of  the  immeasurable  past. 
In  the  unfailing  consciences  of  men. 
Those  stem,  unflattering  chroniclers,  I  find  : 
The  future,  from  the  causes  which  arise 
In  each  event,  I  gather :  not  the  sting 
Which  retributive  memory  implants 
In  the  hard  bosom  of  the  selfish  man ; 
Nor  that  ecstatic  and  exulting  throb 
Which  virtue's  votary  feels  when  he  sums  up 
The  thoughts  and  actions  of  a  well-spent  day, 
Are  unforeseen,  unregister'd  by  me  : 
And  it  is  yet  permitted  me  to  rend 
The  veil  of  mortal  frailty,  that  the  spirit 
Clothed  in  its  changeless  purity,  may  know 
IIow  soonest  to  accomplish  the  great  end 
For  which  it  hath  its  being,  and  may  taste 
That  peace,  which  in  the  end  all  life  will  share 
This  is  the  meed  of  virtue ;  happy  Soul, 
Ascend  the  car  with  me ! 

The  chains  of  earth's  immurement 
Fell  from  lanthe's  spirit; 
They  ehrank  and  brake  like  bandages  of  itraw 
353 


106 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Beneath  a  waken'd  giant's  strength. 

She  Ivnew  her  glorious  change, 
And  felt  in  apprehension  uncontroll'd 

New  raptures  opening  round  : 
Each  day-dream  of  her  mortal  life, 
Each  frenzied  vision  of  the  slumbers 

That  closed  each  well-spent  day, 

Seem'd  now  to  meet  reality. 

The  Fairy  and  the  Soul  proceeded  ; 
The  silver  clouds  disparted  ; 
And  as  the  car  of  magic  they  ascended. 
Again  the  speechless  music  swell'd, 
Again  the  coursers  of  the  air 
Unfurl'd  their  azure  pennons,  and  the  Queen, 
Shaking  the  beamy  reins, 
Bade  them  pursue  their  way. 

The  magic  car  moved  ori. 
The  night  was  fair,  and  countless  stars 
Studded  heaven's  dark-blue  vault, — 

Just  o'er  the  eastern  wave 
Peep'd  the  first  faint  smile  of  mom  : — 

The  magic  car  moved  on — 

From  the  celestial  hoofs 
The  atmosphere  in  flaming  sparkles  flew. 

And  where  the  burning  wheels 
Eddied  above  the  mountain's  loftiest  peak, 
Was  traced  a  line  of  lightning. 
Now  it  flew  far  above  a  rock, 

The  utmost  verge  of  earth, 
The  rival  of  the  Andes,  whose  dark  brow 

Lower'd  o'er  the  silver  sea. 

Far,  far  below  the  chariot's  path 

Calm  as  a  slumbering  babe. 

Tremendous  Ocean  lay. 
The  mirror  of  its  stillness  show'd 

The  pale  and  waning  stars. 

The  chariot's  fiery  track. 

And  the  gray  light  of  morn 

Tinging  those  fleecy  clouds 

That  canopied  the  dawn. 
Seem'd  it,  that  the  chariot's  way 
Lay  through  the  midst  of  an  immense  concave. 
Radiant  with  million  constellations,  tinged 

With  shades  of  infinite  color. 

And  semicircled  with  a  belt 

Flashing  incessant  meteors. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 

As  they  approach'd  their  goal. 
The  coursers  seem'd  to  gather  speed  ; 
The  sea  no  longer  was  distinguish'd  ;  earth 
Appear'd  a  vast  and  shadowy  sphere  : 

The  sun's  unclouded  orb 

RoU'd  through  the  black  concave  ;  (1) 

Its  rays  of  rapid  light 
Parted  around  the  chariot's  swifter  course. 
And  fell,  like  ocean's  feathery  spray 

Dash'd  from  the  boiling  surge 

Before  a  vessel's  prow. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 
Earth's  distant  orb  appear'd 
The  smallest  light  that  twinkles  in  the  heaven ; 


Whilst  round  the  chariot's  way 
Innumerable  systems  roll'd,  (2) 
And  countless  spheres  difl!used 
An  ever-varying  glory. 
It  was  a  sight  of  wonder :  some 
Were  horned  like  the  crescent  moon ; 
Some  shed  a  mild  and  silver  beam 
Like  Hesperus  o'er  the  western  sea ; 
Some  dash'd  athwart  with  trains  of  flame. 
Like  worlds  to  death  and  ruin  driven ; 
Some  shone  like  suns,  and  as  the  chariot  pass'd 
Eclipsed  all  other  light. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  here ! 
In  this  interminable  wilderness 
Of  worlds,  at  whose  immensity 
Even  soaring  fancy  staggers. 
Here  is  thy  fitting  temple. 
Yet  not  the  slightest  leaf 
That  quivers  to  the  passing  breeze 
Is  less  instinct  with  thee : 
Yet  not  the  meanest  worm 
That  lurks  in  graves  and  fattens  on  the  dead 
Less  shares  thy  eternal  breath. 

Spirit  of  Nature  !  thou ! 
Imperishable  as  this  scene. 
Here  is  thy  fitting  temple. 

IL 

If  solitude  hath  ever  led  thy  steps 
To  the  wild  ocean's  echoing  shore. 
And  thou  hast  linger'd  there, 
Until  the  sun's  broad  orb 
Seem'd  resting  on  the  burnish'd  wave, 

Thou  must  have  mark'd  the  lines 
Of  purple  gold,  that  motionless 

Hung  o'er  the  sinking  sphere  : 
Thou  must  have  mark'd  the  billowy  clouds 
Edged  with  intolerable  radiancy, 
"Towering  like  rocks  of  jet 
Crown'd  with  a  diamond  wreatlv. 
And  yet  there  is  a  moment. 
When  the  sun's  highest  point 
Peeps  like  a  star  o'er  ocean's  western  edge, 
When  those  far  clouds  of  feathery  gold, 
Shaded  with  deepest  purple,  gleam 
Like  islands  on  a  dark-blue  sea  ; 
Then  has  thy  fancy  soar'd  above  the  earth, 
And  furl'd  its  wearied  wing 
Within  the  Fairy's  fane. 

Yet  not  the  golden  island 
Gleaming  in  yon  flood  of  light. 

Nor  the  feathery  curtains 
Stretching  o'er  the  sun's  bright  couch, 
Nor  the  burnish'd  ocean  waves 
Paving  that  gorgeous  dome, 
So  fair,  so  wonderful  a  sight 
As  Mall's  ethereal  palace  could  afibrd. 
Yet  likest  evening's  vault,  that  fairy  Hall ! 
As  Heaven,  low  resting  on  the  wave,  it  spread 
Its  floors  of  flashing  light. 
Its  vast  and  azure  dome. 
Its  fertile  golden  islands 
Floating  on  a  silver  sea ; 

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107 


Wliilst  suns  their  mingling  beamings  darted 
Through  clouds  of  circumambient  darkness, 
And  pearly  battlements  around 
Look'd  o'er  the  immense  of  Heaven. 


The  magic  car  no  longer  moved. 
The  Fair)'  and  the  Spirit 
Enter'd  the  Hall  of  Spells : 
Those  golden  clouds 
That  roll'd  in  glittering  billows 
Beneath  the  azure  canopy 
With  the  ethereal  footsteps,  trembled  not : 

The  light  and  crimson  mists, 
Floating  to  strains  of  thrilling  melody 
Through  that  unearthly  dwelling. 
Yielded  to  every  movement  of  the  will. 
Upon  their  pensive  sj>ell  the  spirit  lean'd, 
^,"  And,  for  the  varied  bliss  that  press'd  around, 
Used  not  the  glorious  privilege 
Of  virtue  and  of  wisdom. 


Spirit !  the  Fairy  said, 
And  pointed  to  the  gorgeous  dome. 

This  is  a  wondrous  sight 
And  mocks  all  human  grandeur  ; 
But,  were  it  virtue's  only  meed,  to  dwell 
In  a  celestial  palace,  all  resign'd 
To  pleasurable  impulses,  immured 
Within  the  prison  of  itself,  the  will 
Of  changeless  nature  would  be  unfalfill'd. 
Learn  to  make  others  happy.    Spirit,  come  ! 
Tliis  is  thine  high  reward  : — the  past  shall  rise  ; 
Thou  shalt  behold  the  present ;  I  will  teach 

The  secrets  of  the  future. 


The  Fairy  and  the  Spirit 
Approach'd  the  overhanging  battlement. — 
Below  lay  stretch'd  the  universe ! 
There,  far  as  the  remotest  line 
That  bounds  imagination's  flight. 

Countless  and  unending  orbs 
Fn  mazy  motion  intermingled, 
Yet  still  fulfill'd  immutably 
Eternal  nature's  law. 
Above,  below,  around 
The  circling  systems  form'd 
A  wilderness  of  harmony  ; 
Each  with  undeviating  aim. 
In  eloquent  silence,  through  the  depths  of  space 
Pursued  its  wondrous  way. 


There  was  a  little  light 
That  twinkled  in  the  misty  distance : 

None  but  a  spirit's  eye 

Might  ken  that  rolling  orb ; 

None  but  a  spirit's  eye, 

And  in  no  other  place 
But  that  celestial  dwelling,  might  behold 
Each  action  of  this  earth's  inhabitants. 

But  matter,  space  and  time. 
In  those  aerial  mansions  cease  to  act ; 
And  all-prevailing  wisdom,  when  it  reaps 
The  harvest  of  its  excellence,  o'erlx)unds 
Those  obstacles,  of  which  an  earthly  soul 
Fears  to  attempt  the  conquest. 


The  Fairy  pointed  to  the  earth. 
Tlie  Spirit's  intellectual  eye 
Its  kindred  beings  recognized. 
The  thronging  thousands,  to  a  passing  view, 
Seem'd  like  an  ant-hill's  citizens. 
How  wonderful !  that  even 
The  passions,  prejudices,  interests. 
That  sway  the  meanest  being,  the  weak  touch 
That  moves  the  finest  nerve. 
And  in  one  human  brain 
Causes  the  faintest  thought,  becomes  a  link 
In  the  great  chain  of  nature. 

Behold,  the  Fairy  cried, 
Palmyra's  ruin'd  palaces  I — 

Behold  I  where  grandeur  frown'd  ; 

Behold  !  where  pleasure  smiled  ; 
What  now  remains  ? — the  memory 

Of  senselessness  and  shame — 

What  is  immortal  there  ? 

Nothing — it  stands  to  tell 

A  melancholy  tale,  to  give 

An  awful  warning:  soon 
Oblivion  will  steal  silently 

The  remnant  of  its  fame. 

Monarchs  and  conquerors  there 
Proud  o'er  prostrate  millions  trod — 
The  earthquakes  of  the  human  race ; 
Like  them,  forgotten  when  the  ruin 

That  marks  their  shock  is  past 

Beside  the  eternal  Nile 

The  pyramids  have  risen. 
Nile  shall  pursue  his  changeless  way: 

Those  pyramids  shall  fall  ; 
Yea !  not  a  stone  shall  stand  to  tell 

The  spot  whereon  they  stood  ; 
Their  very  site  shall  be  forgotten, 

As  is  their  builder's  name  ! 


Behold  yon  sterile  spot ; 
Where  now  the  wandering  Arab's  tent 

Flaps  in  the  desert  blast. 
There  once  old  Salem's  haughty  fane 
Rear'd  high  to  heaven  its  thousand  golden  domes, 
And  in  the  blushing  face  of  day 
Exposed  its  shameful  glory. 

Oh  !  many  a  widow,  many  an  orphan  cursed 
The  building  of  that  fane  ;  and  many  a  father, 
Worn  out  with  toil  and  slavery,  implored 
The  poor  man's  God  to  sweep  it  from  the  earth, 
And  spare  his  children  the  detested  task 
Of  piling  stone  on  stone,  and  poisoning 

The  choicest  days  of  life, 

To  soothe  a  dotard's  vanity. 
There  an  inhuman  and  uncultured  race 
Ilowl'd  hideous  praises  to  their  Demon-God , 
They  rush'd  to  ^var,  tore  from  the  mother's  womb 
The  unborn  child, — old  age  and  infancy 
Promiscuous  perish 'd  ;  their  victorious  arms 
Left  not  a  soul  to  breathe.    Oh  !  they  were  fiends 
But  what  was  he  who  taught  them  that  the  God 
Of  nature  and  benevolence  had  given 
A  special  sanction  to  the  trade  of  blood  ? 
His  name  and  theirs  are  fading,  and  the  tales 
355 


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SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  this  barbarian  nation,  which  imposture 
Recites  till  terror  credits,  are  pursuing 
Itself  into  forgetfulness. 

Where  Athens,  Rome,  and  Sparta  stood, 
There  is  a  moral  desert  now : 
The  mean  and  miserable  huts. 
The  yet  more  wretched  palaces, 
Contrasted  with  those  ancient  fanes, 
Now  crumbling  to  oblivion ; 
The  long  and  lonely  colonnades. 
Through  which  the  ghost  of  Freedom  stalks. 

Seem  like  a  well-known  tune, 
Which  in  some  dear  scene  we  have  loved  to  hear, 

Remember'd  now  in  sadness. 

But,  oh  !  how  much  more  changed. 

How  gloomier  is  the  contrast 

Of  human  nature  there  ! 
Where  Socrates  expired,  a  tyrant's  slave, 
A  coward  and  a  fool,  spreads  death  around — 

Then,  shuddering,  meets  his  own. 
Where  Cicero  and  Antoninus  lived, 
A  covvl'd  and  hypocritical  monk 

Prays,  curses  and  deceives. 


Spirit !  ten  thousand  years 
Have  scarcely  past  away, 
Since,  in  the  waste  where  now  the  savage  drinks 
His  enemy's  blood,  and,  aping  Europe's  sons, 
Wakes  the  unholy  song  of  war. 
Arose  a  stately  city. 
Metropolis  of  the  western  continent : 

There,  now,  the  mossy  column-stone, 
Indented  by  time's  unrelaxing  grasp. 
Which  once  appear'd  to  brave 
All,  save  its  country's  ruin ; 
There  the  wide  forest  scene, 
Rude  in  the  uncultivated  loveliness 

Of  gardens  long  run  wild. 
Seems,  to  the  unwilling  sojourner,  whose  steps 

Chance  in  that  desert  has  delay'd, 
Thus  to  have  stood  since  earth  was  what  it  is. 

Yet  once  it  was  the  busiest  haunt, 
AVhither,  as  to  a  common  centre,  flock'd 
Strangers,  and  ships,  and  merchandise  : 
Once  peace  and  freedom  blest 
The  cultivated  plain : 
But  wealth,  that  cui-se  of  man, 
Bhghted  the  bud  of  its  prosperity : 
Virtue  and  wisdom,  truth  and  liberty, 
fled,  to  return  not,  until  man  shall  know 
That  they  alone  can  give  the  bliss 

Worthy  a  soul  that  claims 
Its  kindred  with  eternity. 


There 's  not  one  atom  of  yon  earth 

But  once  was  living  man ; 
Nor  the  minutest  drop  of  rain. 
That  hangeth  in  its  thinnest  cloud. 
But  flow'd  in  human  veins : 
And  from  the  burning  plains 
Where  Lybian  monsters  yell. 
From  the  most  gloomy  glens 
Of  Greenland's  sunless  clime, 
To  where  the  golden  fields 
Of  fertile  England  spread 


Their  harvest  to  the  day. 
Thou  canst  not  find  one  spot 
Whereon  no  city  stood. 

How  strange  is  human  pride ! 
I  tell  thee  that  those  living  things. 
To  whom  the  fragile  blade  of  grass, 
That  springeth  in  the  morn 
And  perisheth  ere  noon. 
Is  an  unbounded  world ; 
I  tell  thee  that  those  viewless  beings, 
Whose  mansion  is  the  smallest  particle 
Of  the  impassive  atmosphere, 
Think,  feel  and  live  like  man ; 
That  their  affections  and  antipathies, 
Like  his,  produce  the  laws 
Ruling  their  mortal-state ; 
And  the  minutest  throb 
That  through  their  frame  difTusea 
The  slightest,  faintest  motion. 
Is  fix'd  and  indispensable 
As  the  majestic  laws 
That  rule  yon  rolling  orbs. 

The  Fairy  paused.    The  Spirit, 
In  ecstasy  of  admiration,  felt 
All  knowledge  of  the  past  revived ;  the  events 

Of  old  and  wondrous  times. 
Which  dim  tradition  interruptedly 
Teaches  the  credulous  vulgar,  were  unfolded 
In  just  perspective  to  the  view ; 
Yet  dim  from  their  infinitude. 
The  Spirit  seem'd  to  stand 
High  on  Jin  isolated  pinnacle  ; 
The  flood  of  ages  combating  below, 
The  depth  of  the  imbounded  universe 
Above,  and  all  around 
Nature's  unchanging  harmony. 

III. 

Fairy  !  the  Spirit  said. 
And  on  the  Queen  of  spells 
Fix'd  her  ethereal  eyes, 
I  thank  thee.    Thou  hast  given 
A  boon  which  I  will  not  resign,  and  taught 
A  lesson  not  to  be  unleam'd.    I  know 
The  past,  and  thence  I  will  essay  to  glean 
A  warning  for  the  future,  so  that  man 
May  profit  by  his  errors,  and  derive 

Experience  from  his  folly : 
For,  when  the  power  of  imparting  joy 
Is  equal  to  the  will,  the  human  soul 
Requires  no  other  heaven. 


Turn  thee,  surpassing  Spirit ! 
Much  yet  remains  unscann'd. 
Thou  knowest  how  great  is  man, 
Thou  knowest  his  imbecility  : 
Yet  learn  thou  what  he  is , 
Yet  learn  the  lofty  destiny 
Which  restless  Time  prepares 
For  every  living  soul. 

Behold  a  gorgeous  palace,  that,  amid 
Yon  populous  city,  rears  its  thousand  towers 
356 


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109 


And  seems  itself  a  city.    Gloomy  troops 

Of  sentinels,  in  stern  and  silent  ranks, 

Encompass  it  around  :  the  dweller  there 

Cannot  be  free  and  happy ;  hearest  thou  not 

The  curses  of  the  fatherless,  the  groans 

Of  those  who  have  no  friend  ?  He  passes  on : 

The  King,  the  wearer  of  a  gilded  chain 

That  binds  his  soul  to  abjectness,  the  fool 

Whom  courtiers  nickname  monarch,  whilst  a  slave 

Even  to  the  basest  appetites — that  man 

Heeds  not  the  shriek  of  penury ;  he  smiles 

At  the  deep  curses  which  the  destitute 

Mutter  in  secret,  and  a  sullen  joy 

Pervades  his  bloodless  heart  when  thousands  groan 

But  for  those  morsels  whicli  his  wantormess 

Wastes  in  unjoyous  revelry,  to  save 

All  that  they  love  from  famine :  when  he  hears 

The  tale  of  horror,  to  some  ready-made  face 

Of  hypocritical  assent  he  turns. 

Smothering  the  glow  of  shame,  tliat,  spite  of  him, 

Flushes  his  bloated  cheek. 

Now  to  the  meal 
Of  silence,  grandeur,  and  excess,  he  drags 
His  pall'd,  unwilling  appetite.    If  gold, 
Gleaming  around,  and  numerous  viands  cuU'd 
From  every  clime,  could  force  the  lothing  sense 
To  overcome  satiety, — if  wealth 
The  spring  it  draws  from  poisons  not, — or  vice, 
Unfeeling,  stubborn  vice,  converteth  not 
Its  food  to  deadhest  venom ;  then  that  king 
Is  happy ;  and  the  peasant  \\  ho  fulfills 
His  unforced  task,  when  he  returns  at  even, 
And  by  the  blazing  fagot  meets  again 
Her  welcome  for  whom  all  his  toil  is  sped. 
Tastes  not  a  sweeter  meal. 

Behold  him  now 
Stretch'd  on  the  gorgeous  couch  ,•  his  fever'd  brain 
Reels  dizzily  awhile  :  but  ah  I  too  soon 
The  slumber  of  intemperance  subsides. 
And  conscience,  that  undying  serpent,  calls 
Her  venomous  brood  to  their  nocturnal  task. 
Listen!  he  speaks!  oh!  mark  that  frenzied  eye — 
Oh !  mark  that  deadly  visage. 


No  cessation ! 
Oh  !  must  this  last  for  ever !  Awful  death, 
I  wish,  yet  fear  to  clasp  thee ! — Not  one  moment 
Of  dreamless  sleep  !  O  dear  and  blessed  peace! 
ij     Why  dost  thou  shroud  thy  vestal  purity 
«     In  penury  and  dungeons  ?  wherefore  lurkest 
f      With  danger,  death,  and  solitude;  yet  shunn'st 
The  palace  I  have  built  thee!  Sacred  peace! 
Oh  \-isit  me  but  onCe,  but  pitying  shed 
One  drop  of  balm  upon  my  wither'd  soul. 

Vain  man !  that  palace  is  the  virtuous  heart. 
And  peace  delileth  not  her  snowy  robes 
In  such  a  shed  as  thine.    Hark !  yet  he  mutters  ; 
His  slumbers  are  but  varied  agonies. 
They  prey  like  scorpions  on  the  springs  of  life. 
,    There  needeih  not  the  hell  that  bigots  frame 
To  punish  those  who  err :  earth  in  itself 
Contains  at  once  the  evil  and  the  cure  ; 
And  all-eufficing  Nature  can  chastise 


Those  w-ho  transgress  her  law, — she  only  knows 
How  justly  to  proportion  to  the  fault 
The  punishment  it  merits. 

Is  it  strange 
That  this  poor  wretch  should  pride  him  in  his  woe  ? 
Take  pleasure  in  his  abjectne-ss,  and  hug 
The  scorpion  that  consumes  him  ?  Is  it  strange 
That,  placed  on  a  conspicuous  throne  of  thorns, 
Gra.sping  an  iron  sceptre,  and  immured 
Within  a  splendid  prison,  whose  stern  bounds 
Sliut  him  from  all  that's  good  or  dear  on  earth. 
His  soul  asserts  not  its  humanity  ? 
That  man's  mild  nature  rises  not  in  war 
Against  a  king's  employ?  No — 'tis  not  strange. 
He,  like  the  vulgar,  thinks,  feels,  acts  and  lives 
Just  as  his  father  did ;  the  unconquer'd  powers 
Of  precedent  and  custom  interpose 
Between  a  king  and  virtue.    Stranger  yet. 
To  those  who  know  not  nature,  nor  deduce 
The  future  from  the  present,  it  may  seem, 
That  not  one  slave,  who  suffers  from  the  crimes 
Of  tliis  unnatural  being ;  not  one  wretch, 
Whose  children  famish,  and  whose  nuptial  bed 
Is  earth's  unpitying  bosom,  rears  an  arm 
To  dash  him  from  his  throne ! 


^  ■     ■  •     '  Those  gilded  flies 

That,  basking  in  the  sunshine  of  a  court. 
Fatten  on  its  corruption! — what  are  they? 
— The  drones  of  the  community ;  they  feed 
On  the  mechanic's  labor :  the  starved  hind 
For  them  compels  the  stubborn  glebe  to  yield 
Its  unshared  harvests ;  and  yon  squalid  form, 
Leaner  than  fleshless  misery,  that  wastes 
A  sunless  life  in  the  unwholesome  mine. 
Drags  out  in  labor  a  protracted  death. 
To  glut  their  grandeur ;  many  faint  with  toil, 
That  few  may  know  the  cares  and  woe  of  sloth. 

Whence,  thinkest  thou,  kings  and  parasites  arose  ? 

Whence  that  unnatural  line  of  drones,  who  heap 

Toil  and  unvanquishable  penury 

On  those  who  build  their  palaces,  and  bring 

Their  daily  bread  ? — From  vice,  black  lothesome  vice, 

From  rapine,  madness,  treachery,  and  wrong; 

From  all  that  genders  misery,  and  makes 

Of  earth  this  thorny  wilderness ;  from  lust, 

Revenge,  and  murder. — And  when  reason's  voice, 

Loud  as  the  voice  of  nature,  shall  have  waked 

The  nations  ;  and  mankind  perceive  that  vice 

Is  discord,  war,  and  misery ;  that  virtue 

Is  peace,  and  happiness,  and  harmony ; 

When  man's  maturer  nature  shall  disdain 

The  playthings  of  its  childhood  ; — kingly  glare 

Will  lose  its  power  to  dazzle ;  its  authority 

Will  silently  pass  by;  the  gorgeous  throne 

Shall  stand  unnoticed  in  the  regal  hall. 

Fast  falling  to  decay ;  whilst  falsehood's  trade 

Shall  be  as  hateful  and  unprofitable 

As  that  of  truth  is  now. 


Where  is  the  fame 
Which  the  vain-glorious  mighty  of  the  earth 
Seek  to  eternize  ?  Oh !  the  faintest  sound 
From  time's  light  footfall,  the  minutest  wave 
47  357 


no 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


That  swells  the  flood  of  ages,  whelms  in  nothing 

The  unsubstantial  bubble.    Ay!  to-day 

Stern  is  the  tyrant's  mandate,  red  the  gaze 

That  flashes  desolation,  strong  the  arm 

That  scatters  multitudes.    To-morrow  comes ! 

That  mandate  is  a  thunder-peal  that  died 

In  ages  past ;  that  gaze,  a  transient  flash 

On  which  the  midnight  closed,  and  on  that  arm 

The  worm  has  made  his  meal. 


The  virtuous  man, 
Who,  great  in  his  humility,  as  kings 
Are  little  in  their  grandeur  ,•  he  who  leads 
Invincibly  a  life  of  resolute  good. 
And  stands  amid  the  silent  dungeon-depths 
More  free  and  fearless  than  the  trembling  judge. 
Who,  clothed  in  venal  power,  vainly  strove 
To  bind  the  impassive  spirit; — when  he  falls, 
His  mild  eye  beams  benevolent  no  more : 
Wither'd  the  hand  outstretch'd  but  to  relieve ; 
Sunk  reason's  simple  eloquence,  that  roll'd 
But  to  appal  the  guilty.    Yes !  the  grave 
Hath  quench'd  that  eye,  and  death's  relentless  frost 
Wither'd  that  arm  :  but  the  unfading  fame 
Which  virtue  hangs  upon  its  votary's  tomb ; 
The  deathless  memory  of  that  man,  whom  kings 
Call  to  their  mind  and  tremble ;  the  remembrance 
With  which  the  happy  spirit  contemplates 
Its  well-spent  pilgrimage  on  earth. 
Shall  never  pass  av^-ay. 


Nature  rejects  the  monarch,  not  the  man ; 
The  subject,  not  the  citizen :  for  kings 
And  subjects,  mutual  foes,  for  ever  play 
A  losing  game  into  each  other's  hands. 
Whose  stakes  are  vice  and  misery.    The  man 
Of  virtuous  soul  commands  not  nor  obeys. 
Power,  like  a  desolating  pestilence. 
Pollutes  whate'er  it  touclies ;  and  obedience. 
Bane  of  all  genius,  virtue,  freedom,  truth. 
Makes  slaves  of  men,  and  of  the  human  frame 
A  mechanized  automaton. 


When  Nero, 
High  over  flaming  Rome,  with  savage  joy 
Lower'd  like  a  fiend,  drank  vi'ith  enraptured  ear 
The  shrieks  of  agonizing  death,  beheld 
The  frightful  desolation  spread,  and  felt 
A  new-created  sense  within  his  soul 
■  Thrill  to  the  sight,  and  vibrate  to  the  sound  ; 
Thinkest  thou  his  grandeur  had  not  overcome 
The  force  of  human  kindness  ?  and,  when  Rome, 
With  one  stern  blow,  hurl'd  not  the  tyrant  down, 
Crush'd  not  the  arm  red  with  her  dearest  blood. 
Had  not  submissive  abjectness  destroy'd 
Nature's  suggestions  ? 

Look  on  yonder  earth : 
'  The  golden  harvests  spring ;  the  unfailing  sun 
'  Sheds  light  and  life;  the  fruits,  the  flowers,  the  trees. 
Arise  in  due  succession ;  all  things  speak 
Peace,  harmony,  and  love.    The  universe, 
In  nature's  silent  eloquence,  declares 
'  That  all  fulfil  the  works  of  love  and  joy, — 
All  but  the  outcast  man.    He  fabricates 
The  sword  which  stabs  his  peace ;  he  cherisheth 


The  snakes  that  gnaw  his  heart ;  he  raiseth  up 
The  tyrant,  whose  delight  is  in  liis  woe, 
Whose  sport  is  in  his  agony.    Yon  sun. 
Lights  it  the  great  alone  ?  Yon  silver  beams. 
Sleep  they  less  sweetly  on  the  cottage  thatch, 
Than  on  the  dome  of  kings  ?  Is  mother  earth 
A  stepdame  to  her  numerous  sons,  who  earn 
Her  unshared  gifts  with  unremitting  toil , 
A  mother  only  to  those  puling  babes 
Who,  nursed  in  ease  and  luxury,  make  men 
The  playthings  of  their  babyhood,  and  mar, 
In  self-important  childishness,  that  peace 
Which  men  alone  appreciate  ? 


Spirit  of  Nature !  no, 
The  pure  diffusion  of  thy  essence  throbs 
Alike  in  every  human  heart. 
Thou,  aye,  erectest  there 
Thy  throne  of  power  unappealable : 
Thou  art  the  judge  beneath  Avhose  nod 
Man's  brief  and  frail  authority 
Is  powerless  as  the  wind 
That  passeth  idly  by. 
Thine  the  tribunal  which  surpasseth 
The  show  of  human  justice, 
As  God  surpasses  man. 


Spirit  of  Nature!  thou 
Life  of  interminable  multitudes; 

Soul  of  those  mighty  spheres 
Whose  changeless  paths  through  Heaven's  deep 
silence  lie ; 
Soul  of  that  smallest  thing. 

The  dwelling  of  whose  life 
Is  one  faint  April  sun-gleam; — 
Man,  like  these  passive  things. 
Thy  will  unconsciously  fulfilleth  : 
Like  theirs,  his  age  of  endless  peace, 
Which  time  is  fast  maturing, 
Will  swiftly,  surely  come ; 
And  the  unbounded  frame,  which  thou  pervadest 
Will  be  without  a  flaw 
Marring  its  perfect  symmetry. 


IV. 

How  beautiful  this  night .'  the  balmiest  sigh, 

Which  vernal  zepliyrs  breathe  in  evening's  ear, 

Were  discord  to  the  speaking  quietude 

That  wraps  this  moveless  scene.  Heaven's  ebon  vault 

Studded  with  stars  unutterably  bright. 

Through  which  the  moon's  unclouded  grandeur  rolls 

Seems  like  a  canopy  which  love  had  spread 

To  curtain  her  sleeping  world.    Yon  gentle  hills, 

Robed  in  a  garment  of  untrodden  snow  ; 

Yon  darksome  rocks,  whence  icicles  depend. 

So  stainless,  that  their  white  and  glittering  spires 

Tinge  not  the  moon's  pure  beam ;  yon  castled  steepk 

Whose  banner  hangeth  o'er  the  time-worn  tower 

So  idly,  that  rapt  fancy  deemeth  it 

A  metaphor  of  peace  ; — all  form  a  scene 

Where  musing  solitude  might  love  to  lift 

Her  soul  above  this  sphere  of  earthliness  ; 

^'Vhere  silence  undisturb'd  might  watch  alone, 

So  cold,  so  bright,  so  still. 

358 


QUEEN  MAB. 


Ill 


The  orb  of  day, 
In  southern  climes,  o'or  ocean's  waveless  field 
Sinks  sweetly  smiling :  not  the  faintest  breath 
Steals  o'er  the  unruflled  deep ;  the  clouds  of  eve 
Reflect  unmoved  the  lingering  beam  of  day  ; 
And  V'esper's  image  on  the  western  main 
Is  beautifully  still.     To-morrow  comes  : 
Cloud  upon  cloud,  in  dark  and  deepening  mass, 
Roll  o'er  the  blackcn'd  waters ;  the  deep  roar 
Of  distant  thunder  mutters  awfully  ; 
Tempest  unfolds  its  pinion  o'er  the  gloom 
That  shrouds  the  boiling  surge ;  the  pitiless  fiend. 
With  all  his  winds  and  lightnings,  traclvs  his  prey ; 
The  torn  deep  yawns, — the  vessel  finds  a  grave 
Beneath  its  jagged  gidf 

Ah !  whence  yon  glare 
That  fires  the  arch  of  heaven  ? — that  dark-red  smoke 
Blotting  the  silver  moon  ?  The  stars  are  quench'd 
In  darkness,  and  the  pure  and  spangling  snow 
Gleams  faintly  through  the  gloom  that  gathers  round ! 
Hark  to  that  roar,  whose  swift  and  deaf'ning  peals 
In  countless  echoes  through  the  mountains  ring. 
Startling  pale  micbiight  on  her  starry  throne ! 
Now  swells  the  intermingling  din ;  the  jar 
Frequent  and  frightful  of  the  bursting  bomb  ; 
The  falling  beam,  the  shriek,  the  groan,  the  shout. 
The  ceaseless  clangor,  and  the  rush  of  men 
Inebriate  with  rage  : — loud,  and  more  loud 
The  discord  grows ;  till  pale  death  shuts  the  scene. 
And  o'er  the  conqueror  and  the  conquer'd  draws 
His  cold  and  bloody  shroud. — Of  all  the  men 
Whom  day's  departing  beam  saw  blooming  there. 
In  proud  and  vigorous  health ;  of  all  the  hearts 
Tliat  beat  with  anxious  life  at  sunset  there ; 
How  few  survive,  how  few  are  beating  now! 
All  is  deep  silence,  like  the  fearful  calm 
That  slumbers  in  the  storm's  portentous  pause ; 
Save  when  the  frantic  wail  of  widow'd  love 
Comes  shuddering  on  the  blast,  or  the  faint  moan 
With  which  some  soul  bursts  from  the  frame  of  clay 
Wrapt  round  its  struggling  powers. 

The  gray  morn 
Dawns  on  the  mournful  scene !  the  sulphurous  smoke 
Before  the  icy  wind  slow  rolls  away, 
And  the  bright  beams  of  frosty  morning  dance 
Along  the  spangling  snow.     Tlicre  tracks  of  blood 
Even  to  the  forest's  depth,  and  scatter'd  arms, 
And  lifeless  warriors,  whose  hard  lineaments 
Death's  self  could  change  not,  mark  the  dreadful  path 
Of  the  out-sallying  \  ictors  :  far  beliind. 
Black  ashes  note  where  tlieir  proud  city  stood. 
Within  yon  forest  is  a  gloomy  glen — 
Each  tree  wluch  guards  its  darkness  from  the  day 
Waves  o'er  a  warrior's  tomb. 


I  see  thee  shrink, 
Surpassing  Spirit  1 — wert  thou  human  else  ? 
I  see  a  shade  of  doubt  and  horror  iieet 
Across  thy  stainless  features  :  yet  fear  not ; 
This  is  no  unconnected  misery. 
Nor  stands  uncau.sed,  and  irretrievable. 
Man's  evil  nature,  that  ajjology 
Which  kings  who  rule,  and  cowards  who  crouch, 

set  up 
For  their  unnumber'd  crimes,  sheds  not  the  blood 


Which  desolates  the  discord -wasted  land. 
From  kings,  and  priests,  and  statesmen,  war  arose, 
Wliose  safety  is  man's  deep  unbetter'd  woe. 
Whose  grandeur  his  debasement.     Let  the  ax 
Strilie  at  the  root,  the  poison-tree  will  fall ; 
And  where  its  venom'd  exhalations  spread 
Ruin,  and  death,  and  woe,  where  millions  lay 
Quenching  the  serpent's  famine,  and  their  bone-s 
Bleaching  unburied  in  the  putrid  blast, 
A  garden  shall  arise,  in  loveliness 
Surpassing  fabled  Eden. 


Hath  Nature's  soul. 
That  form'd  this  world  so  beautiful,  that  spread 
Earth's  lap  with  plenty,  and  life's  smallest  chord 
Strung  to  unchanging  unison,  that  gave 
The  happy  birds  their  dwelling  in  the  grove, 
That  yielded  to  the  wanderers  of  the  deep 
The  lovely  silence  of  the  unfathom'd  main. 
And  fill'd  the  meanest  worm  that  crawls  in  dust 
With  spirit,  thought,  and  lovei  on  Man  alone, 
Partial  in  causeless  malice,  wantonly 
Heap'd  ruin,  vice,  and  slavery  ;  his  soul 
Blasted  with  withering  curses ;  placed  afar 
The  meteor-happiness,  that  shuns  his  grasp, 
But  serving  on  the  frightful  gulf  to  glare. 
Rent  wide  beneath  his  footsteps  ? 


Nature ! — no .' 
Kings,  priests,  and  statesmen,  blast  the  human  flower 
Even  in  its  tender  bud  ;  their  influence  darts 
Like  subtle  poison  through  the  bloodless  veins 
Of  desolate  society.     The  child. 
Ere  he  can  lisp  his  mother's  sacred  name, 
Swells  with  the  unnatural  pride  of  crime,  and  lifts 
His  baby-sword  even  in  a  hero's  mood. 
This  infant-arm  becomes  the  bloodiest  scourge 
Of  devastated  earth  :  whilst  specious  names. 
Learnt  in  soft  childhood's  unsuspecting  hour. 
Serve  as  the  sophisms  with  which  manhood  dims 
Bright  reason's  ray,  and  sanctifies  the  sword 
Upraised  to  shed  a  brother's  innocent  blood. 
Let  priest-led  slaves  cease  to  proclaim  that  man 
Inherits  vice  and  misery,  when  force 
And  falsehood  hang  even  o'er  the  cradled  babe, 
Stifling  with  rudest  grasp  all  natural  good. 


Ah !  to  the  stranger-soul,  when  first  it  peeps 
From  its  new  tenement,  and  looks  abroad 
For  happiness  and  sympathy,  how  stem 
And  desolate  a  track  is  this  wide  world ! 
How  vvither'd  all  the  buds  of  natural  good ! 
No  shade,  no  shelter  from  the  sweeping  storms 
Of  pitiless  power !  On  its  wretched  frame, 
Poison'd,  perchance,  by  the  disease  and  woe 
Heap'd  on  the  wretched  parent  whence  it  sprung 
By  morals,  law,  and  custom,  the  pure  winds 
Of  heaven,  that  renovate  the  insect  tribes. 
May  breathe  not.     The  untainting  light  of  day 
May  visit  not  its  longings.     It  is  bound 
Ere  it  has  life :  yea,  all  the  chains  are  forged 
Long  ere  its  being :  all  liberty  and  love 
And  peace  is  torn  from  its  defencelessness  ; 
Cursed  from  its  birth,  even  from  its  cradle  doom  d 
To  abjectness  and  bondage  ! 

359 


112 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Throughout  this  varied  and  eternal  world 

Soul  is  the  only  element,  the  block 

That  for  uncounted  ages  has  remain'd. 

The  moveless  pillar  of  a  mountain's  weight 

Is  active,  living  spirit.     Every  grain 

Is  sentient  both  in  unity  and  part, 

And  the  minutest  atom  comprehends 

A  world  of  loves  and  hatreds ;  these  beget 

Evil  and  good  :  hence  truth  and  falsehood  spring  ; 

Hence  will  and  thought  and  action,  all  the  germs 

Of  pain  or  pleasure,  sympathy  or  hate, 

That  variegate  the  eternal  universe. 

Soul  is  not  more  polluted  than  the  beams 

Of  heaven's  pure  orb,  ere  round  their  rapid  lines 

The  taint  of  earth-born  atmospheres  arise. 

Man  is  of  soul  and  body,  form'd  for  deeds 

Of  high  resolve,  on  fancy's  boldest  wing 

To  soar  unwearied,  fearlessly  to  turn 

The  keenest  pangs  to  peacefulness,  and  taste 

The  joys  which  mingled  sense  and  spirit  yield. 

Or  he  is  form'd  for  abjectness  and  woe, 

To  grovel  on  the  dunghill  of  his  fears. 

To  shrink  at  every  sound,  to  quench  the  flame 

Of  natural  love  in  sensualism,  to  know 

That  hour  as  blest  when  on  his  worthless  days 

The  frozen  hand  of  death  shall  set  its  seal. 

Yet  fear  the  cure,  though  hating  the  disease. 

The  one  is  man  that  shall  hereafter  be  ; 

The  other,  man  as  vice  has  made  him  now. 


War  is  the  statesman's  game,  the  priest's  delight, 

The  lawyer's  jest,  the  hired  assassin's  trade, 

And,  to  those  royal  murderers,  whose  mean  thrones 

Are  bought  by  crimes  of  treachery  and  gore. 

The  bread  they  eat,  the  staff  on  which  they  lean. 

Guards,  garb'd  in  blood-red  livery,  surround 

Their  palaces,  participate  the  crimes 

That  force  defends,  and  from  a  nation's  rage 

Secures  the  crown,  which  all  the  curses  reach 

Tliat  famine,  frenzy,  woe  and  penury  breathe. 

These  are  the  hired  bravoes  who  defend 

The  tyrant's  throne  (3) — the  bullies  of  his  fear: 

These  are  the  sinks  and  channels  of  worst  vice. 

The  refuse  of  society,  the  dregs 

Of  all  that  is  most  vile  :  their  cold  hearts  blend 

Deceit  with  sternness,  ignorance  with  pride. 

All  that  is  mean  and  villanous,  with  rage 

Which  hopelessness  of  good,  and  self-contempt. 

Alone  might  kindle  ;  they  are  deck'd  in  wealth. 

Honor  and  power,  then  are  sent  abroad 

To  do  their  work.     The  pestilence  that  stalks 

In  gloomy  triumph  through  some  eastern  land 

Is  less  destroying.     They  cajole  with  gold. 

And  promises  of  fame,  the  thoughtless  youth 

Already  crush'd  with  servitude:  he  knows 

His  wretchedness  too  late,  and  cherishes 

Repentance  for  his  ruin,  when  his  doom 

Is  seal'd  in  gold  and  biood  I 

Those  too,  the  tyrant  serve,  who,  skill'd  to  snare 

The  feet  of  justice  in  the  toils  of  law. 

Stand,  ready  to  oppress  the  weaker  still ; 

And,  right  or  wrong,  will  vindicate  for  gold. 

Sneering  at  public  virtue,  which  beneath 

Their  pitiless  tread  lies  torn  and  trampled,  where 

Honor  sits  smiling  at  the  sale  of  truth. 


Then  grave  and  hoary-headed  hypocrites, 
Without  a  hope,  a  passion,  or  a  love, 
Who,  through  a  life  of  luxury  and  lies, 
Have  crept  by  flattery  to  the  seats  of  power, 
Support  the  system  whence  their  honors  flow — 
They  have  three  words  : — well  tyrants  know  thei . 

use, 

Well  pay  them  for  the  loan,  with  usury 
Torn  from  a  bleeding  world ! — God,  Hell,  and  Heaven. 
A  vengeful,  pitiless,  and  almighty  fiend. 
Whose  mercy  is  a  nickname  for  the  rage 
Of  tameless  tigers  hungering  for  blood. 
Hell,  a  red  gulf  of  everlasting  fire. 
Where  poisonous  and  undying  worms  prolong 
Eternal  misery  to  those  hapless  slaves 
Whose  life  has  been  a  penance  for  its  crimes. 
And  Heaven,  a  meed  for  those  who  dare  belie 
Their  human  nature,  quake,  believe,  and  cringe 
Before  the  mockeries  of  earthly  power. 

These  tools  the  tyrant  tempers  to  his  work, 
Wields  in  his  wrath,  and  as  he  wills  destroys, 
Omnipotent  in  wickedness :  the  while 
Youth  springs,  age  moulders,  manhood  tamely  does 
His  bidding,  bribed  by  shortlived  joys  to  lend 
Force  to  the  weakness  of  his  trembling  arm. 

They  rise,  they  fall ;  one  generation  comes. 
Yielding  its  harvest  to  destruction's  scythe. 
It  fades,  another  blossoms :  yet  behold ! 
Red  glows  the  tyrant's  stamp-mark  on  its  bloom, 
Withering  and  cankering  deep  its  passive  prime. 
He  has  invented  lying  words  and  modes, 
Empty  and  vain  as  his  own  coreless  heart  ; 
Evasive  meanings,  nothings  of  much  sound, 
To  lure  the  heedless  victim  to  the  toils 
Spread  round  the  valley  of  its  paradise. 

Look  to  thyself  priest,  conqueror,  or  prince  ! 
Whether  thy  trade  is  falsehood,  and  thy  lusts 
Deep  wallow  in  the  earnings  of  the  poor. 
With  whom  thy  master  was : — or  thou  delight'st    .' 
In  numbering  o'er  the  myriads  of  thy  slain. 
All  misery  weighing  nothing  in  the  scale  ^ 

Against  thy  shortlived  fame  :  or  thou  dost  load 
With  cowardice  and  crime  the  groaning  land, 
A  pomp-fed  king.     Look  to  thy  wretched  self! 
Ay,  art  thou  not  the  veriest  slave  that  e'er 
Crawl'd  on  the  lolhing  earth  ?  Are  not  thy  days 
Days  of  unsatisfying  listlessness  ? 
Dost  thou  not  cry,  ere  night's  long  rack  is  o'er. 
When  will  the  morning  come  ?  Is  not  thy  youth 
A  vain  and  feverish  dream  of  sensualism? 
Thy  manhood  blighted  with  unripe  disease  ? 
Are  not  thy  view's  of  unregretted  death 
Drear,  comfortless,  and  horrible  ?  Thy  mind, 
Is  it  not  morbid  as  thy  nerveless  frame, 
Incapable  of  judgment,  hope,  or  love  ? 
And  dost  thou  wish  the  errors  to  survive 
That  bar  thee  from  all  sympathies  of  good. 
After  the  miserable  interest 

Thou  hold'st  in  their  protraction  ?  When  the  grave 
Has  swallovv'd  up  thy  memory  and  thyself. 
Dost  thou  desire  the  bane  that  poisons  earth 
To  twine  its  roots  around  thy  coffin'd  clay. 
Spring  from  thy  bones,  and  blossom  on  thy  tomb. 
That  of  its  fruit  thy  babes  may  eat  and  die  ? 
360 


aUEEN  MAB. 


113 


Thus  do  the  generations  of  the  earth 
Go  to  the  griive,  and  issue  from  the  womb,  (4) 
Surviving  still  the  imperishable  change 
That  renovates  the  world  ;  even  as  the  leaves 
Whicli  the  keen  frost-wind  of  the  waning  year 
Has  scattcr'd  on  the  forest  soil,  (5)  and  heap'd 
For  many  seasons  there,  though  long  they  choke, 
Loading  with  lothesome  rottenness  the  land. 
All  germs  of  prom.ise.     Yet  when  the  tall  trees 
From  which  they  fell,  shorn  of  their  lovely  shapes. 
Lie  level  with  the  earth  to  moulder  there. 
They  fertilize  the  land  they  long  deform'd, 
Till  from  the  breathing  lawn  a  forest  springs 
Of  youth,  integrity,  and  loveliness, 
Like  that  which  gave  it  life,  to  spring  and  die. 
Thus  suicidal  selfishness,  that  blights 
•  The  fairest  feelings  of  the  opening  heart, 
Is  destined  to  decay,  whilst  from  the  soil 
Shall  spring  all  virtue,  all  delight,  all  love. 
And  judgment  cease  to  wage  minatural  war 
With  passion's  imsubduable  array. 

T«in-sister  of  religion,  selfishness  ! 
Rival  in  crime  and  falsehood,  aping  all 
The  wanton  horrors  of  her  bloody  play ; 
Yet  frozen,  unimpassion'd,  spiritless. 
Shunning  the  light,  and  owning  not  its  name : 
Compell'd,  by  its  deformity,  to  screen 
With  flimsy  veil  of  justice  and  of  right, 
Its  unattractive  lineaments,  that  scare 
All,  save  the  brood  of  ignorance  :  at  once 
The  cause  and  the  eflfect  of  tyranny ; 
Unblushing,  harden'd,  sensual,  and  \-ile  ; 
Dead  to  all  love  but  of  its  abjectness, 
With  heart  impassive  by  more  noble  powers 
Than  unshared  pleasure,  sordid  gain,  or  fame  ; 
Despising  its  own  miserable  being. 
Which  still  it  longs,  yet  fears  to  disenthrall. 

Hence  commerce  springs,  the  venal  interchange 

Of  all  that  human  art  or  nature  yield  ; 

Which  wealth  should  purchase  not,  but  want  demand, 

And  natural  kindness  hasten  to  supply 

From  the  full  fountain  of  its  boundless  love, 

For  ever  stifled,  drain'd,  and  tainted  now. 

Commerce !  beneath  whose  poison-breathing  shade 

No  solitary  virtue  dares  to  spring, 

But  poverty  and  wealth  with  equal  hand 

Scatter  their  withering  curses,  and  unfold 

The  doors  of  premature  and  violent  death, 

To  pining  famine  and  full-fed  di-sease. 

To  all  that  shares  the  lot  of  human  life, 

Which  poison'd  body  and  soul,  scarce  drags  the  chain 

That  lengthens  as  it  goes  and  clanks  behind. 

Commerce  has  set  the  mark  of  selfishness, 

The  signet  of  its  all-enslaving  power, 

Upon  a  shining  ore,  and  call'd  it  gold : 

Before  whose  image  bow  the  vulgar  great, 

The  vainly  rich,  the  miserable  proud. 

The  mob  of  peasants,  nobles,  priests,  and  kings,  (6) 

And  with  blind  feelings  reverence  the  power 

1     That  grinds  ihcin  to  the  dust  of  misery. 

I     But  in  the  temple  of  their  hireling  hearts 
2  V 


Gold  is  a  living  god,  and  rules  in  scorn 
All  earthly  things  but  virtue. 

Since  tyrants,  by  the  sale  of  human  life. 

Heap  luxuries  to  their  sensualism,  and  fame 

To  their  wide-wasting  and  insatiate  pride, 

Success  has  sanction'd  to  a  credulous  world 

The  ruin,  the  disgrace,  the  woe  of  war. 

His  hosts  of  blind  and  unresisting  dupes 

The  despot  numbers  ;  from  his  cabinet 

These  puppets  of  his  schemes  he  moves  at  »il\, 

Even  as  the  slaves  by  force  or  famine  driven, 

Beneath  a  vulgar  master,  to  perform 

A  task  of  cold  and  brutal  drudgery  ; — 

Harden'd  to  hope,  insensible  to  fear. 

Scarce  living  pulleys  of  a  dead  machine, 

Mere  wheels  of  work  and  articles  of  trade, 

That  grace  the  proud  and  noisy  pomp  of  wealth ! 

The  harmony  and  happiness  of  man 

Yield  to  the  wealth  of  nations ;  that  which  lifts 

His  nature  to  the  heaven  of  its  pride, 

Is  barter'd  for  the  poison  of  his  soul ; 

The  weight  that  drags  to  earth  his  towering  hopes, 

Blighting  all  prospect  but  of  selfish  gain, 

Withering  all  passion  but  of  slavish  fear, 

Extinguishing  all  free  and  generous  love 

Of  enterprise  and  daring,  even  the  pulse 

That  fancy  kindles  in  the  beating  heart 

To  mingle  with  sensation,  it  destroys, — 

Leaves  nothing  but  the  sordid  lust  of  self, 

The  grovelling  hope  of  interest  and  gold. 

Unqualified,  unmingled,  unredeem'd 

Even  by  hypocrisy. 

And  statesmen  boast 
Of  wealth !  (7)   The  wordy  eloquence  that  lives 
After  the  ruin  of  their  hearts,  can  gild 
The  bitter  ywi.son  of  a  nation's  woe. 
Can  turn  the  worship  of  the  servile  mob 
To  their  corrupt  and  glaring  idol  fame, 
From  virtue,  trampled  by  its  iron  tread, 
Although  its  dazzling  pedestal  be  raised 
Amid  the  horrors  of  a  limb-strewn  field, 
With  desolated  dwellings  smoking  round. 
The  man  of  ease,  w  ho,  by  his  warm  fireside, 
To  deeds. of  charitable  intercourse 
And  bare  fulfilment  of  the  common  laws 
Of  decency  and  prejudice,  confines 
The  struggling  nature  of  his  human  heart. 
Is  duped  by  their  cold  sophistry ;  he  sheds 
A  passing  tear  perchance  upon  the  wreck 
Of  earthly  peace,  when  near  his  dwelling's  door 
The  frightful  waves  are  driven, — when  his  son 
Is  murder'd  by  the  tyrant,  or  religion 
Drives  his  wife  raving  mad.  (8)    But  the  poor  man 
Whose  life  is  misery,  and  fear,  and  care  ; 
Whom  the  morn  wakens  but  to  fruitless  toil  ; 
WTio  ever  hears  his  fiimisli'd  offspring's  scream, 
Whom  their  pale  mother's  uncomplaining  gaze 
For  ever  meets,  and  the  ])roud  rich  man's  eye 
Flashing  command,  and  the  heart-breaking  scene 
Of  thousands  like  himself; — he  little  heeds 
The  rhetoric  of  tyranny  ;  his  hate 
Is  quenchless  as  his  wrongs ;  he  laughs  to  scorn 
The  vain  and  bitter  mockery  of  words, 
361 


114 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Feeling  the  horror  of  the  tyrant's  deeds. 
And  unrestrain'd  but  by  the  arm  of  power, 
That  knows  and  dreads  his  enmity. 

Tlie  iron  rod  of  penury  still  compels 

Her  wretched  slave  to  bow  the  knee  to  wealth, 

And  poison,  with  unprofitable  toil, 

A  life  too  void  of  solace  to  confirm 

The  very  chains  that  bind  him  to  his  doom. 

Nature,  impartial  in  munificence. 

Has  gifted  man  with  all-subduing  will : 

Matter,  with  all  its  transitory  shapes. 

Lies  subjected  and  plastic  at  his  feet. 

That,  weak  from  bondage,  tremble  as  they  tread. 

How  many  a  rustic  Milton  has  past  by, 

Stifling  the  speechless  longings  of  his  heart, 

In  unremitting  drudgery  and  care  ! 

How  many  a  vulgar  Cato  has  eompell'd 

His  energies,  no  longer  tameless  then. 

To  mould  a  pin,  or  fabricate  a  nail ! 

How  many  a  Newton,  to  whose  passive  ken 

Those  mighty  spheres  that  gem  infinity 

Were  only  specks  of  tinsel,  fix'd  in  heaven 

To  light  the  midnights  of  his  native  town ! 

Yet  every  heart  contain  perfection's  germ  : 
The  wisest  of  the  sages  of  the  earth, 
That  ever  from  the  stores  of  reason  drew 
Science  and  truth,  and  virtue's  dreadless  tone, 
Were  but  a  weak  and  inexperienced  boy. 
Proud,  sensual,  unimpassion'd,  unimbued 
With  pure  desire  and  universal  love, 
Compared  to  that  high  being,  of  cloudless  brain. 
Untainted  passion,  elevated  will, 
Which  death  (who  even  would  linger  long  in  awe 
Within  his  noble  presence,  and  beneath 
His  changeless  eyebeam),  might  alone  subdue. 
Him,  every  slave  now  dragging  through  the  filth 
Of  some  corrupted  city  his  sad  life. 
Pining  with  famine,  swoln  with  luxury. 
Blunting  the  keennes.s  of  his  spiritual  sense 
With  narrow  schemings  and  unworthy  cares. 
Or  madly  rushing  through  all  violent  crime. 
To  move  the  deep  stagnation  of  his  soul, — 
Might  imitate  and  equal. 

But  mean  lust 
Has  bound  its  chains  so  tight  around  the  earth, 
That  all  within  it  but  the  virtuous  man 
Is  venal :  gold  or  fame  will  surely  reach 
The  price  prefix'd  by  selfishness,  to  all 
But  him  of  resolute  and  unchanging  will ; 
Whom,  nor  the  plaudits  of  a  servile  crowd, 
Nor  the  vile  joys  of  tainting  luxury, 
Can  bribe  to  yield  his  elevated  soul 
To  tjTanny  or  falsehood,  though  they  wield 
With  blood-red  hand  the  scepire  of  the  world. 

All  things  are  sold  :  the  very  light  of  heaven 

Is  venal ;  eartli's  unsparing  gifis  of  love. 

The  smallest  and  most  despicable  things 

That  lurk  in  the  abysses  of  the  deep, 

All  objects  of  our  life,  oven  life  itself. 

And  the  poor  pittance  which  the  laws  allow 

Of  liberty,  the  fellowship  of  man. 

Those  duties  which  his  heart  of  human  love 


Should  urge  him  to  perform  instinctively. 

Are  bought  and  sold  as  in  a  public  mart 

Of  undisguising  selfisluiess,  that  sets 

On  each  its  price,  the  stamp-mark  of  her  reign 

Even  love  is  sold ;  (9)  the  .solace  of  all  woe 

Is  turn'd  to  deadliest  agony,  old  age 

Shivers  in  selfish  beauty's  lothing  arms, 

And  youth's  corrupted  impulses  prepare 

A  life  of  horror  from  the  bhghting  bane 

Of  commerce  ;  whilst  the  puslilence  that  springs 

From  unenjoving  sensualism,  has  fill'd 

All  human  life  with  hydra-headed  woes. 

Falsehood  demands  but  gold  to  pay  the  pangs 

Of  outraged  conscience  ;  fir  the  slavish  priest 

Sets  no  great  value  on  his  hireling  faith : 

A  little  passing  pomp,  some  servile  souls. 

Whom  cowardice  itself  might  safely  chain, 

Or  the  spare  mite  of  a\arice  could  bribe 

To  deck  the  triumph  of  their  languid  zeal, 

Can  make  him  minister  to  tyranny. 

More  daring  crime  requires  a  loftier  meed  : 

Without  a  shudder,  the  slave-soldier  lends 

His  arm  to  murderous  deeds,  and  steels  his  heart 

When  the  dread  eloquence  of  dying  men, 

Low  mingling  on  the  lonely  field  of  fame, 

Assails  that  nature,  whose  applause  he  sells 

For  the  gross  blessings  of  a  patriot  mob. 

For  the  vile  gratitude  of  heartless  kings, 

And  for  a  cold  world's  good  word, — viler  still ! 

There  is  a  nobler  glory,  which  survives 

Until  our  being  fades,  and,  solacing 

All  human  care,  accompanies  its  change ; 

Deserts  not  virtue  in  the  dungeon's  gloom. 

And,  in  the  precincts  of  the  palace,  guides 

Its  footsteps  through  that  labyrinth  of  crime , 

Imbues  its  lineaments  ■v\ith  dauntlessness, 

Even  when,  from  power's  avenging  hand,  he  takes 

Its  sweetest,  last  and  noblest  title — death ; 

— The  consciousness  of  good,  wliich  neither  gold 

Nor  sordid  fame,  nor  hope  of  heavenly  bUss, 

Can  purchase  :  but  a  life  of  resolute  good, 

Unalterable  will,  quenchless  desire 

Of  universal  happiness,  the  heart 

That  beats  wth  it  in  unison,  the  brain. 

Whose  ever-wakeful  wisdom  toils  to  change 

Reason's  rich  stores  for  its  eternal  weal. 

This  commerce  of  sincerest  virtue  needs 
No  meditative  signs  of  selfishne.ss, 
No  jealous  intercourse  of  wretched  gain, 
No  balancings  of  prudence,  cold  and  long ; 
In  just  and  equal  measure  all  is  weigh'd, 
One  scale  contains  the  sum  of  human  weal. 
And  one,  the  good  man's  heart. 

How  vainly  seek 
The  selfish  for  that  happiness  denied 
To  aught  but  virtue !    Blind  and  harden'd  they, 
Who  hope  for  peace  amid  the  storms  of  care, 
Who  covet  power  they  know  not  how  to  use. 
And  sigh  for  pleasure  they  refuse  to  give, — 
Madly  they  frustrate  still  their  own  designs ; 
And,  where  they  hope  that  quiet  to  enjoy 
Which  virtue  pictures,  bitterness  of  soul, 
362 


QUEEN  MAB. 


115 


Pining  regrets,  and  vain  repentances, 
Disease,  disgust,  and  lassitude,  pervade 
Their  valueless  and  miserable  lives. 


But  hoary-'headed  selfishness  has  felt 

lis  death-blow,  and  is  tottering  lo  the  grave: 

A  brigliter  mom  awaits  the  human  day, 

When  ever}'  transfer  oi"  earth's  natural  gifts 

Shall  be  a  commerce  of  good  words  and  works  ; 

When  poverty  and  wealth,  the  thirst  of  fame, 

The  fear  of  infamy,  disease  and  woe, 

War  with  its  million  horrors,  and  fierce  hell 

Shall  live  but  in  the  memory  of  time, 

Wlio,  like  a  penitent  libertine,  shall  start, 

I  ook  back,  and  shudder  at  his  younger  years. 


VT. 

All  touch,  all  eye,  all  ear, 
The  Spirit  felt  the  Fairy's  burning  speech. 

O'er  the  thin  texture  of  its  frame, 
The  varjnng  periods  painted  changing  glows. 

As  on  a  summer  even, 
^Vhen  soul-infolding  music  floats  around, 
The  stainless  mirror  of  the  lake 
Re-images  the  eastern  gloom. 
Mingling  convulsively  its  purple  hues 
With  smiset's  bumish'd  arold. 


Then  thus  the  Spirit  spoke  : 
It  is  a  wild  and  mlseratile  world  I 

Thorny,  and  full  of  care. 
Which  every  fiend  can  make  his  prey  at  will. 
O  Fair)' !  in  the  lapse  of  years. 
Is  there  no  hope  in  store  ? 
Will  yon  vast  suns  roll  on 
Interminably,  still  illuming 
The  night  of  so  many  wretched  souls, 
And  see  no  hope  for  them  ? 
Will  not  the  universal  Spirit  e'er 
Re <ivify  tliis  \\ ither'd  limb  of  Heaven  ? 


The  Fairy  calmly  smiled 
In  comfort,  and  a  kindling  gleam  of  hope 

SufTiiscd  the  Spirit's  lineaments. 
Oh  !  rest  thee  tranquil ;  chase  those  fearful  doubts, 
AVhich  ne'er  coidd  rack  an  everlasting  soul. 
That  sees  the  chains  which  bind  it  to  its  doom. 
Yes  I  crime  and  misery  are  in  yonder  earth. 

Falsehood,  mistake,  and  lust; 

But  the  eternal  world 
Contains  at  once  the  evil  and  the  cure. 
Some  eminent  in  virtue  shall  start  up. 

Even  in  perversest  time : 
The  truths  of  their  pure  lips,  that  never  die. 
Shall  bind  the  scorpion  falsehood  with  a  wreath 

Of  ever-living  flame, 
L'ntil  the  monster  sting  itself  to  death. 

How  sweet  a  scene  will  earth  become ! 
Of  purest  spirits  a  pure  dwelling-i)lace, 
Symphonious  with  the  planetary  spiieres ; 
When  man,  with  changeless  nature  coalescino-. 
Will  undertake  regeneration's  work, 
^\^len  its  ungenial  poles  no  longer  point 


To  the  red  and  baleful  sun 
That  faintly  twinkles  there.  (10) 

Spirit !  on  yonder  earth. 
Falsehood  now  triumphs;  deadly  power 
Has  fix'd  its  seal  upon  the  hp  of  truth ! 

Madness  and  misery  are  there  I 
The  happiest  is  most  wretched !    Yet  confide, 
Until  pure  health-drops,  from  the  cup  of  joy, 
Fall  like  a  dew  of  balm  upon  the  world. 
Now,  to  the  scene  I  show,  in  silence  turn. 
And  read  the  blood-stain'd  charter  of  all  woe, 
Which  nature  soon,  with  recreating  hand, 
Will  blot  in  mercy  from  the  book  of  earth. 
How  bold  the  flight  of  passion's  wandering  wing, 
How  swift  the  step  of  reason's  firmer  tread, 
How  calm  and  sweet  the  victories  of  life. 
How  terrorless  the  triumph  of  the  grave  I 
How  powerless  were  the  mightiest  monarch's  arm, 
Vain  his  loud  threat,  and  impotent  his  frown! 
How  ludicrous  the  priest's  dogmatic  roar ! 
The  weight  of  his  exterminating  curse 
How  light ;  and  his  affected  charity. 
To  suit  the  pressure  of  the  changing  times, 
What  pa!pal)le  deceit! — but  for  thy  aid. 
Religion!  but  for  thee,  prolific  fiend. 
Who  peoplest  earth  with  demons,  hell  with  men, 
And  heaven  with  slaves ! 

Thou  faintest  all  thou  look'st  upon ! — the  stars. 
Which  on  thy  cradle  beam'd  so  brightly  sweet. 
Were  gods  to  the  dislemper'd  playfulness 
Of  thy  untutor'd  infancy :  the  trees. 
The  grass,  the  clouds,  the  mountains,  and  the  sea. 
All  living  things  that  walk,  swim,  creep,  or  fly. 
Were  gods :  the  sun  had  homage,  and  the  moon 
Her  worsliipper.    Then  thou  becamest  a  boy, 
More  daring  in  thy  frenzies  :  every  shape. 
Monstrous  or  vast,  or  beautifully  wild. 
Which,  from  sensation's  relics,  fancy  culls ; 
The  spirits  of  the  air,  the  shuddering  ghost. 
The  genii  of  the  elements,  the  powers 
That  give  a  shape  to  nature's  varied  works. 
Had  hfe  and  place  in  the  corrupt  belief 
Of  thy  blind  heart:  yet  still  thy  youthful  hands 
Were  pure  of  human  blood.    Then  manhood  gave 
Its  strength  and  ardor  to  tliy  frenzied  brain ; 
Thine  eager  gaze  scann'd  the  stupendous  scene. 
Whose  wonders  mock'd  the  knowledge  of  thy  pride: 
Their  everlasting  and  unchanging  laws 
Reproach'd  thine  ignorance.    Awhile  thou  stoodst 
Bafl^ed  and  gloomy;  then  thou  didst  sum  up 
The  elements  of  all  that  thou  didst  know ; 
The  changing  seasons,  winter's  leafless  reign. 
The  budding  of  the  heaven-breathing  trees. 
The  eternal  orbs  that  beautify  the  night. 
The  sunrise,  and  the  setting  of  the  moon, 
Earthijuakes  and  wars,  and  poisons  and  disease. 
And  all  their  causes,  to  an  abstract  jioint 
Converging,  thou  didst  bend,  and  call'd  it  Cod! 
The  self-sufficing,  the  omnipotent, 
The  merciful,  and  the  avenging  God  ! 
Who,  prototype  of  human  misrule,  sits 
High  in  heaven's  realm,  upon  a  golden  throne. 
Even  like  an  earthly  king ;  and  whose  dread  work. 
Hell,  gapes  for  ever  for  the  unhapjjy  slaves 
Of  fate,  whom  he  created  in  his  sjwrt, 
To  triumph  in  their  tonnents  when  they  fell ! 
Earth  heard  the  name ;  earth  trembled,  as  the  smoke 
363 


116 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  his  revenge  ascended  up  to  heaven, 

Blotting  the  constellations  ;  and  the  cries 

Of  millions,  butcher'd  in  sweet  confidence 

And  unsuspecting  peace,  even  when  the  bonds 

Of  safety  were  confirm'd  by  wordy  oaths 

Sworn  in  his  dreadful  name,  rung  through  the  land ; 

Whilst  innocent  babes  writhed  on  thy  stubborn  spear, 

And  thou  didst  laugh  to  hear  the  mother's  shriek 

Of  maniac  gladness,  as  the  sacred  steel 

Felt  cold  in  her  torn  entrails  I 

Religion !  thou  wert  then  in  manhood's  prime  : 

But  age  crept  on :  one  God  would  not  suffice 

For  senile  puerility  ;  thou  framedst 

A  tale  to  suit  thy  dotage,  and  to  glut 

Thy  misery-thirsting  soul,  that  the  mad  fiend 

Thy  wickedness  had  pictured,  might  afford 

A  plea  for  sating  the  unnatural  thirst 

For  murder,  tapine,  violence,  and  crime. 

That  still  consumed  thy  being,  even  when 

Thou  heardst  the  step  of  fate ; — that  flames  might 

light 
Thy  funeral  scene,  and  the  shrill  horrent  shrieks 
Of  parents  dying  on  the  pile  that  burn'd, 
To  light  their  children  to  thy  paths,  the  roar 
Of  the  encircling  flames,  the  exulting  cries 
Of  thine  apostles,  loud  commingling  there, 

Might  sate  tliine  hungry  ear 

Even  on  the  bed  of  death ! 

But  now  contempt  is  mocking  thy  gray  hairs  ; 
Thou  art  descending  to  the  darksome  grave, 
Unhonor'd  and  unpitied,  but  by  those 
Whose  pride  is  passing  by  like  thine,  and  sheds, 
Like  thine,  a  glare  that  fades  before  the  sun 
Of  truth,  and  shines  but  in  the  dreadful  night 
That  lonor  has  lower'd  above  the  ruin'd  world. 


Throughout  these  infinite  orbs  of  mingling  light. 
Of  which  yon  earth  is  one,  is  wide  diffused 
A  spirit  of  activity  and  life, 
That  knows  no  term,  cessation,  or  decay ; 
That  fades  not  when  the  lamp  of  earthly  life, 
Extinguish'd  in  the  dampness  of  the  grave. 
Awhile  there  slumbers,  more  than  when  the  babe 
In  the  dim  newness  of  its  being  feels 
The  impulses  of  sublunary  things. 
And  all  is  wonder  to  unpractised  sense : 
But,  active,  stedfast,  and  eternal,  still, 
Guides  the  fierce  whirlwind,  in  the  tempest  roars. 
Cheers  in  the  day,  breathes  in  the  balmy  groves. 
Strengthens  in  heahh,  and  poisons  in  disease  ; 
And  in  the  storm  of  change,  that  ceaselessly 
Rolls  round  the  eternal  imiverse,  and  shakes 
Its  undecaying  battlement,  presides, 
Apportioning  with  irresistible  law 
The  place  each  spring  of  its  machine  shall  fill  ; 
So  that,  when  waves  on  waves  tumultuous  heap 
Confusion  to  the  clouds,  and  fiercely  driven 
Heaven's  lightnings  scorch  th'  uprooted  ocean-fords, 
Whilst,  to  the  eye  of  shipwreck'd  mariner. 
Lone  sitting  on  the  bare  and  shuddering  rock, 
All  seems  unlink'd  contingency  and  chance : 
No  atom  of  this  turbulence  fulfils 
A  vague  and  unnecessitated  task. 
Or  acts  but  as  it  must  and  ought  to  act.  (11) 
.  Fven  the  minutest  molecule  of  light, 


That  in  an  April  sunbeam's  fleeting  glow 

Fulfils  its  destined,  though  invisible  work, 

The  universal  Spirit  guides ;  nor  less 

When  merciless  ambition,  or  mad  zeal, 

Has  led  two  hosts  of  dupes  to  battle-field. 

That,  blind,  they  there  may  dig  each  other's  graves. 

And  call  the  sad  work  glor)r,  does  it  rule 

All  passions :  not  a  thought,  a  will,  an  act. 

No  working  of  the  tyrant's  moody  mind, 

Nor  one  misgiving  of  the  slaves  who  boast 

Their  servitude,  to  hide  the  shame  they  feel, 

Nor  the  events  enchaining  every  will. 

That  from  the  depths  of  unrecorded  time 

Have  drawn  all-influencing  virtue,  pass 

Unrecognized,  or  unforeseen  by  thee. 

Soul  of  the  Universe !  eternal  spring 

Of  life  and  death,  of  happiness  and  woe, 

Of  all  that  chequers  the  phantasmal  scene 

That  floats  before  our  eyes  in  wavering  light. 

Which  gleams  but  on  the  darkness  of  our  prison. 

Whose  chains  and  massy  walls 

We  feel,  but  cannot  see. 


Spirit  of  Nature  !  all-sufficing  power, 

Necessity!  thou  mother  of  the  world!  (12) 

Unlike  the  God  of  human  error,  thou 

Requirest  no  prayers  or  praises ;  the  caprice 

Of  man's  weak  will  belongs  no  more  to  thee 

Than  do  the  changeful  passions  of  his  breast 

To  thy  unvarying  harmony :  the  slave. 

Whose  horrible  lusts  spread  misery  o'er  the  world. 

And  the  good  man,  who  lifts,  with  virtuous  pride, 

His  being,  in  the  sight  of  happiness. 

That  springs  from  his  own  works ;  the  poison-tree, 

Beneath  whose  shade  all  life  is  wither'd  up, 

And  the  fair  oak,  whose  leafy  dome  affords 

A  temple  where  the  vows  of  happy  love 

Are  register'd,  are  equal  in  thy  sight  : 

No  love,  no  hate  thou  cherishest ;  revenge 

And  favoritism,  and  worst  desire  of  fame. 

Thou  knowest  not :  all  that  the  wide  world  contains 

Are  but  thy  passive  instruments,  and  thou 

Regard's!  them  all  with  an  impartial  eye. 

Whose  joy  or  pain  thy  nature  cannot  feel, 

Because  thou  hast  not  human  sense, 

Because  thou  art  not  human  mind, 


Yes !  when  the  sw'eeping  storm  of  time 
Has  sung  its  death-dirge  o'er  the  ruin'd  fanes 
And  broken  altars  of  th'  almighty  fiend. 
Whose  name  usurps  thy  honors,  and  the  blood 
Through  centuries  clotted  there,  has  floated  down 
The  tainted  flood  of  ages,  shalt  thou  live 
Unchangeable  !  A  shrine  is  raised  to  thee. 

Which,  nor  the  tempest  breath  of  time, 

Nor  the  interminable  flood. 

Over  earth's  slight  pageant  rolling, 
Availeth  to  destroy, — 
The  sensitive  extension  of  the  world. 

That  wondrous  and  eternal  fane. 
Where  pain  and  pleasure,  good  and  evil  join. 
To  do  the  will  of  strong  necessity. 

And  life,  in  multitudinous  shapes, 
Still  pressing  forward  where  no  term  can  be, 

Like  hungry  and  unresting  flame 
Curls  round  the  eternal  columns  of  its  strength. 
364 


QUEEN  MAB. 


117 


VII. 


I  was  an  infant  when  my  mother  went 

To  see  an  atheist  burn'd.     She  took  me  there  : 

The  dark-robed  priests  were  met  around  the  pile ; 

The  muhitudc  was  gazing  silently  ; 

And  as  the  culprit  pass'd  with  dauntless  mien, 

Temper'd  disdain  in  his  unaltering  eye, 

Mix'd  with  a  quiet  smile,  shone  calmly  forth : 

The  thirsty  fire  crept  round  his  manly  limbs ; 

His  resolute  eyes  were  scorch'd  to  blindness  soon; 

His  death-pang  rent  my  heart !  the  insensate  mob 

Utter"d  a  cry  of  triumph,  and  I  wept. 

Weep  not,  child  I  cried  my  motlier,  for  that  man 

Has  said,  There  is  no  God.  (13.) 


There  is  no  God ! 
Nature  confirms  the  faith  his  death-groan  seal'd : 
Let  heaven  and  earth,  let  man's  revolving  race, 
His  ceaseless  generations  tell  their  tale ; 
Let  every  part  depending  on  the  chain 
That  hnks  it  to  the  whole,  point  to  the  hand 
That  grasps  its  term !  let  every  seed  that  falls 
In  silent  eloquence  unfold  its  store 
Of  argument :  infinity  within. 
Infinity  without,  belie  creation ; 
The  interminable  spirit  it  contains 
Is  nature's  only  God ;  but  human  pride 
Is  skilful  to  invent  most  serious  names 
To  hide  its  ignorance. 

The  name  of  God 
Has  fenced  about  all  crime  with  holiness. 
Himself  the  creature  of  his  worshippers. 
Whose  names  and  attributes  and  passions  change, 
Seeva,  Buddh,  Fob,  Jehovah,  God,  or  Lord, 
Even  with  the  human  dupes  who  build  his  shrines. 
Still  serving  o'er  the  war-polluted  world 
For  desolation's  watch-word ;  whether  hosts 
Stain  his  death-blushing  chariot-wheels,  as  on 
Triumphantly  they  roll,  whilst  Brahmins  raise 
A  sacred  hymn  to  mingle  with  the  groans  ; 
Or  countless  partners  of  his  power  divide 
His  tyranny  to  w  eakness ;  or  the  smoke 
Of  burning  towns,  the  cries  of  female  helplessness, 
Unarm'd  old  age,  and  youth,  and  infancy. 
Horribly  massacred,  ascend  to  heaven 
In  honor  of  his  name ;  or  last  and  worst. 
Earth  groans  beneath  religion's  iron  age. 
And  priests  dare  babble  of  a  God  of  peace, 
Eyen  whilst  their  hands  are  red  with  guiltless  blood. 
Murdering  the  while,  uprooting  every  germ 
Of  truth,  exterminating,  spoiling  all. 
Making  the  earth  a  slaughter-house ! 

0  Spirit !  through  the  sense 
By  which  thy  inner  nature  was  apprized 

Of  outward  shows,  vague  dreams  have  roll'd, 
And  varied  reminiscences  have  waked 

Tablets  that  never  fade ; 
All  things  have  been  imprinted  there, 
'  The  stars,  the  sea,  the  earth,  the  sky, 
Even  the  unshapehest  lineaments 
Of  wild  and  fleeting  visions 


Have  left  a  record  there 
To  testify  of  earth. 

These  are  my  empire,  for  to  mc  is  given 
The  wonders  of  the  human  world  to  keep, 
And  fancy's  thin  creations  to  endow 
With  matter,  being,  and  reality; 
Therefore  a  wondrous  phantom,  from  the  dreams 
Of  human  error's  dense  and  purblind  liiith, 
I  will  evoke,  to  meet  thy  questioning. 
Ahasuerus,  rise !  (14) 

A  strange  and  woe-worn  wight 
Arose  beside  the  battlement. 
And  stood  unmoving  there. 
His  inessential  figure  cast  no  shade 

Upon  the  golden  floor ; 
His  port  and  mien  bore  mark  of  many  years. 
And  chronicles  of  untold  ancientness 
Were  legible  within  his  beamless  eye  : 

Yet  his  cheek  bore  the  mark  of  youth  ; 
Freshness  and  vigor  knit  his  manly  frame ; 
The  wisdom  of  old  age  was  mingled  there 
With  youth's  primeval  dauntlessness  ; 
And  inexpressible  woe, 
Chasten'd  by  fearless  resignation,  gave 
An  awful  grace  to  his  all-speaking  brow. 


Is  there  a  God  ? 

AHASUERUS. 

Is  there  a  God  ! — ay,  an  almighty  God, 

And  vengeful  as  almighty !  Once  his  voice 

Was  heard  on  earth :  earth  shudder'd  at  the  sound , 

The  fiery-visaged  firmament  express'd 

Abhorrence,  and  the  grave  of  nature  yawn'd 

To  swallow  all  the  dauntless  and  the  good 

That  dared  to  hurl  defiance  at  his  throne. 

Girt  as  it  was  with  power.     None  but  slaves 

Survived, — cold-blooded  slaves,  who  did  the  work 

Of  tyrannous  omnipotence  ;  whose  souls 

No  honest  indignation  ever  urged 

To  elevated  daring,  to  one  deed 

Wliich  gross  and  sensual  self  did  not  pollute. 

These  slaves  built  temples  for  the  omnipotent  fiend, 

Gorgeous  and  vast :  the  costly  altars  smoked 

With  human  blood,  and  hideous  pteans  rung 

Through  all  the   long-drawn   aisles.     A   murderer 

heard 
His  voice  in  Egypt,  one  whose  gifts  and  arts 
Had  raised  him  to  his  eminence  in  power 
Accomplice  of  omnipotence  in  crime. 
And  confidant  of  the  all-knowing  one. 
These  were  Jeliovah's  words. 

From  an  eternity  of  idleness 
I,  God,  awoke ;  in  seven  day.s'  toil  made  earth 
From  nothing ;  rested,  and  created  man  : 
I  placed  him  in  a  paradise,  and  there 
Planted  the  tree  of  evil,  so  that  he 
Might  eat  and  perish,  and  my  soul  procure 
Wherewith  to  sate  its  malice,  and  to  turn. 
Even  like  a  heartless  conqueror  of  the  earth 
All  misery  to  my  fame.     The  race  of  men 
Chosen  to  my  honor,  with  impunity 
May  sate  the  lusts  I  planted  in  their  heart. 
48  365 


118 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Here  I  command  thee  hence  to  lead  them  on, 
Until,  with  harden'd  feet,  their  conquering  troops 
■\Vade  on  the  promised  soil  through  woman's  blood, 
And  make  my  name  be  dreaded  through  the  land. 
Yet  ever-burning  flame  and  ceaseless  woe 
Shall  be  the  doom  of  their  eternal  souls, 
With  every  soul  on  this  ungrateful  earth. 
Virtuous  or  vicious,  weak  or  strong, — even  all 
Shall  perish  to  fulfil  the  blind  revenge 
(Which  you,  to  men,  call  justice)  of  their  God. 

The  murderer's  brow 
Quiver'd  with  horror. 

God  omnipotent. 
Is  there  no  mercy  ?  must  our  punishment 
Be  endless  ?  will  long  ages  roll  away, 
And  see  no  term  ?  Oh !  wherefore  hast  thou  made 
In  mockery  and  wrath  this  evil  earth  ? 
Mercy  becomes  the  powerful — be  but  just : 

0  God !  repent  and  save. 

One  way  remains : 

1  will  beget  a  son,  and  he  shall  bear 
The  sins  of  all  the  world  ;  (15)  he  shall  arise 
In  an  unnoticed  corner  of  the  earth. 
And  there  shall  die  upon  a  cross,  and  purge 
The  universal  crime  ;  so  that  the  few 
On  whom  my  grace  descends,  those  who  are  mark'd 
As  vessels  to  the  honor  of  their  God, 
May  credit  this  strange  sacrifice,  and  save 
Their  souls  alive :  millions  shall  live  and  die. 
Who  ne'er  sliall  call  upon  their  Savior's  name, 
But,  unredeem'd,  go  to  the  gaping  grave. 
Thousands  shall  deem  it  an  old  woman's  tale, 
Such  as  the  nurses  frighten  babes  withal : 
These  in  a  gulf  of  anguish  and  of  flame 
Shall  curse  their  reprobation  endlessly. 
Yet  tenfold  pangs  shall  force  them  to  avow, 
Even  on  their  beds  of  torment,  where  they  howl, 
My  honor,  and  the  justice  of  their  doom. 
What  then  avail  their  virtuous  deeds,  their  thoughts 
Of  purity,  with  radiant  genius  bright. 
Or  lit  with  human  reason's  earthly  ray  ? 
Many  are  call'd,  but  few  will  I  elect. 
Do  thou  my  bidding,  Moses ! 

Even  the  murderer's  cheek 
Was  blanch'd  with  horror,  and  his  quivering  lips 
Scarce  faintly  utter'd — O  almighty  one, 
I  tremble  and  obey! 


The  massacres  and  miseries  which  his  name 

Had  sanction'd  in  my  country,  and  I  cried. 

Go !  go  !  in  mockery. 

A  smile  of  godlike  malice  reillumined 

His  fading  lineaments. — I  go,  he  cried. 

But  thou  shall  wander  o'er  the  unquiet  earth 

Eternally. The  dampness  of  the  grave 

Bathed  my  nnpenshable  front.     I  fell. 

And  long  lay  tranced  upon  the  charmed  soil. 

When  I  awoke,  hell  burn'd  within  my  brain, 

Which  stagger'd  on  its  seat ;  for  all  around 

The  mouldering  relics  of  my  kindred  lay, 

Even  as  the  Almighty's  ire  arrested  them, 

And  in  their  various  attitudes  of  death 

My  murder'd  children's  mute  and  eyeless  skulls 

Glared  ghastily  upon  me. 

But  my  soul. 
From  sight  and  sense  of  the  polluting  woe 
Of  tyranny,  had  long  learn'd  to  prefer 
Hell's  freedom  to  the  servitude  of  heaven. 
Therefore  I  rose,  and  dauntlessly  began 
My  lonely  and  unending  pilgrimage. 
Resolved  to  wage  unweariable  war 
With  my  almighty  tyrant,  and  to  hurl 
Defiance  at  his  impotence  to  harm 
Beyond  the  curse  I  bore.     The  very  hand 
That  barr'd  my  passage  to  the  peaceful  grave 
Has  crush'd  the  earth  to  misery,  and  given 
Its  empire  to  the  chosen  of  his  slaves. 
These  have  I  seen,  even  from  the  earliest  dawn 
Of  weak,  unstable  and  precarious  power ; 
Then  preaching  peace,  as  now  they  practise  war, 
So  when  they  turn'd  but  from  the  massacre 
Of  unoflfending  infidels,  to  quench 
Their  thirst  for  ruin  in  the  very  blood 
That  flow'd  in  their  own  veins,  and  pitiless  zeal 
Froze  every  human  feeling,  as  the  wife 
Sheathed  in  her  husband's  heart  the  sacred  steel. 
Even  whilst  its  hopes  were  dreaming  of  her  love 
And  friends  to  friends,  brothers  to  brothers  stood 
Opposed  in  bloodiest  battle-field,  and  war. 
Scarce  satiable  by  fate's  last  death-draught  waged, 
Dnmk  from  the  wine-press  of  the  Almighty's  wrath 
Whilst  the  red  cross,  in  mockery  of  peace. 
Pointed  to  victory !  When  the  fray  was  done, 
No  remnant  of  the  exterminated  faith 
Survived  to  tell  its  ruin,  but  the  flesh. 
With  putrid  smoke  poisoning  the  atmosphere, 
That  rotted  on  the  half-extinguish'd  pile. 


0  Spirit !  centuries  have  set  their  seal 
On  this  heart  of  many  wounds,  and  loaded  bram, 
Since  the  Incarnate  came :  humbly  he  came. 
Veiling  his  horrible  Godhead  in  the  shape 
Of  man,  scorn'd  by  the  world,  his  name  unheard. 
Save  by  the  rabble  of  his  native  town. 
Even  as  a  parish  demagogue.     He  led 

The  crowd ;  he  taught  them  justice,  truth,  and  peace. 

In  semblance ;  but  he  lit  within  their  souls 

The  quenchless  flames  of  zeal,  and  blest  the  sword 

He  brought  on  earth  to  satiate  with  the  blood 

Of  truth  and  freedom  his  malignant  soul. 

At  length  his  mortal  frame  was  led  to  death. 

1  stood  beside  him :  on  the  torturing  cross 
No  pain  assail'd  his  unterrestrial  sense ; 
And  yet  he  groan'd.     Indignantly  I  summ'd 


Yes!  I  have  seen  God's  worshippers  unsheathe 

The  sword  of  his  revenge,  when  grace  descended, 

Confirming  all  unnatural  impulses. 

To  sanctify  their  desolating  deeds: 

And  frantic  priests  waved  the  ill-omen'd  cross 

O'er  the  unhappy  earth ;  then  shone  the  sun 

On  showers  of  gore  from  the  upflashing  steel 

Of  safe  assassination,  and  all  crime 

Made  stingless  by  the  spirits  of  the  Lord. 

And  blood-red  rainbows  canopied  the  land 

Si)irit !  no  year  of  my  eventful  being 

Has  pass'd  unstain'd  by  crime  and  misery. 

Which  flows  from  God's  own  faith.     I've  mark'd 

his  slaves. 
With  tongues  whose  Ues  are  venomous,  beguile 
The  insensate  mob,  and  whilst  one  hand  was  red 
366 


QUEEN  MAB. 


119 


With  murder,  feign  to  stretch  the  other  out 

For  brollierhood  and  peace;  and  that  they  now 

Babble  of  love  and  mercy,  whilst  their  deeds 

Are  mark'd  with  all  the  narrowness  and  crime 

That  freedom's  young  arm  dare  not  yet  chastise. 

Reason  may  claim  our  gratitude,  who  now 

Establishing  the  imperishable  throne 

Of  truth,  and  stubborn  virtue,  maketh  vain 

The  unprevailing  malice  of  my  foe. 

Whose  bootless  rage  heaps  torments  for  the  brave, 

Adds  impotent  eternities  to  pain. 

Whilst  keenest  disappointment  racks  his  breast 

To  see  the  smiles  of  peace  around  them  play, 

To  frustrate  or  to  sanctify  their  doom. 

Thus  have  I  stood, — through  a  wild  waste  of  years 

Strugghng  with  whirlwinds  of  mad  agony. 

Yet  peaceful,  and  serene,  and  self-enshrmed. 

Mocking  my  powerless  tyrant's  horrible  curse 

With  stubborn  and  imalterable  will. 

Even  as  a  giant  oak,  which  heaven's  fierce  flame 

Had  scathed  in  the  wilderness,  to  stand 

A  monument  of  fadeless  ruin  there ; 

Yet  peacefully  and  movelessly  it  braves 

The  midnight  conflict  of  the  wintry  storm. 

As  in  the  sunlight's  calm  it  spreads 

Its  worn  and  wither'd  arms  on  high 
To  meet  the  quiet  of  a  summer's  noon. 

The  Fairy  waved  her  wand  : 
Ahasuerus  fled 
Fast  as  the  shapes  of  mingled  shade  and  mist, 
That  lurk  in  the  glens  of  a  twilight  grove, 
Flee  from  tlie  morning  beam  : 
The  matter  of  which  dreams  are  made 
Not  more  endow'd  with  actual  life 
•.  Than  this  phantasmal  portraiture 
Of  wandering  human  thought. 

yiii. 

The  present  and  the  past  thou  hast  beheld : 
It  was  a  desolate  sight.    Now,  Spirit,  learn 

The  secrets  of  the  future. — Time ! 
Unfold  tlie  brooding  pinion  of  thy  gloom. 
Render  thou  up  thy  half-devoured  babes. 
And  from  the  cradles  of  eternity. 
Where  millions  lie  lull'd  to  their  portion 'd  sleep 
By  the  deep  murmuring  stream  of  passing  things, 
Tear  thou  that  gloomy  shroud. — Spirit,  behold 
Thy  glorious  destiny ! 

Joy  to  the  Spirit  came. 
Thiough  the  wide  rent  in  Time's  eternal  veil, 
Hope  was  seen  beaming  through  the  mists  of  fear : 

Earth  was  no  longer  hell ; 

Love,  freedom,  health,  had  given 
Their  ripeness  to  the  nianhood  of  its  prime, 

And  all  its  pulses  beat 
Symphonious  to  the  planetary  spheres  : 

Then  dulcet  music  swell'd 
Concordant  with  the  life-strings  of  the  soul  ; 
It  throbb'd  in  sweet  and  languid  beatings  there, 
Catching  new  life  from  transitory  death, — 
Like  the  vague  sighings  of  a  wind  at  even. 
That  wakes  the  wavelets  of  the  slumbering  sea 
And  dies  on  the  creation  of  its  breath, 


And  sinks  and  rises,  fails  and  swells  by  fits : 
Was  the  pure  stream  of  feelitag 
That  sprung  from  these  sweet  notes. 
And  o'er  the  Spirit's  human  sympathies 
With  mild  and  gentle  motion  calmly  flow'd. 


Joy  to  the  Spirit  came, — 
Such  joy  as  when  a  lover  sees 
The  chosen  of  his  soul  in  happiness. 

And  witnesses  her  peace 
Whose  woe  lo  liim  were  bitterer  than  death. 

Sees  her  unfaded  cheek 
Glow  mantling  in  first  luxury  of  health, 

Thrills  with  her  lovely  eyes, 
Wliicli  like  two  stars  amid  the  heaving  main 

Sparkle  through  liquid  bliss. 


Then  in  her  trmmph  spoke  the  Fairy  Queen : 
I  will  not  call  tlie  ghost  of  ages  gone 
To  unfold  the  frightful  secrets  of  its  lore ; 

The  present  now  is  past. 
And  those  events  that  desolate  the  earth 
Have  faded  from  the  memory  of  Time, 
Who  dares  not  give  reality  to  that 
Whose  being  I  annul.    To  me  is  given 
The  wonders  of  the  human  world  to  keep. 
Space,  matter,  time,  and  mind.    Futurity 
Exposes  now  its  treasure  ;  let  the  sight 
Renew  and  strengthen  all  thy  failing  hope. 
O  human  Spirit !  spur  thee  to  the  goal 
Where  virtue  fixes  universal  peace. 
And,  'midst  the  ebb  and  flow  of  hiunan  things. 
Show  somewhat  stable,  somewhat  certain  still, 
A  light-house  o'er  the  wild  of  dreary  waves. 
The  habitable  earth  is  full  of  bliss ; 
Those  wastes  of  frozen  billows  that  were  hurl'd 
By  everlasting  snow-storms  round  the  poles. 
Where  matter  dared  not  vegetate  or  live. 
But  ceaseless  frost  round  the  vast  solitude 
Bound  its  broad  zone  of  stillness,  are  unloosed ; 
And  fragrant  zephyi-s  there  from  spicy  isles 
Ruffle  the  placid  ocean-deep,  that  rolls 
Its  broad,  bright  surges  to  the  sloping  sand. 
Whose  roar  is  waken'd  into  echoings  sweet 
To  murmur  through  the  heaven-breathing  groves, 
And  melodize  with  man's  blest  nature  there. 


Tliose  deserts  of  immeasurable  sand, 

WHiose  age-collected  fervors  scarce  allow'd 

A  bird  to  live,  a  blade  of  grass  to  spring. 

Where  the  shrill  chirp  of  the  green  lizard's  love 

Broke  on  the  sultry  silentness  alone. 

Now  teem  with  countless  rills  and  shady  woods, 

Corn-fields  and  pastures  and  white  cottages ; 

And  where  the  startled  wilderness  beheld 

A  savage  conqueror  stain'd  in  kindred  blood, 

A  tigress  sating  with  ihc  flesh  of  lambs 

The  unnatural  famine  of  her  toothless  cubs. 

Whilst  shouts  and  bowlings  through  the  desert  rang 

Sloping  and  smooth  the  daisy-spangled  lawn. 

Offering  sweet  incense  to  the  sunrise,  smiles 

To  see  a  babe  before  his  mother's  door. 

Sharing  his  morning's  meal 
With  the  green  and  golden  basilisk 

That  comes  to  hck  his  feet 
367 


120 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Those  trackless  deeps,  where  many  a  weary  sail 
Has  seen  above  the  illimitable  plain, 
Morning  on  night,  and  night  on  morning  rise, 
Whilst  still  no  land  to  greet  the  wanderer  spread 
Its  shadowy  mountains  on  the  sunbright  sea, 
Where  the  loud  roarings  of  the  tempest-waves 
So  long  have  mingled  with  the  gusty  wind 
In  melancholy  loneliness,  and  swept 
The  desert  of  those  ocean  solitudes. 
But  vocal  to  the  sea-bird's  harrowing  shriek, 
The  bellowing  monster,  and  the  rushing  storm, 
Now  to  the  sweet  and  many  mingling  sounds 
Of  kindliest  human  impulses  respond. 
Those  lonely  realms  bright  garden-isles  begem. 
With  lightsome  clouds  and  shining  seas  between. 
And  fertile  valleys,  resonant  with  bliss. 
Whilst  green  woods  overcanopy  the  wave. 
Which  like  a  toil-worn  laborer  leaps  to  shore. 
To  meet  the  kisses  of  the  flowerets  there. 


All  things  are  recreated,  and  the  flame 
Of  consentaneous  love  inspires  all  life : 
The  fertile  bosom  of  the  earth  gives  suck 
To  myriads,  who  still  grow  beneath  her  care. 
Rewarding  her  with  their  pure  perfectness: 
The  balmy  breathings  of  the  wind  inhale 
Her  virtues,  and  diffuse  them  all  abroad : 
Health  floats  amid  the  gentle  atmosphere, 
Glov\s  in  the  fruits,  and  mantles  on  the  stream : 
No  storms  deform  the  beaming  brow  of  Heaven, 
Nor  scatter  in  the  freshness  of  its  pride 
The  foliage  of  the  ever-verdant  trees  ; 
But  fruits  are  ever  ripe,  flowers  ever  fair. 
And  autumn  proudly  bears  her  matron  grace, 
Kindling  a  flush  on  the  fair  cheek  of  spring. 
Whose  virgin  bloom  beneath  the  ruddy  fruit 
Reflects  its  tint  and  blushes  into  love. 


The  lion  now  forgets  to  thirst  for  blood : 

There  might  you  see  him  sporting  in  the  siui 

Beside  the  dreadless  kid  ;  his  claws  are  sheathed, 

His  teeth  are  harmless,  custom's  force  has  made 

His  nature  as  the  nature  of  a  lamb. 

Like  passion's  fruit,  the  nightsiiade's  tempting  bane 

Poisons  no  more  the  pleasure  it  bestows : 

All  bitterness  is  past ;  the  cup  of  joy 

Unmingled  mantles  to  the  goblet's  brim, 

And  courts  the  thirsty  lips  it  fled  before. 


But  chief,  ambiguous  man,  he  that  can  know 

More  misery,  and  dream  more  joy  than  all ; 

Whose  keen  sensations  thrill  within  his  breast 

To  mingle  with  a  loftier  instinct  there. 

Lending  their  power  to  pleasure  and  to  pain, 

Yet  raising,  sharpening,  and  refining  each  ; 

Who  stands  amid  the  ever-varying  world. 

The  burthen  or  the  glory  of  the  earth ; 

He  chief  perceives  the  change,  his  being  notes 

The  gradual  renovation,  and  defines 

Each  movement  of  its  progress  on  his  mind. 

Man,  where  the  gloom  of  the  long  polar  night 
Lowers  o'er  the  snow-clad  rocks  and  frozen  soil. 
Where  scarce  the  hardiest  herb  that  braves  the  frost 
Basks  in  the  moonlight's  ineflfectual  glow. 
Shrank  with  the  plants,  and  darken'd  with  the  night ; 


His  chill'd  and  narrow  energies,  his  heart, 
Insensible  to  courage,  truth,  or  love, 
Plis  stunted  stature  and  imbecile  frame, 
Mark'd  him  for  some  abortion  of  the  earth. 
Fit  compeer  of  the  bears  that  roam'd  around. 
Whose  habits  and  enjoyments  were  his  own  • 
His  life  a  feverish  dream  of  stagnant  woe. 
Whose  meager  wants,  but  scantily  fulfiU'd, 
Apprized  him  ever  of  the  joyless  length 
Which  his  short  being's  wretchedness  had  reach'd, 
His  death  a  pang  which  famine,  cold  and  toil, 
Long  on  the  mind,  whilst  yet  the  vital  spark 
Clung  to  the  body  stubbornly,  had  brought : 
All  was  inflicted  here  that  earth's  revenge 
Could  wreak  on  the  infringers  of  her  law  ; 
One  curse  alone  was  spared — the  name  of  God 


Nor  where  the  tropics  bound  the  reahns  of  day 

With  a  broad  belt  of  mingling  cloud  and  flame. 

Where  blue  mists  through  the  mimoving  atmosphere 

Scatter'd  the  seeds  of  pestilence,  and  fed 

Unnatural  vegetation,  where  the  land 

Teem'd  with  all  earthquake,  tempest  and  disease, 

Was  man  a  nobler  being ;  slavery 

Had  crush'd  him  to  his  country's  blood-stain'd  dust ; 

Or  he  was  bartered  for  the  fame  of  power. 

Which,  all  internal  impulses  destroying. 

Makes  human  will  an  article  of  trade ; 

Or  he  was  changed  with  Christians  for  their  gold. 

And  dragg'd  to  distant  isles,  where  to  the  sound 

Of  the  flesh-mangling  scourge,  he  does  the  work 

Of  all-polluting  luxury  and  wealth. 

Which  doubly  visits  on  the  tyrants'  heads 

The  long-protracted  fullness  of  their  woe ; 

Or  he  was  led  to  legal  butchery. 

To  turn  to  worms  beneath  that  burning  sun, 

Where  kings  first  leagued  against  the  rights  of  men 

And  priests  first  traded  with  the  name  of  God. 


Even  where  the  milder  zone  afl^orded  man 

A  seeming  shelter,  yet  contagion  there, 

Blighting  his  being  with  unnumber'd  ills. 

Spread  like  a  quenchless  fire ;  nor  truth  till  late 

Avail'd  to  arrest  its  progress,  or  create 

That  peace  which  first  in  bloodless  victory  waved 

Her  snowy  standard  o'er  this  favor'd  clime : 

There  man  was  long  the  train-bearer  of  slaves, 

The  mimic  of  surrounding  misery. 

The  jackal  of  ambition's  lion-rage, 

The  bloodhoiuid  of  religion's  hungry  zeal. 


Here  now  the  human  being  stands  adorning 
This  loveliest  earth  with  taintless  body  and  mind , 
Blest  from  his  birth  with  all  bland  impulses, 
Which  gently  in  his  noble  bosom  wake 
All  kindly  passions  and  all  pure  desires. 
Him,  still  from  hope  to  hope  the  bliss  pursuing. 
Which  from  the  exhaustless  lore  of  human  weal 
Draws  on  the  virtuous  mind,  the  thoughts  that  rise 
In  time-destroying  infiniteness,  gift 
With  self-enshrined  eternity,  (16)  that  mocks 
The  unprevailing  hoariness  of  age. 
And  man,  once  fleeting  o'er  the  transient  scene 
Swift  as  an  unremember'd  vision,  stands 
Immortal  upon  earth :  no  longer  now 
He  slays  the  lamb  that  looks  him  in  the  face,  (17 
368 


QUEEN  MAB. 


121 


And  horribly  devours  his  mangled  flesh, 

Which,  still  avenjfing  nature's  broken  law, 

Kindled  all  putrid  humors  in  his  frame. 

All  evil  passions,  and  all  vain  belief, 

Hatred,  despair,  and  lothing  in  his  mind, 

The  germs  of  mi.serj',  death,  disease,  and  crime. 

No  longer,  now  the  winged  habitants, 

That  in  the  woods  their  sweet  lives  sing  away, 

Flee  from  the  form  of  man ;  but  gather  round, 

And  prune  their  sunny  feathei-s  on  tlie  hands 

Which  little  children  stretch  in  friendly  sport 

Towards  these  dreamless  partners  of  their  play. 

All  things  are  void  of  terror :  man  has  lost 

His  terrible  prerogative,  and  stands 

An  equal  amidst  equals  :  happiness 

And  science  dawn,  though  late,  upon  the  earth  ; 

Peace  cheers  the  mind,  health  renovates  the  frame: 

Disease  and  pleasure  cease  to  mingle  here. 

Reason  and  passion  cease  to  combat  there ; 

Wliilst  each  unfetter'd  o'er  the  earth  extend 

Their  aU-subduing  energies,  and  wield 

The  sceptre  of  a  vast  dominion  there  ; 

Whilst  every  shape  and  mode  of  matter  lends 

Its  force  to  the  omnipotence  of  mind, 

Which  from  its  dark  mine  drags  the  gem  of  truth 

To  decorate  its  paradise  of  peace. 


IX. 

O  HAPPY  Earth  !  reality  of  Heaven ! 
To  which  those  restless  souls  that  ceaselessly 
Throng  through  the  human  universe,  aspire ; 
Thou  consummation  of  all  mortal  hope ! 
Thou  glorious  prize  of  blindly- working  will ! 
Whose  rays,  diffused  throughout  all  space  and  time. 
Verge  to  one  point  and  blend  for  ever  there  : 
Of  purest  spirits  thou  pure  dwelling-place! 
Where  care  and  sorrow,  impotence  and  crime. 
Languor,  disease,  and  ignorance,  dare  not  come : 
O  happy  Earth,  reality  of  Heaven ! 


Genius  has  seen  thee  in  her  passionate  dreams. 
And  dim  forebodings  of  thy  loveliness 
Haunting  the  human  heart,  have  there  entwined 
Those  rooted  hopes  of  some  sweet  place  of  bliss, 
Where  friends  and  lovers  meet  to  part  no  more. 
Thou  art  the  end  of  all  desire  and  will, 
The  product  of  all  action  ■■,  and  the  souls 
That  by  tlie  paths  of  an  aspiring  change 
Have  reach'd  thy  haven  of  perpetual  peace. 
There  rest  from  the  eternity  of  toil 
That  framed  the  fabric  of  thy  perfectness. 


Ev^n  Time,  the  conqueror,  fled  thee  in  his  fear ; 
That  hoary  giant,  who,  in  lonely  pride. 
So  long  had  ruled  the  world,  that  nations  fell 
Beneath  his  silent  footstep.    Pyramids, 
That  for  millenniums  had  withstood  the  tide 
Of  human  things,  his  slorm-breath  drove  in  sand 
Across  that  desert  where  their  stones  survived 
The  name  of  him  whose  pride  had  heap'd  them  there. 
Yon  monarch,  in  his  solitary  pomp. 
Was  but  the  mushroom  of  a  summer  day. 
That  his  light-winged  footstep  press'd  to  dust : 
Time  was  ihe  king  of  earth  :  all  things  gave  way 
Before  him,  but  the  fix'd  and  virtuous  will, 
2  W 


The  sacred  sympathies  of  soul  and  sense. 
That  mock'd  his  fury  and  prepared  his  fall. 

Yet  slow  and  gradual  dawn'd  the  morn  of  love, 
Long  lay  the  clouds  and  darkness  o'er  the  scene, 
Till  from  its  native  heaven  they  roU'd  away : 
First,  crime  triumphant  o'er  all  hope  career'd 
Unblushing,  undisguising,  bold  and  strong; 
Whilst  falsehood,  trick'd  in  virtue's  attributes, 
Long  sanctilied  all  deeds  of  vice  and  woe. 
Till  done  by  her  own  venomous  sling  to  death, 
She  left  the  moral  work!  without  a  law. 
No  longer  fettering  passion's  fearless  wing. 
Nor  searing  reason  with  the  brand  of  God. 
Then  steadily  the  happy  ferment  work'd  ; 
Reason  was  free ;  and  wild  though  passion  went 
Tlirough  tangled  glens  and  wood-embosom'd  meads, 
Gathering  a  garland  of  the  strangest  flowers. 
Yet  like  the  bee  returning  to  her  queen, 
She  bound  the  sweetest  on  her  sister's  brow, 
Who  meek  and  sober  kiss'd  the  sportive  child, 
No  longer  trembling  at  the  broken  rod. 


Mild  was  the  slow  necessity  of  death  : 

The  tranquil  Spirit  fail'd  beneath  its  grasp, 

Without  a  groan,  almost  without  a  fear. 

Calm  as  a  voyager  to  some  distant  land, 

And  full  of  wonder,  full  of  hope  as  he. 

The  deadly  germs  of  languor  and  disease 

Died  in  the  human  frame,  and  purity 

Blest  with  all    gifts  her  earthly  worshippers 

How  vigorous  then  the  athletic  form  of  age ! 

How  clear  its  open  and  unwrinkled  brow ! 

Where  neither  avarice,  cunning,  pride,  nor  care, 

Had  stamp'd  Ihe  seal  of  gray  deformity 

On  all  the  mingling  lineaments  of  time. 

How  lovely  the  intrepid  front  of  youth ! 

Which  meek-eyed  courage  deck'd  with  freshest  grace 

Courage  of  soul,  that  dreaded  not  a  name. 

And  elevated  will,  that  journey 'd  on 

Through  life's  phantasmal  scene  in  fearlessness 

Willi  virtue,  love,  and  pleasure,  hand  in  hand. 

Then,  that  sweet  bondage  which  is  freedom's  self] 

And  rivets  with  sensation's  softest  tie 

The  kindred  sympadiies  of  human  souls. 

Needed  no  fetters  of  tyrannic  law  : 

Those  delicate  and  timid  impulses 

In  nature's  primal  modesty  arose. 

And  with  undoubting  confidence  disclosed 

The  growing  longings  of  its  dawning  love, 

Uncheck'd  by  dull  and  sellish  chastity. 

That  virtue  of  the  cheaply  virtuous. 

Who  pride  themselves  in  senselessness  and  frost 

No  longer  prostitution's  venom'd  bane 

Poison'd  the  springs  of  happiness  and  life ; 

Woman  and  man,  in  confidence  and  love. 

Equal  and  free  and  pure,  together  trod 

The  mountain-paths  of  virtue,  which  no  more 

Were  stain'd  with  blood  from  many  a  pilgrim's  feet. 


Then,  where,  through  distant  ages,  long  in  pride 
The  palace  of  the  monarch-slave  had  mock'd 
Famine's  faint  groan,  and  penury's  silent  tear, 
A  heap  of  crumbling  ruins  stood,  and  threw 
Year  after  year  their  stones  upon  the  field, 
369 


122 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Wakening  a  lonely  echo ;  and  the  leaves 

Of  the  old  thorn,  that  on  the  topmost  tower 

Usurp'd  the  royal  ensign's  grandeur,  shook 

In  the  stem  storm  that  svvay'd  the  topmost  tower, 

And  whisper'd  strange  tales  in  the  whirhvind's  ear. 

Ix)w  through  the  lone  catliedral's  roofless  aisles 
The  melancholy  winds  a  death-dirge  sung : 
It  were  a  sight  of  awfulness  to  see 
The  works  of  faith  and  slavery,  so  vast, 
So  sumptuous,  yet  so  perishing  withal ! 
Even  as  the  corpse  that  rests  beneath  its  wall. 
A  thousand  mourners  deck  the  pomp  of  death 
To-day,  the  breathing  marble  glows  above 
To  decorate  its  memory,  and  tongues 
Are  busy  of  its  hfe :  to-morrow,  worms 
In  silence  and  in  darkness  seize  their  prey. 

Within  the  massy  prison's  mouldering  courts, 
Fearless  and  free  the  ruddy  children  play'd, 
Weaving  gay  chaplets  for  their  innocent  brows 
With  the  green  ivy  and  the  red  wall-flower. 
That  mock  the  dungeon's  unavailing  gloom  ; 
The  ponderous  chains,  and  gratings  of  strong  iron, 
There  rusted  amid  heaps  of  broken  stone. 
That  mingled  slowly  with  their  native  earth : 
There  the  broad  beam  of  day,  which  feebly  once 
Liighted  the  cheek  of  lean  captivity 
With  a  pale  and  sickly  glare,  then  freely  shone 
On  the  pure  smiles  of  infant  playfulness  : 
No  more  the  shuddering  voice  of  hoarse  despair 
Peal'd  through  the  echoing  vaults,  but  soothing  notes 
Of  ivy-fmger'd  winds  and  gladsome  birds 
And  merriment  were  resonant  around. 


These  ruins  soon  left  not  a  wreck  behind  : 
Their  elements,  wide  scalter'd  o'er  the  globe. 
To  happier  shapes  were  moulded,  and  became 
Ministrant  to  all  blissful  impulses : 
Thus  human  things  were  perfected,  and  earth. 
Even  as  a  child  beneath  its  mother's  love, 
Was  strengthen'd  in  all  excellence,  and  grew 
Fairer  and  nobler  with  each  passing  year. 

Now  Time  his  dusky  pennons  o'er  the  scene 
Closes  in  stedfast  darkness,  and  the  past 
Fades  from  our  charmed  sight.    My  task  is  done  : 
Thy  lore  is  learn'd.    Earth's  wonders  are  thine  own, 
With  all  the  fear  and  all  the  hope  they  bring. 
My  spells  are  past :  the  present  now  recurs. 
Ah  me  !  a  pathless  wilderness  remains 
Yet  unsubdued  by  man's  reclaiming  hand. 

Yet,  human  Spirit !  bravely  hold  thy  course, 

Let  virtue  teach  thee  firmly  to  pursue 

The  gradual  paths  of  an  aspiring  change  : 

For  birth  and  life  and  death,  and  that  strange  state 

Before  the  naked  soul  has  found  its  home, 

All  tend  to  perfect  happiness,  and  urge 

The  restless  wheels  of  being  on  their  way. 

Whose  flashing  spokes,  instinct  with  infinite  life, 

Bicker  and  burn  to  gain  their  destuied  goal : 

For  birth  but  wakes  the  spirit  to  the  sense 

Of  outward  shows,  whose  unexperienced  shape 

New  modes  of  passion  to  its  frame  may  lend ; 

Life  is  its  state  of  action,  and  the  store 


Of  all  events  is  aggregated  there 
That  variegate  the  eternal  univei-se  ; 
Death  is  a  gate  of  dreariness  and  gloom. 
That  leads  to  azure  isles  and  beaming  skies, 
And  happy  regions  of  eternal  hope. 
Therefore,  O  Spirit !  fearlessly  bear  on  : 
Though  storms  may  break  the  primrose  on  its  stalk 
Though  frosts  may  blight  the  freshness  of  its  gloom 
Yet  spring's  awakening  breath  will  woo  the  earth, 
To  feed  with  kindhest  dews  its  favorite  flower, 
That  blooms  in  mossy  banks  and  darlvsome  glens, 
Lighting  the  greenwood  with  its  sunny  smile. 


Fear  not  then.  Spirit!  death's  disrobing  hand, 
So  welcome  when  the  tyrant  is  awake. 
So  welcome  when  the  bigot's  hell-torch  burns  ; 
'Tis  but  the  voyage  of  a  darksome  hour. 
The  transient  gulf-dream  of  a  startling  sleep. 
Death  is  no  foe  to  virtue :  earth  has  seen 
Love's  brightest  roses  on  the  scaffold  bloom. 
Mingling  with  freedom's  fadeless  laurels  there, 
And  presaging  the  truth  of  vision'd  bliss. 
Are  there  not  hopes  within  thee,  which  this  scene 
Of  link'd  and  gradual  being  has  confirm'd  ? 
Whose  stingings  bade  thy  heart  look  further  still, 
When  to  the  moonlight  walk,  by  Henry  led, 
Sweetly  and  sadly  thou  didst  talk  of  death  ? 
And  wilt  thou  rudely  tear  them  from  tliy  breast 
Listening  supinely  to  a  bigot's  creed. 
Or  tamely  croucliing  to  the  tyrant's  rod. 
Whose  iron  thongs  are  red  with  human  gore  ? 
Never:  but  bravely  bearing  on,  thy  will 
Is  destined  an  eternal  war  to  wage 
With  tyranny  and  falsehood,  and  uproot 
The  germs  of  misery  from  the  human  heart. 
Thine  is  the  hand  whose  piety  would  .soothe 
The  thorny  pillow  of  unhappy  crime, 
Whose  imjiotence  an  easy  pardon  gains, 
Watching  its  wanderings  as  a  friend's  disease : 
Thine  is  the  brow  whose  mildness  would  defy 
Its  fiercest  rage,  and  brave  its  sternest  will. 
When  fenced  by  power  and  master  of  the  world. 
Thou  art  sincere  and  good  ;  of  resolute  mind, 
Free  from  lieart-withering  custom's  cold  control. 
Of  passion  lofty,  pure  and  unsubdued. 
Earth's  pride  and  meanness  could  not  vanquish  thee 
And  therefore  art  thou  worthy  of  the  boon 
Which  thou  hast  now  received  :  virtue  shall  keep 
Thy  footsteps  in  the  path  that  thou  hast  trod, 
And  many  days  of  beaming  hope  shall  bless 
Thy  spotless  life  of  sweet  and  sacred  love. 
Go,  happy  one !  and  give  that  bosom  joy 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Light,  life  and  rapture  from  thy  smile. 


The  fairy  waves  her  wand  of  charm. 
Speechless  with  bliss  the  Spirit  mounts  the  car, 

That  roU'd  beside  the  battlement. 
Bending  her  beamy  eyes  in  thankfulness. 

Again  the  enchanted  steeds  were  yoked. 

Again  the  burning  wheels  inflame 
The  steep  descent  of  heaven's  untrodden  way 

Fast  and  far  the  chariot  flew  : 

The  vast  and  fiery  globes  that  roll'd 

Around  the  Fairy's  palace-gate 
Lessen'd  by  slow  degrees,  and  soon  ar^pear'd 
370 


QUEEN  MAB. 


123 


Such  tiny  twinklers  as  the  planet  orbs 

That  there  attendant  on  the  solar  power 

Witn  twrruw'd  light  pursued  their  narrower  way. 

Earth  tloated  then  below  : 
The  chariot  paused  a  moment  there ; 

The  spirit  then  descended  : 
The  restless  coursers  paw'd  the  ungenial  soil, 
Snuff'd  the  gross  air,  and  then,  their  errand  done, 
Unfurl'd  their  pinions  to  the  winds  of  heaven. 

The  Body  and  the  Soul  united  then. 
A  gentle  start  convulsed  lanthe's  frame : 
Her  veiny  eyelids  quietly  unclosed ; 
Moveless  awhile  the  dark-blue  orbs  remain'd : 
She  look'd  around  in  wonder,  and  beheld 
Henry,  who  kneel'd  in  silence  by  her  couch, 
Watching  her  sleep  with  looks  of  speechless  love. 
And  the  bright  beaming  stars 
That  through  the  casement  shone. 


NOTES. 


Note  1,  page  106,  col.  1. 

The  sun's  unclouded  orb 

Roll'd  through  the  black  concave. 

Beyo.nd  our  atmosphere  the  sun  would  appear  a  ray 
less  orb  of  fire  in  the  midst  of  a  black  concave.  The 
equal  diffusion  of  its  light  on  earth  is  owing  to  the 
refraction  of  the  rays  by  the  atmosphere,  and  their 
reflection  from  other  bodies.  Light  consists  either  of 
^^b^ations  propagated  through  a  subtle  medium,  or  of 
numerous  minute  particles  repelled  in  all  directions 
from  the  luminous  body.  Its  velocity  greatly  exceeds 
that  of  any  substance  with  which  we  are  acquainted  : 
observalions  on  the  eclipses  of  Jupiter's  satellites 
have  demonstrated  that  light  takes  up  no  more  than 
8'  7"  in'passing  frgm  the  sim  to  the  earth,  a  distance  of 
95,000,000  miles. — Some  idea  inay  be  gained  of  the 
immense  distance  of  the  fixed  stars,  when  it  is  compu- 
ted that  many  years  would  elapse  before  light  could 
reach  this  earth  from  the  nearest  of  them  ;  yet  in  one 
year  light  travels  .5,422,400,000,000  miles,  which  is  a 
distance  5,707,600  times  greater  than  that  of  the  sun 
from  the  earth. 

Note  2,  page  106,  col.  2. 

Whilst  round  the  chariot's  way 
Innumerable  systems  ruU'd. 

The  plurality  of  worlds, — the  indcfiniteimmeasity 
of  the  universe,  is  a  most  awful  suhjeet  of  contem- 
plation. He  who  rightly  feels  its  mystery  and  gran- 
deur, is  in  no  danger  of  seduction  from  the  falsehoods 
of  reUgious  systems,  or  of  deifying  the  principle  of 
the  universe.  It  is  impossible  to  believe  that  the 
Spirit  that  perv'ades  this  infinite  machine,  begat  a 
son  upon  the  body  of  a  Jewish  w  oman  ;  or  is  angered 
at  the  consequences  of  that  necessity,  which  is  a 
synonyme  of  itself  All  that  miserable  tale  of  the 
De\  d,  and  Eve,  and  an  Intercessor,  with  the  childish 
mummeries  of  the  God  of  the  Je\v.s,  is  irreconcila- 
ble w  ith  the  knowledge  of  the  stars.  The  works  of 
his  fingers  have  torne  witness  against  him. 

The  nearest  of  the  fixed  stars  is  inconceivably  dis- 
tant fVom  the  earth,  and  they  are  probably  proper 
tionably  distant  from  each  other.     By  a  calculation 


of  the  velocity  of  light,  Sirius  is  supjjosed  to  be  at 
least  54,224,000,000,000  miles  from  the  earth.*  That 
which  appears  only  like  a  thin  and  silvery  cloud 
streaking  the  heaven,  is  in  effect  composed  of  innu- 
merable clusters  of  suns,  each  shining  with  its  own 
light,  and  illuminating  numbers  of  planets  that  re- 
volve around  them.  Millions  and  millions  of  suns  are 
ranged  around  us,  all  attended  byinnumeiablc  worlds, 
yet  calm,  regular,  and  hariiionious,  all  keeping  the 
paths  of  immutable  necessity. 

Note  3,  page  112,  col.  1. 

Tlicse  are  the  hired  bravooa  who  defend 
The  tyrant's  tlirone. 

To  employ  murder  as  a  means  of  justice,  is  an 
idea  which  a  man  of  an  enlightened  mind  will  not 
dwell  upon  with  pleasure.  To  march  forth  in  rank 
and  file,  and  all  the  pomp  of  streamers  and  trumpets, 
for  the  purpose  of  shooting  at  our  fellow-men  as  a 
mark ;  to  inliict  ujion  them  all  the  variety  of  wound 
and  anguish  ;  to  leave  them  weltering  in  their  blood  ; 
to  wander  over  the  field  of  desolation,  and  count  the 
number  of  the  dying  and  the  dead, — are  employ- 
ments which  in  thesis  we  may  maintain  to  be  neces- 
sary, but  which  no  good  man  %vill  contemplate  with 
gratulation  and  delight.  A  battle,  we  suppose,  is 
won : — thus  truth  is  established,  thus  the  caiLse  of 
justice  is  confirmed  !  It  surely  requires  no  common 
sagacity  to  discern  the  connexion  between  this  im- 
mense heap  of  calamities  and  the  assertion  of  truth 
or  the  maintenance  of  justice. 

Kings,  and  ministers  of  state,  the  real  authors  of 
the  calamity,  sit  unmolested  in  their  cabinet,  while 
those  against  whom  the  fury  of  the  storm  is  directed 
are,  for  the  most  part,  persons  who  have  been  trepan- 
ned into  the  service,  or  who  are  dragged  unwillingly 
from  their  peaceful  homes  into  the  field  of  battle. 
A  soldier  is  a  man  whose  business  it  is  to  kill  those 
who  never  ofiended  him,  and  who  are  the  innocent 
martyrs  of  other  men's  iniquities.  Whatever  may 
become  of  the  aljstract  question  of  the  justifiableness 
of  war,  it  seems  impossible  that  the  soldier  should 
not  be  a  depraved  and  unnatural  being. 

To  these  more  serious  and  momentous  considera- 
tions it  may  be  proper  to  add,  a  recollection  of  the 
ridiculousness  of  the  military  character.  Its  first 
constituent  is  obedience :  a  soldier  is,  of  all  descrip- 
tions of  men,  the  most  conqjleiely  a  machine  ;  yet  his 
profession  inevitably  teaches  him  something  of  dogma- 
tism, swaggering,  and  self-consequence:  he  is  like  the 
puppet  of  a  show  man,  who,  at  the  very  time  he  is  made 
to  strut  and  swell  and  display  the  most  farcical  airs,  we 
perfectly  know  cannot  assume  the  most  insignificant 
gesture,  advance  either  to  tlie  right  or  to  the  left,  but 
as  he  is  moved  by  his  exhibiler. — Qodw in's  Ejiquirer, 
Essai/  v. 

I  w  ill  here  subjoin  a  little  poem,  so  strongly  expres- 
sive of  my  abhorrence  of  despotism  and  falsehood, 
that  1  fear  lest  it  never  again  may  be  depictured  so 
vividl)-.  This  opportunity  is  perhaps  the  only  one 
that  ever  will  occur  of  rescuing  it  from  oblivion. 


FALSEHOOD  AND  VICE; 

A  DI.\LOGtrE. 

WuiLST  monarchs  laugh'd  upon  their  thrones 
To  hear  a  faniish'd  nation's  groans, 
And  hugff'd  tlio  wealth  wrung  tVom  their  woe 
That  makes  its  eyes  and  veins  o'erflow,— 


*  See  Nicholson's  Encyclopedia,  art.  Light. 
371 


124 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Those  thrones,  high  built  upon  the  heaps 
Of  bones  where  frenzied  Famine  sleeps, 
Where  Slavery  wields  her  scourge  of  iron 
Red  with  mankind's  unheeded  gore. 
And  War's  mad  fiends  the  scene  environ, 
Mingling  with  shrieks  a  drunken  roar, 
There  Vice  and  Falsehood  took  their  stand, 
High  raised  above  the  unhappy  land. 

FALSEHOOD. 

Brother!  arise  from  the  dainty  fare 

Which  thousands  have  toil'd  and  bled  to  bestow, 

A  finer  feast  for  thy  hungry  ear 

Is  the  news  that  I  bring  of  human  woe. 

VIOE. 

And,  secret  one !  what  hast  thou  done. 
To  compare,  in  thy  tumid  pride,  with  me  ? 
/,  whose  career,  through  the  blasted  year, 
Has  been  track'd  by  despair  and  agony. 

FALSEHOOD. 

What  have  I  done  !— I  have  torn  the  robe 
From  baby  truths  uiishelter'd  form. 
And  round  the  desolated  globe 
Borne  safely  the  bewildering  charm  : 
My  tyrant-slaves  to  a  dungeon-floor 
Have  bound  the  fearless  innocent. 
And  streams  of  fertilizing  gore 
Flow  from  her  bosom's  hideous  rent, 

Which  this  unfailing  dagger  gave 

I  dread  that  blood !— no  more— this  day 
Is  ours,  though  her  eternal  ray 

Must  shine  upon  our  grave. 
Yet  know,  proud  Vice,  had  1  not  given 
To  thee  the  robe  I  stole  from  heaven. 
Thy  shape  of  ugliness  and  fear 
Had  never  gain'd  admission  here. 

VICE. 

And  know,  that  had  I  disdain'd  to  toil. 
But  sate  in  my  lothesome  cave  the  while. 
And  ne'er  to  these  hateful  sons  of  heaven 
Gold,  Monarchy,  and  Mdrder,  given  ; 
Hadst  thou  with  all  thine  art  essay'd 
One  of  thy  games  then  to  have  play'd. 
With  all  thine  overweening  boast. 
Falsehood !  I  tell  thee  thou  hadst  lost  !— 
Yet  wherefore  this  dispute  ? — we  tend. 
Fraternal,  to  one  common  end  ; 
In  this  wjld  grave  beneath  my  feet. 
Will  our  hopes,  our  fears,  and  our  labors,  meet. 

FALSEHOOD. 

I  brought  my  daughter.  Religion,  on  earth  : 

She  smother'd  Reason's  babes  ih  their  birth; 

But  dreaded  their  mother's  eye  severe, — 

So  the  crocodile  slunk  off  slily  in  fear. 

And  loosed  her  bloodhounds  from  the  den  .... 

They  started  from  dreams  of  slaughter'd  men, 

And,  by  the  light  of  her  poison  eye. 

Did  her  work  o'er  the  wide  earth  frightfully: 

The  dreadful  stench  of  her  torches'  flare. 

Fed  with  human  fat,  polluted  the  air; 

The  curses,  the  shrieks,  the  ceaseless  cries 

Of  the  many-mingling  miseries, 

As  on  she  trod,  ascended  high 

And  trumpeted  my  victory ! — 

Brother,  tell  what  thou  hast  done. 

VICE. 

I  have  extinguish'd  the  noonday  sun, 

In  the  carnage  smoke  of  battles  won : 

Famine,  Murder,  Hell,  and  Power 

Were  glutted  in  that  glorious  hour 

Which  searchloss  Fate  had  stamp'd  for  me 

With  the  seal  of  her  security  .... 

For  the  bloated  wretch  on  yonder  throne 

Commanded  tho  bloody  fray  to  rise. 

Lrke  me  he  joy'd  at  the  stifled  moan 

Wrung  from  a  nation's  miseries; 

While  the  snakes,  whose  slime  even  him  defiled, 

In  ecstasies  of  r-alice  smiled 


They  thought  'twas  theirs,— but  mine  the  deed  1 

Theirs  is  the  toil,  but  mine  the  meed — 

Ten  thousand  victims  madly  bleed. 

They  dream  that  tyrants  goad  them  there 

With  poisonous  war  to  taint  the  air: 

These  tyrants,  on  their  beds  of  thorn. 

Swell  with  the  thoughts  of  murderous  fame, 

And  with  their  gains,  to  lift  my  name. 

Restless  they  plan  from  night  to  morn  : 

I — I  do  all ;  without  my  aid 

Thy  daughter,  that  relentless  maid, 

Could  never  o'er  a  death-bed  urge 

The  fury  of  her  vcnom'd  scourge. 

FALSEHOOD. 

Brother,  well : — the  world  is  ours ; 
And  whether  thou  or  I  have  vton. 
The  pestilence  expectant  lowers 
On  all  beneath  yon  blasted  sun. 
Our  joys,  our  toils,  our  honors,  meet 
In  the  milk-white  and  wormy  winding-sheet: 
A  shortlived  hope,  unceasing  care. 
Some  h.eartless  scraps  of  godly  prayer, 
A  moody  curse,  and  a  frenzied  sleep. 
Ere  gapes  the  grave's  unclosing  deep, 
A  tyrant's  dream,  a  coward's  start, 
The  ice  that  clings  to  a  priestly  heart, 
A  judge's  frown,  a  courtier's  smile. 
Make  the  great  whole  for  which  we  toil ; 
And,  brother,  whether  thou  or  I 
Have  done  the  work  of  misery. 
It  little  boots:  thy  toil  and  pain. 
Without  my  aid,  were  more  than  vain  ; 
And  but  for  thee  I  ne'er  had  sate 
The  guardian  of  heaven's  palace-gate. 
Note  4,  page  113,  col.  1. 
Thus  do  the  generations  of  tlie  earth 
Go  to  the  graVe,  and  issue  from  the  womb. 
One  generation  passetli  away  and  another  genera- 
tion cometli,  but  the  earth  abideth  for  ever.  The  sun 
also  ariseth  and  the  sun  goeth  down,  and  hasteth  to 
his  place  where  he  arose.     The  wind  goeth  toward 
the  south  and  turneth  about  unto  the  norlh,  it  whirl- 
eth  about  continually,  and  the  wind  returneth  again 
according  to  his  circuits.    All  the  rivers  run  into  the 
sea,  yet  the  sea  is  not  full ;  unto  the  place  whence 
the  rivers  come,  thither  shall  they  return  again. — 
Ecclesiastes,  chap.  i. 

Note  5,  page  113,  col.  1. 

Even  as  the  leaves 
Which  the  keen  frost-wind  of  the  wanmg  year 
Has  scatter'd  on  the  forest  soil. 
Oil?  TTtp  0i'XXa)v  yevcfj,  robiSe  K(ft  avSpdv. 
(tuXXifi  Tu  fiiv  r'  livifioi  •)(^afjidhti  %{£(,  liWa  it  S'  v\r} 
TtjXcOowaa  (pvii,  eajjos  6'  nTiyiyv^Tai  wpi]' 
D.;  di'i^pCjv  ycvii],  j)  ptv  ipvii,  y&'  aiTo\r']y€t. 

lAlAA.  Z,  I.  146. 

Note  6,  page  113,  col.  1. 
The  mob  of  peasants,  nobles,  priests,  and  kings. 
Suave  mari  niagno  turbantibus  aequora  ventis 
E  terra  magnum  alterius  spectare  laborem  : 
Non  quia  vexari  queraquam  'st  jucunda  voluptas. 
Sed  quibus  ipse  inalis  careas  quia  cernere  suave  'si 
Suave  etiain  belli  certamina  magna  tueri. 
Per  campos  instructa,  tua  sine  parte  pericli ; 
Sed  nil  dulcius  est  bene  quam  munita  tenere 
Edita  doctrina  sapientum  templa  serena  ; 
Despicere  unde  queas  alios,  passimque  videre 
Errare  atque  viam  palanteis  qusrere  vitoe  ; 
Certare  ingenio  ;  contendere  nobilitate; 
Nocteis  atque  dies  niti  proestante  labore 
Ad  summas  emergere  opes,  rerumque  potiri. 
O  miseras  hominum  menteis!  O  pectora  caeca! 
Luc.  lib.  ii. 
372 


QUEEN  MAB. 


125 


Note  7,  page  113,  col.  2. 

And  statesmen  boast 
Of  wealth ! 

There  is  no  real  wealth  but  the  labor  of  man. 
Were  the  mountains  of  gold  and  the  valleys  of  silver, 
the  world  would  not  be  one  grain  of  corn  the  richer ; 
no  one  comfort  would  be  added  to  the  human  race. 
In  consequence  of  our  consideration  for  the  precious 
metals,  one  man  is  enabled  to  heap  to  himself  luxu- 
ries at  the  expense  of  the  necessaries  of  his  neigh- 
bor; a  system  admirably  fitted  to  produce  all  the 
varieties  of  disease  and  crime,  which  never  fail  to 
characterize  the  two  extremes  of  opulence  and  penury. 
A  speculator  takes  pride  to  himself  as  the  promoter 
of  his  country's  prosperity,  who  employs  a  number 
of  hands  in  the  manufacture  of  articles  avowedly 
destitute  of  use,  or  subservient  only  to  the  unhallow- 
ed cravings  of  luxury  and  ostentation.  The  noble- 
man, who  employs  the  peasants  of  his  neighborhood 
in  building  his  palaces,  until  "jam  pa iica  aralroju- 
gera  regicB  moles  relinqxiunl,"  flatters  himself  that  he 
has  gained  the  title  of  a  patriot  by  yielding  to  the 
impulses  of  vanity.  The  show  and  jwmp  of  courts 
adduces  the  same  apology  for  its  continuance ;  and 
many  a  fete  has  been  given,  many  a  woman  has 
eclipsed  her  beauty  by  her  dress,  to  benefit  the  labor- 
ing poor  and  to  encourage  trade.  Who  does  not  see 
that  this  is  a  remedy  which  aggravates,  whilst  it  pal- 
liates the  countless  diseases  of  society  ?  The  poor 
ore  set  to  labor, — for  what  ?  Not  the  food  for  which 
they  famish :  not  the  blankets  for  want  of  which 
their  babes  are  frozen  by  the  cold  of  their  miserable 
hovels :  not  those  comforts  of  civilization  without 
which  civiUzed  man  is  far  more  miserable  than  the 
meanest  savage;  oppressed  as  he  is  by  all  its  iasidious 
evils,  within  the  daily  and  taunting  prospect  of  its 
innumerable  benefits  assiduously  exhibited  before 
him  : — no ;  for  the  pride  of  power,  for  the  miserable 
isolation  of  pride,  for  the  false  pleasures  of  the  hun- 
dredth part  of  society.  No  greater  evidence  is  af- 
forded of  the  wide-extended  and  radical  mistakes  of 
civilized  man  than  this  fact :  those  arts  which  are 
essential  to  his  very  being  are  held  in  the  greatest 
contempt ;  employments  are  lucrative  in  an  inverse 
ratio  to  their  usefulness  :*  the  jeweller,  the  toyman, 
the  actor,  gains  fame  and  wealth  by  the  exercise  of 
his  useless  and  ridiculous  art ;  whilst  the  cultivator 
of  the  earth,  he  without  whom  society  must  cease  to 
subsist,  struggles  through  contempt  and  penury,  and 
perishes  by  that  famine  which,  but  for  his  unceasing 
exertions,  would  annihilate  the  rest  of  mankind. 

I  will  not  insult  common  sense  by  insisting  on  the 
doctrine  of  the  natural  equality  of  man.  The  ques- 
tion is  not  concerning  its  desirableness,  but  its  prac- 
ticabihty :  so  far  as  it  is  practicable,  it  is  desirable. 
That  state  of  human  society  which  approaches  nearer 
to  an  equal  partition  of  its  benefits  and  evils  should, 
cateris paribus,  be  preferred:  but  so  long  as  we  con- 
ceive that  a  wanton  expenditure  of  human  labor,  not 
for  the  necessities,  not  even  for  the  luxuries  of  the 
mass  of  society,  but  for  the  egotism  and  ostentation 
of  a  few  of  its  members,  is  defensible  on  the  ground 
of  public  justice,  so  long  we  neglect  to  approximate 
to  the  redemption  of  the  human  race. 

Labor  is  required  for  physical,  and  leisure  for 
moral  improvement :  from  the  former  of  these  ad- 


*  See  Rousseau,  "  De  rin6galit6  parmi  les  Hommes," 
note  7. 


vantages  the  rich,  and  from  the  latter  the  poor,  by 
the  inevitable  conditions  of  their  respective  situations, 
are  precluded.  A  state  which  should  combine  the 
advantages  of  both,  would  be  subjected  to  the  evils 
of  neither.  He  that  is  deficient  in  firm  health,  or 
vigorous  intellect,  is  but  half  a  man :  hence  it  fol- 
lows, that,  to  subject  the  laboring  classes  to  unneces- 
sary labor,  is  wantonly  depriving  them  of  any  op- 
porlimities  of  intellectual  improvement;  and  that 
the  rich  are  heaping  up  for  their  own  mischief  the 
disease,  lassitude  and  ennui  by  which  their  existence 
is  renilered  an  intolerable  burthen. 

English  reformers  exclaim  against  sinecures, — but 
the  true  pension-hst  is  the  rent-roll  of  the  landed 
proprietors :  wealth  is  a  power  usurped  by  the  few, 
to  compel  the  many  to  labor  for  their  benefit.  The 
laws  which  support  this  system  derive  their  force 
from  the  ignorance  and  credulity  of  its  victims:  they 
are  the  result  of  a  conspiracy  of  the  few  against  the 
many,  who  are  themselves  obliged  to  purchase  this 
pre-eminence  by  the  lo.ss  of  all  real  comfort. 

The  commodities  that  substantially  contribute  to 
the  subsistence  of  the  human  species  tbrm  a  very 
short  catalogue  :  they  demand  from  us  but  a  slender 
portion  of  industry.  If  these  only  were  produced, 
and  sufficiently  produced,  the  species  of  man  would 
be  continued.  If  the  labor  necessarily  required  to 
produce  them  were  equitably  divided  among  the 
poor,  and,  still  more,  if  it  were  equitably  divided 
among  all,  each  man's  share  of  labor  would  be  light, 
and  his  portion  of  leisure  would  be  ample.  There 
was  a  time  when  this  leisure  would  have  been  of 
small  comparative  value:  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the 
time  will  come,  when  it  will  be  applied  to  the  most 
important  purposes.  Those  hours  which  are  not  re- 
quired for  the  production  of  the  necessaries  of  life, 
may  be  devoted  to  the  cultivation  of  the  understand- 
ing, the  enlarging  our  stock  of  knowledge,  the  re- 
fining our  taste,  and  thus  opening  to  us  new  and 
more  exquisite  sources  of  enjoyment. 

****** 

It  was  perhaps  necessary  that  a  period  of  monopoly 
and  oppression  should  subsist,  before  a  period  of  cul- 
tivated equality  could  subsist.  Savages  perhaps  would 
never  have  been  excited  to  the  discovery  of  truth 
and  the  invention  of  art,  but  by  the  narrow  motives 
which  such  a  period  affords.  But  surely,  after  the 
savage  state  has  ceased,  and  men  have  set  out  in  the 
glorious  career  of  discovery  and  invention,  monopoly 
and  oppression  cannot  be  necessary  to  prevent  them 
from  returning  to  a  slate  of  barbarism. — Godwin's 
Enquirer,  Essay  II.  See  also  PoL.  Jus.,  booh  VIII. 
chap.  1 1 . 

It  is  a  calculation  of  this  admirable  author,  that  all 
the  conveniences  of  civilized  life  might  be  produced, 
if  society  would  divide  the  labor  equally  among  its 
members,  by  each  individual  being  employed  in  labor 
two  hours  during  the  day. 

Note  8,  page  113,  col.  2. 

Or  religion 
Drives  his  wife  raving  mad. 

I  am  acquainted  with  a  lady  of  considerable  ac- 
complishments, and  the  mother  of  a  numerous  family, 
whom  the  Christian  religion  has  goaded  to  incurable 
insanity.  A  parallel  case  is,  I  believe,  within  the  ex- 
perience of  every  physician. 

Nam  jam  sape  homines  patriam,  carosque  parentea 
Prodiderunt,  vitare  Acherusia  templa  petentes. 

LccKETntit 
49  373 


126 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Note  9,  page  114,  col.  2. 
Even  love  is  sold. 

Not  even  the  intercourse  of  the  sexes  is  exempt 
from  the  despotism  of  positive  institution.  Law  pre- 
tends even  to  govern  the  indisoiplinable  wanderings 
of  passion,  to  put  fetters  on  the  clearest  deductions 
of  reason,  and,  by  appeals  to  the  will,  to  subdue  the 
involuntary  affections  of  our  nature.  Love  is  inevi- 
tably consequent  upon  the  perception  of  loveliness. 
Love  withers  under  constraint :  its  very  essence  is 
liberty :  it  is  compatible  neither  with  obedience, 
jealousy,  nor  fear :  it  is  there  most  pure,  perfect,  and 
unlimited,  where  its  votaries  live  in  confidence, 
equality,  and  unreserve. 

How  long  then  ought  the  sexual  connexion  to  last? 
what  law  ought  to  specify  the  extent  of  the  griev- 
ances which  should  limit  its  duration  ?  A  husband  and 
wife  ought  to  continue  so  long  united  as  they  love 
each  other :  any  law  wliich  should  bind  them  to  co- 
habitation for  one  moment  after  the  decay  of  their 
affection,  would  be  a  most  intolerable  tyranny,  and 
the  most  unworthy  of  toleration.  How  odious  a 
usurpation  of  the  right  of  private  judgment  should 
that  law  be  considered,  which  should  make  the  ties 
of  friendship  indissoluble,  in  spite  of  the  caprices, 
the  inconstancy,  the  faUibihty,  and  capacity  for  im- 
provement of  the  human  mind.  And  by  so  much 
would  the  fetters  of  love  be  heavier  and  more  unen- 
durable than  those  of  friendship,  as  love  is  more 
vehement  and  capricious,  more  dependent  on  those 
delicate  peculiarities  of  imagination,  and  less  capable 
of  reduction  to  the  ostensible  merits  of  the  object. 

The  state  of  society  in  which  we  exist  is  a  mixture 
of  feudal  savageness  and  imperfect  civilization.  The 
narrow  and  unenUghtened  morality  of  the  Christian 
religion  is  an  aggravation  of  these  evils.  It  is  not 
even  until  lately  that  mankind  have  admitted  that 
happiness  is  the  sole  end  of  the  science  of  ethics,  as 
of  all  other  sciences ;  and  that  the  fanatical  idea  of 
mortifying  the  flesh  for  the  love  of  God  has  been 
discarded.  I  have  heard,  indeed,  an  ignorant  colle- 
gian adduce,  in  favor  of  Christianity,  its  hostility  to 
every  worldly  feeling!* 

But  if  happiness  be  the  object  of  morality,  of  all 
human  unions  and  disunions ;  if  the  worthiness  of 
every  action  is  to  be  estimated  by  the  quantity  of 
pleasurable  sensation  it  is  calculated  to  produce,  then 
the  connexion  of  the  sexes  is  so  long  sacred  as  it 
contributes  to  the  comfort  of  the  parties,  and  is  natu- 
rally dissolved  when  its  evils  are  greater  than  its 
benefits.  There  is  nothing  immoral  in  this  separation. 
Constancy  has  nothing  virtuous  in  itself,  independent- 
ly of  the  pleasure  it  confers,  and  partakes  of  the 
temporizing  spirit  of  vice  in  proportion  as  it  endures 
tamely  moral  defects  of  magnitude  in  the  object  of 
its  indiscreet  choice.  Love  is  free :  to  promise  for 
ever  to  love  the  same  woman,  is  not  less  absurd  than 
to  promise  to  believe  the  same  creed :  such  a  vow, 


*  The  first  Christian  emperor  made  a  law  by  which  se- 
duction was  punished  with  death:  if  the  female  pleaded 
her  own  consent,  she  also  was  punished  with  death;  if  the 
parents  endeavored  to  screen  the  criminals,  they  were 
banished  and  their  estates  were  confiscated  ;  the  slaves 
who  might  be  accessory  were  burned  alive,  or  forced  to 
swallow  melted  lead.  The  very  offspring  of  an  illegal  love 
were  involved  in  the  consequences  of  the  sentence. — 
Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall,  etc.  vol.  ii.  page  210.  See  also, 
for  the  hatred  of  the  primitive  Christians  to  love,  and 
even  marriage,  page  269. 


in  both  cases,  excludes  us  from  all  inquiry.  The 
language  of  the  votarist  is  this:  The  woman  I  now 
love  may  be  infinitely  inferior  to  many  others  ;  the 
creed  1  now  profess  may  be  a  mass  of  errors  and 
absurdities ;  but  I  exclude  myself  from  all  future 
information  as  to  the  amiability  of  the  one  and  the 
truth  of  the  other,  resolving  blindly,  and  in  spite  of 
conviction,  to  adhere  to  them.  Is  this  the  language 
of  delicacy  and  reason  ?  Is  the  love  of  such  a  frigid 
heart  of  more  worth  than  its  belief? 

Tlie  present  system  of  constraint  does  no  more,  in 
the  majority  of  instances,  than  make  hypocrites  or 
open  enemies.  Persons  of  delicacy  and  virtue,  un- 
happily united  to  one  whom  they  find  it  impossible 
to  love,  spend  the  loveliest  season  of  their  hfe  in  un- 
productive efinrts  to  appear  otherwise  than  they  are, 
for  the  sake  of  the  feelings  of  their  partner,  or  the 
welfare  of  their  mutual  offspring :  those  of  less 
generosity  and  refinement  openly  avow  their  disap- 
pointment, and  linger  out  the  remnant  of  that  union, 
which  only  death  can  dissolve,  in  a  state  of  incurable 
bickering  and  hostilitj'.  The  early  education  of  their 
children  takes  its  color  from  the  squabbles  of  the 
parents ;  they  are  nursed  in  a  systematic  school  of 
ill-humor,  violence,  and  falsehood.  Had  they  been 
suffered  to  part  at  the  moment  when  indifference 
rendered  their  union  irksome,  they  would  have  been 
spared  many  years  of  misery  ;  they  would  have  con- 
nected themselves  more  suitably,  and  would  have 
found  that  happiness  in  the  society  of  jnore  congenial 
partners  which  is  for  ever  denied  them  by  the  des- 
potism of  marriage.  They  would  have  been  sepa- 
rately useful  and  happy  members  of  society,  who, 
whilst  imited,  were  miserable,  and  rendered  misan- 
thropical by  misery.  The  conviction  that  wedlock  is 
indissoluble  holds  out  the  strongest  of  all  temptations 
to  the  perverse :  they  indulge  without  restraint  in 
acrimony,  and  all  the  little  tyrannies  of  domestic  life 
when  they  know  that  their  victim  is  without  appeal. 
If  this  connexion  were  put  on  a  rational  basis,  each 
would  be  assured  that  habitual  ill  temper  would  ter- 
minate in  separation,  and  would  check  this  vicious 
and  dangerous  propensity. 

Prostitution  is  the  legitimate  offspring  of  marriage 
and  its  accompanying  errors.  Women,  for  no  other 
crime  than  having  followed  tiie  dictates  of  a  natural 
appetite,  are  driven  with  fury  from  the  comforts  and 
sympathies  of  society.  It  is  less  venial  than  murder: 
and  the  punishment  which  is  inflicted  on  her  who 
destroys  her  child  to  escape  reproach,  is  lighter  than 
the  lii^  of  agony  and  disease  to  which  the  prostitute 
is  irrecoverably  doomed.  Has  a  woman  obe)'ed  the 
impulse  of  unerring  nature ; — society  declares  war 
against  her,  pitiless  and  eternal  war :  she  must  be 
the  tame  slave,  she  must  make-no  reprisals ;  theirs  is 
the  right  of  persecution,  hers  the  duty  of  endurance. 
Slie  lives  a  life  of  infamy :  tlie  loud  and  bitter  laugh 
of  scorn  scares  her  from  all  return.  She  dies  of  long 
and  lingering  disease ;  yet  she  is  in  fault,  she  is  the 
criminal,  she  the  froward  and  untamable  child, — 
and  Society,  forsooth,  the  pure  and  virtuous  matron, 
who  casts  her  as  an  abortion  from  her  undefiled 
bosom!  Society  avenges  herself  on  the  criminals  of 
her  own  creation  ;  she  is  employed  in  anathematizing 
the  vice  to-day,  which  yesterday  she  was  the  most 
zealous  to  teach.  Thus  is  formed  one-tenth  of  the 
population  of  London  :  meanwhile  the  evil  is  twofold 
Young  men,  excluded  by  the  fanatical  idea  of  chas- 
tity from  the  society  of  modest  and  accomplished 
women,  associate  with  these  vicious  and  miserable 
374 


QUEEN  MAB. 


127 


beings,  destroying  thereby  all  those  exquisite  and 
delicate  sensibilities  whose  existence  cold-hearted 
worldlings  have  denied;  annihilating  all  genuine 
passion,  and  debasing  that  to  a  sellish  feeling  which 
is  the  excess  of  generosity  and  devotedness.  Their 
body  and  mind  alike  crumble  into  a  hideous  wreck 
of  humanity ;  idiocy  and  disease  become  perpetu- 
ated in  their  miserable  offspring,  and  distant  genera- 
tions suffer  for  the  bigoted  morality  of  their  fore- 
fathers. Chastity  is  a  monlush  and  evangelical 
superstition,  a  greater  foe  to  natural  temperance  even 
than  unintellectual  sensuality  ;  it  strikes  at  the  root 
of  all  domestic  happiness,  and  consigns  more  than 
half  of  the  human  race  to  misery,  that  some  few  may 
monopolize  according  to  law.  A  system  could  not 
well  have  been  devised  more  studiously  hostile  to 
human  happiness  than  marriage. 

I  conceive  that,  from  the  abolition  of  marriage,  the 
fit  and  natural  arrangement  of  sexual  connexion 
would  result.  I  by  no  means  assert  that  the  inter- 
course would  be  promiscuous :  on  the  contrary ;  it 
appears,  from  the  relation  of  parent  to  child,  that 
this  union  is  generally  of  long  duration,  and  marked 
above  all  others  with  generosity  and  self-devotion. 
But  this  is  a  subject  wiiich  it  is  perhaps  premature 
to  discuss.  That  which  will  result  from  the  abolition 
of  marriage,  will  be  natural  and  right,  because  choice 
and  change  will  be  exempted  from  restraint. 

In  fact,  religion  and  morality,  as  they  now  stand, 
compose  a  practical  code  of  misery  and  servitude: 
the  genius  of  human  happiness  must  tear  every  leaf 
from  the  accursed  book  of  God,  ere  man  can  read 
the  inscription  on  liis  heart.  How  would  morahty, 
dressed  up  in  stiff  stays  and  finery,  start  from  her  own 
disgusting  image,  should  she  look  in  the  mirror  of 
nature ! 

Note  10,  page  115,  col.  1. 

To  the  red  and  baleful  sun 
That  faintly  twinkles  there. 

The  north  polar  star,  to  which  the  axis  of  the  earth, 
in  its  present  state  of  obliquity,  points.  It  is  exceed- 
ingly probable,  from  many  consideradons,  that  this 
obliquity  will  gradually  diminish,  until  the  equator 
coincides  with  the  echptic :  the  nights  and  days  will 
then  become  equal  on  the  earth  throughout  the  year, 
and  probably  the  seasons  also.  There  is  no  great 
extravagance  in  presuming  that  the  progress  of  the 
perpendicularity  of  the  poles  may  be  as  rapid  as  the 
progress  of  intellect ;  or  that  there  should  be  a  per- 
fect identity  between  the  moral  and  pliysical  im- 
provement of  the  human  species.  It  is  certain  that 
wisdom  is  not  compatible  with  disease,  and  that,  in 
the  i)resent  state  of  the  clhnates  of  the  earth,  health, 
in  the  true  and  comprehensive  sense  of  the  word,  is 
out  of  the  reach  of  civilized  man.  Astronomy 
teaches  us  that  the  earth  is  now  in  its  progress,  and 
that  the  poles  are  every  year  becoming  more  and 
more  perpendicular  to  the  ecliptic.  The  strong  evi- 
dence afforded  by  the  history  of  mythology,  and  geo 
logical  researches,  that  some  event  of  this  nature  has 
taken  place  already,  affords  a  strong  presumption, 
that  this  progress  is  not  merely  an  oscillation,  as  has 
been  surmised  by  some  late  astronomers.*  Bones  of 
animals  peculiar  to  the  torrid  zone  ha\  e  been  found 
in  the  north  of  Siberia,  and  on  the  banks  of  the  river 
Ohio.  Plants  have  been  foimd  in  the  fossil  state  in 
the  interior  of  Germany,  which  demand  the  present 


climate  of  Ilindostan  for  their  production.!  Tho 
researches  of  M.  BaillyJ  establish  the  existence  of  a 
people  who  iidiabited  a  tract  in  Tartary,  49°  north 
latitude,  of  greater  antiquity  lluui  cither  the  Indiana, 
the  Chinese,  or  the  Chaldeans,  from  whom  these 
nations  derived  their  sciences  and  theology.  We  find, 
Ironi  the  testimony  of  ancient  v^riters,  lliat  Britain, 
Germany  and  France  were  much  colder  than  at 
present,  and  that  their  great  rivers  were  annually 
frozen  over.  Astronomy  teaches  us  also,  that  since 
this  period,  the  obliquity  of  the  earth's  position  has 
been  considerably  diminished. 

Note  11,  page  116,  col.  1. 
No  atom  of  this  turbulence  fulfils 
A  vague  and  unnecessitated  task, 
Or  acts  but  as  it  must  and  ought  to  act. 
Deux  exemples  serviront  a  nous  rendre  plus  sen- 
sible le  principe  qui  vienl  d'etre  pose  ;  nous  emprvm- 
terons  I'un  du  physique  et  I'autre  du  moral.  Dans 
un  tourbillon  de  poussiere  qu'eleve  un  vent  impetu- 
eux,  quelque  confus  qu'il  paroisse  a  nos  yeux  ;  dans 
la  plus  affreuse  tempete  excitee  par  des  vents  opposes 
qui  soulevent  les  flots,  il  n'y  a  pas  une  seule  mole- 
cule de  poussiere  ou  d'eau  qui  soil  placee  an  hasard, 
qui  n'ait  sa  cause  sudisante  pour  occuper  le  lieu  ou 
elle  se  trouve,  et  qui  n'agisse  rigoureusement  de  la 
maniere  dont  elle  doit  agir.  Un  geometre  qui  con- 
naitroit  exactement  les  differentes  forces  qui  agissent 
dans  ces  deux  cas,  et  les  proprietes  des  molecules 
qui  sont  mues,  demontreroit  que  d'apres  des  causes 
donnees,  chaque  molecule  agit  precisement  comme 
elle  doit  agir,  et  ne  pent,  agir  autrement  qu'elle  ne 
fait. 

Dans  les  convulsions  terriblesqui  agitent  quelque- 
fois  les  societes  politiques,  et  qui  produisent  souvent 
le  renversement  d'un  empire,  il  n'y  a  pas  une  seule 
action,  une  seule  parole,  une  seule  pensee,  une  seule 
volonte,  une  seule  passion  dans  les  agens  qui  con- 
courent  a  la  revolution  comme  destructeurs  ou  comme 
victimes,  qui  ne  soit  necessaire,  qui  n'agisse  comme 
elle  doit  agir,  qui  n'opere  infailhblement  les  efiets 
qu'elle  doit  operer  suivant  la  place  qu'occupent  ces 
agens  dans  ce  tourbillon  moral.  Cela  paroitroit  evi- 
dent pour  une  intelligence  qui  sera  en  ©tat  de  saisir 
et  d'apprecier  toutes  les  actions  et  reactions  des 
esprits  et  des  corps  de  ceux  qui  contribuent  a  cette 
revolution. — Si/steme  de  la  Nature,  vol.  I.  page  44. 

Note  12,  page  116,  col.  2. 
Necessity,  thou  mother  of  the  world  ! 
He  who  asserts  the  doctrine  of  Necessity,  means 
that,  contemplating  the  events  which  compose  the 
moral  and  material  universe,  he  beholds  only  an  im- 
mense and  uninterrupted  chain  of  causes  and  effects, 
no  one  of  which  could  occupy  any  other  place  than 
il  does  occupy,  or  act  in  any  other  way  than  it  does 
act.  The  idea  of  necessity  is  obtained  by  our  ex- 
perience of  the  connexion  between  objects,  the 
uniformity  of  the  operations  of  nature,  the  constant 
conjunction  of  similar  events,  and  the  consequent 
inference  of  one  from  the  other.  Mankind  are 
therefore  agreed  in  the  admission  of  necessitj-,  if 
they  admit  that  these  two  circumstances  take  plate 
in  voluntary  action.  Motive  is,  to  voluntary  action 
in  the  human  mind,  what  cause  is  to  effect  in  the 
material  universe.     The  word  liberty,  as  applied  to 


*  Laplace,  Systeme  du  Monde. 


t    Cabanis,   Rapports    du    Physique  et    du   Moral  de 
rHomme,  vol.  ji.  page  400. 
X  Lettres  sur  les  Sciences,  4  Voltaire. — Bailly. 
375 


128 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


mind,  is  analogous  to  the  word  chance,  as  applied 
to  matter :  they  spring  from  an  ignorance  of  the 
certainty  of  the  conjunction  of  antecedents  and  con- 
sequents. 

Every  human  being  is  irresistibly  impelled  to  act 
precisely  as  he  does  act :  in  the  eternity  which  pre- 
ceded his  birth  a  chain  of  causes  was  generated, 
which,  operating  under  the  name  of  motives,  make 
it  impossible  that  any  thought  of  his  mind,  or  any 
action  of  his  life,  should  be  otherwise  than  it  is. 
Were  the  doctrine  of  Necessity  false,  the  human 
mind  would  no  longer  be  a  legitimate  object  of 
science ;  from  like  causes  it  would  be  in  vain  that 
we  should  expect  like  effects ;  the  strongest  motive 
would  no  longer  be  paramount  over  the  conduct ;  all 
knowledge  would  be  vague  and  undeterminate ;  we 
could  not  predict  with  any  certainty  that  we  might 
not  meet  as  an  enemy  to-morrow  him  with  whom  we 
have  parted  in  friendship  to-night ;  the  most  probable 
inducements  and  the  clearest  reasonings  would  lose 
the  invariable  influence  they  possess.  The  contrary 
of  this  is  demonstrably  the  fact.  Similar  circum 
stances  produce  the  same  unvariable  effects.  The 
precise  character  and  motives  of  any  man  on  any 
occasion  being  given,  the  moral  philosopher  could 
predict  his  action."  with  as  much  certainty  as  the 
natural  philosopher  could  predict  the  effects  of  the 
mixture  of  any  particular  chemical  substances.  Why 
is  the  aged  husbandman  more  experienced  than  the 
young  beginner?  Because  there  is  a  uniform,  unde- 
niable necessity  in  the  operations  of  the  material 
universe.  Why  is  the  old  statesman  more  skilful 
than  the  raw  politician?  Because,  relying  on  the 
necessary  conjunction  of  motive  and  action,  he  pro- 
ceeds to  produce  moral  effects,  by  the  application  of 
those  moral  causes  which  experience  has  shown  to 
be  effectual.  Some  actions  may  be  found  to  which 
we  can  attach  no  motives,  but  these  are  the  effects 
of  causes  with  which  we  are  unacquainted.  Hence 
the  relation  which  motive  bears  to  voluntary  action 
is  that  of  cause  to  effect ;  nor,  placed  in  this  point 
of  view,  is  it,  or  ever  has  it  been  the  subject  of 
popular  or  philosophical  dispute.  None  but  the  few- 
fanatics  who  are  engaged  in  the  herculean  task  of 
reconciling  the  justice  of  their  God  with  the  misery 
of  man,  will  longer  outrage  common  sense  by  the 
supposition  of  an  event  without  a  cause,  a  voluntary 
action  without  a  motive.  History,  politics,  morals, 
criticism,  all  grounds  of  reasonings,  all  principles  of 
science,  alike  assume  the  truth  of  the  doctrine  of 
Necessity.  No  farmer  carrying  his  corn  to  market 
doubts  the  sale  of  it  at  the  market  price.  The  master 
of  a  manufactory  no  more  doubts  that  he  can  pur- 
chase the  human  labor  necessary  for  his  purposes, 
than  that  his  machinery  will  act  as  it  has  been  ac- 
customed to  act. 

But,  whilst  none  have  scrupled  to  admit  necessity 
as  influencing  matter,  many  have  disputed  its  do- 
minion over  mind.  Independently  of  its  militating 
with  the  received  ideas  of  the  justice  of  God,  it  is 
by  no  means  obvious  to  a  superficial  inquiry.  When 
the  mind  observes  its  own  operations,  it  feels  no  con- 
nexion of  motive  and  action  :  but  as  we  know  "  no- 
thing more  of  causation  than  the  constant  conjunc- 
tion of  objects  and  the  consequent  inference  of  one 
from  the  other,  as  we  find  that  these  two  circum- 
stances are  universally  allowed  to  have  place  in  vol- 
untary action,  we  may  be  easily  led  to  own  that  they 
are  subjected  to  the  necessity  common  to  all  causes." 
The  actions  of  the  will  have  a  regular  conjunction 


with  circumstances  and  characters;  motive  i«,  to 
voluntary  action,  what  cause  is  to  effect.  But  the 
only  idea  we  can  form  of  causation  is  a  constant 
conjunction  of  similar  objects,  and  the  consequent 
inference  of  one  from  the  other:  wherever  this  is 
the  case,  necessity  is  clearly  established. 

The  idea  of  liberty,  applied  metaphorically  to  the 
will,  has  sprung  from  a  misconception  of  the  mean- 
ing of  the  word  power.  What  is  power  ? — id  quod 
potest,  that  which  can  produce  any  given  effect.  To 
deny  power,  is  to  say  that  nothing  can  or  has  the 
power  to  be  or  act  In  the  only  true  sense  of  the 
word  power,  it  applies  with  equal  force  to  the  load- 
stone as  to  the  human  will.  Do  you  think  these 
motives,  which  I  shall  present,  are  powerful  enough 
to  rouse  him?  is  a  question  just  as  common  as.  Do 
you  think  this  lever  has  the  power  of  raising  this 
weight  ?  The  advocates  of  free-will  assert  that  the 
will  has  the  power  of  refusing  to  be  determined  by 
the  strongest  motive  :  but  the  strongest  motive  is  that 
which,  overcoming  all  others,  ultimately  prevails  ; 
this  assertion  therefore  amounts  to  a  denial  of  the 
will  being  ultimately  determined  by  that  motive 
which  does  determine  it,  which  is  absurd.  But  it  is 
equally  certain  that  a  man  cannot  resist  the  strongest 
motive,  as  that  he  cannot  overcome  a  physical  im- 
possibility. 

The  doctrine  of  Necessity  tends  to  introduce  a 
great  change  into  the  established  notions  of  morality, 
and  utterly  to  destroy  religion.  Reward  and  punish- 
ment must  be  considered,  by  the  Necessarian,  merely 
as  motives  which  he  would  employ  in  order  to  pro- 
cure the  adoption  or  abandonment  of  any  given  hne 
of  conduct.  Desert,  in  the  present  sense  of  the  word, 
would  no  longer  have  any  meaning ;  and  he,  who 
should  inflict  pain  upon  another  for  no  better  reason 
than  that  he  deserved  it,  would  only  gratify  his  re- 
venge under  pretence  of  satisfying  justice.  It  is  not 
enough,  says  the  advocate  of  free-will,  that  a  crim- 
inal should  be  prevented  from  a  repetition  of  his 
crimes  :  he  should  feel  pain,  and  his  torments,  when 
justly  infhcted,  ought  precisely  to  be  proportioned  to 
his  fault.  But  utility  is  morality ;  that  which  is  in- 
capable of  producing  happiness  is  useless;  and  though 
the  crime  of  Damiens  must  be  condemned,  yet  the 
frightful  torments  which  revenge,  under  the  name 
of  justice,  inflicted  on  this  unhappy  man,  camiot  be 
supposed  to  have  augmented,  even  at  the  long-run, 
the  stock  of  pleasurable  sensation  in  the  world.  At 
the  same  time,  the  doctrine  of  Necessity  does  not  in 
the  least  diminish  our  disapprobation  of  vice.  The 
conviction  which  all  feel,  that  a  viper  is  a  poisonous 
animal,  and  that  a  tiger  is  constrained,  by  the  inevi- 
table condition  of  his  existence,  to  devour  men,  does 
not  induce  us  to  avoid  them  less  sedulously,  or,  even 
more,  to  hesitate  in  destroying  them :  but  he  would 
surely  be  of  a  hard  heart,  who,  meeting  with  a  ser- 
pent on  a  desert  island,  or  in  a  situation  where  it 
was  incapable  of  injury,  should  wantonly  deprive  it 
of  existence.  A  Necessarian  is  inconsequent  to  his 
own  principles,  if  he  indulges  in  hatred  or  contempt ; 
the  compassion  which  he  feels  for  the  criminal,  is 
unmixed  with  a  desire  of  injuring  him ;  he  looks 
with  an  elevated  and  dreadless  composure  upon  the 
links  of  the  universal  chain  as  they  pass  before  his 
eyes ;  whilst  cowardice,  curiosity  and  inconsistency 
only  assail  him  in  proportion  to  the  feebleness  and 
indistinctness  with  which  he  has  perceived  and  re- 
jected the  delusions  of  free-will. 

Religion  is  the  perception  of  the  relation  in  which 
376 


QUEEN  MAB. 


129 


we  stand  to  the  principle  of  the  universe.  But  if  the 
principle  of  the  universe  be  not  an  organic  being,  the 
model  and  prototj'pe  of  man,  the  relation  between  it 
and  human  beings  is  absolutely  none.  Without  some 
insight  into  its  will  respecting  our  actions,  religion  is 
nugatory  and  vain.  But  will  is  only  a  mode  of  animal 
mind  ;  moral  qualities  also  are  such  as  only  a  human 
being  can  ptissess ;  to  attribute  them  to  the  principle 
of  the  universe,  is  to  annex  to  it  properties  incom- 


Note  13,  page  117,  col.  1. 
There  is  no  God  ! 
This  negation  must  be  understood  solely  to  aflect  a 
creative  Deity.  The  hypothesis  of  a  pervading  Spirit 
coelernal  with  the  universe,  remains  unshaken. 

A  close  examination  of  the  validity  of  the  proofs 
adduced  to  support  my  proposition,  is  the  only  secure 
way  of  attaining  truth,  on  the  advantages  of  which 
it  is  unnecessary  to  descant :  our  knowledge  of  the 


patible  with  any  possible  definition  of  il.s  nature.  It  existence  of  a  Deity  is  a  subject  of  such  imfwrtance, 
is  probable  that  the  word  God  was  originally  only  an  j  that  it  cannot  be  too  minutely  investigated ;  in  con- 
expression  denoting  the  unknown  cause  of  the  known '  sequence  of  this  conviction,  we  proceed  briefly  and 


events  which  men  perceived  in  the  universe.  By  the 
vulgar  mistake  of  a  metaphor  for  a  real  being,  of  a 
word  for  a  thing,  it  became  a  man,  endowed  with 
human  qualities  and  governing  tlie  universe  as  an 
earthly  monarch  governs  his  kingdom.  Their  ad- 
dresses to  this  imaginary  being,  indeed,  are  much  in 
the  same  style  as  those  of  subjects  to  a  king.  They 
acknowledge  his  benevolence,  deprecate  his  anger, 
and  supplicate  his  favor. 

But  the  doctrine  of  Necessity  teaches  us,  that  in 
no  case  could  any  event  have  happened  otherwise 
than  it  did  happen,  and  that,  if  God  is  the  author  of 
good,  he  is  also  the  author  of  evil ;  that,  if  he  is  en- 
titled to  our  gratitude  for  the  one,  he  is  entitled  to 
our  hatred  for  the  other;  that,  admitting  the  existence 
of  this  hypothetic  being,  he  is  also  subjected  to  the 
dominion  of  an  immutable  necessity.    It  is  plain  that 


impartially  to  examine  the  proofs  which  ha'e  been 
adduced.  It  is  necessary  first  to  consider  the  nature 
of  belief 

When  a  proposition  is  offered  to  the  mind,  it  per- 
ceives the  agreement  or  disagreement  of  the  ideas  of 
which  it  is  composed.  A  perception  of  their  agree- 
ment is  termed  belief.  Many  obstacles  frequently 
prevent  this  perception  from  being  immediate ;  these 
the  mind  attempts  to  remove,  in  order  that  (he  per- 
ception may  be  distinct.  The  mind  is  active  in  the 
investigation,  in  order  to  perfect  the  state  of  percep- 
tion of  the  relation  which  the  component  ideas  of 
the  proposition  bear  to  each,  which  is  passive  :  the 
investigation  being  confused  with  the  perception^  has 
induced  many  falsely  to  imagine  that  the  mind  is 
active  in  belief, — that  belief  is  an  act  of  volition,— 
in  consequence  of  which  it  may  be  regulated  by  the 


the  same  arguments  which  prove  that  God  is  the  mind.  Pursuing,  continuing  this  mistake,  they  have 
author  of  food,  light,  and  life,  prove  him  also  to  be '  attached  a  degree  of  criminality  to  disbelief;  of 
the  author  of  poison,  darkness,  and  death.  The  wide- :  which,  in  its  nature,  it  is  incapable  :  it  is  equally  in- 
wasting  earthquake,  the  storm,  the  battle,  and  the '  capable  of  merit. 


tyranny,  are  attributable  to  this  hypothetic  bein 
the  same  degree  as  the  fairest  forms  of  nature,  sun- 
shine, liberty,  and  peace. 

But  we  are  taught,  by  the  doctrine  of  Necessity, 
that  there  is  neither  good  nor  evil  in  the  universe, 
otherwise  than  as  the  event.s  lo  which  we  apply 
these  epithets  have  relation  to  our  own  peculiar  mode 
of  being.  Still  less  than  w'ith  the  hypothesis  of  a 
God,  will  the  doctrine  of  Necessity  accord  with  the 


Belief,  then,  is  a  passion,  the  strength  of  which, 
like  every  other  passion,  is  in  precise  proportion  to 
the  degrees  of  excitement. 

The  degrees  of  excitement  are  three. 

The  senses  are  the  sources  of  all  knowledge  to 
the  mind ;  conseqiiently  their  evidence  claims  the 
strongest  assent. 

The  decision  of  the  mind,  founded  upon  our  own 
experience,  derived  from  these  sources,  claims  the 


belief  of  a  future  state  of  punishment.    God  made  next  degree. 

man  such  as  he  is,  and  then  damned  him  for  being       The  experience  of  others,  which  addresses  itself  to 

so;  for  to  say  that  God  was  the  author  of  all  good,   the  former  one,  occupies  the  lowest  degree. 


and  man  the  author  of  all  evil,  is  to  say  that  one 
man  made  a  straight  line  and  a  crooked  one,  and  an- 
other man  made  the  incongruity. 

A  Mahometan  story,  much  to  the  present  purpose, 
is  recorded,  wherein  Adam  and  Moses  are  introduced 
disputing  before  God  in  the  following  manner.  Thou, 
says  Moses,  art  Adam,  whom  God  created  and  ani- 
mated with  the  breath  of  life,  and  caused  to  be  wor- 
shipped by  the  angels,  and  placed  in  Paradise,  from 
whence  mankind  have  been  expelled  for  thy  fault. 
Whereto  Adam  answered.  Thou  art  Moses,  whom 
God  chose  for  his  apostle,  and  intrusted  with  his 
word,  by  giving  thee  the  tables  of  the  law.  and  whom 
he  vouchsafed  to  admit  to  discourse  with  himself 
How  many  years  dost  thou  find  the  law  was  written 
before  I  was  created  ?  Says  Moses,  Forty.  And  dost 
thou  not  find,  replied  Adam,  the.«e  words  therein, 
And  Adam  rebelled  against  his  Lord  and  transgress- 
ed ?  Which  Moses  confessing.  Dost  thou  therefore 
blame  me,  continued  he,  for  doing  that  which  God 
wrote  of  me  that  I  should  do,  forty  years  before  I 
was  created ;  nay,  for  what  was  decreed  concerning 
me  fifty  thousand  years  before  the  creation  of  heaven 
and  earth  ? — Sale's  Prelim.  Disc,  to  tfie  Koran,  page 
164. 

2X 


(A  graduated  scale,  on  which  should  be  marked 
the  capabilities  of  propositions  to  approach  to  the  test 
of  the  senses,  would  be  a  just  barometer  of  the  belief 
which  ought  to  be  attached  to  them.) 

Consequently  no  testimony  can  be  admitted  which 
is  contrary  to  reason ;  reason  is  foimded  on  the  evi- 
dence of  our  senses. 

Every  proof  may  be  referred  to  one  of  these  three 
divisions :  it  is  to  be  considered  what  arguments  we 
receive  from  each  of  them,  which  should  convince  us 
of  the  existence  of  a  Deity. 

1st.  The  evidence  of  the  senses.  If  the  Dcitj'  should 
appear  to  us,  if  he  should  convince  our  senses  of  his 
existence,  this  revelation  would  necessarily  command 
belief  Those  lo  whom  the  Deity  has  thus  appeared 
have  the  strongest  possible  conviction  of  his  existence. 
But  the  God  of  Theologians  is  incapable  of  local  visi- 
bihty. 

2d.  Reason.  It  is  urged  that  man  knows  that  what- 
ever is,  must  either  have  had  a  beginning,  or  have 
existed  from  all  eternity :  he  also  knows,  that  what- 
ever is  not  eternal  must  have  had  a  cause.  When 
this  reasoning  is  applied  to  the  universe,  it  is  necessary 
to  prove  that  it  was  created :  imtil  that  is  clearly 
demonstrated,  we  may  reasonably  suppose  that  il  hai 
377 


130 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


endured  from  all  eternity.  We  must  prove  design 
before  we  can  infer  a  designer.  The  only  idea  which 
we  can  form  of  causation  is  derivable  from  the 
constant  conjunction  of  objects,  and  the  consequent 
inference  of  one  from  the  other.  In  a  case  where  two 
propositions  are  diametrically  opposite,  the  mind 
believes  that  which  is  least  incomprehensible ; — it 
is  easier  to  suppose  that  the  universe  has  existed  from 
all  eternity,  than  to  conceive  a  being  beyond  its  limits 
capable  of  creating  it :  if  the  mind  sinks  beneath  the 
weight  of  one,  is  it  an  alleviation  to  increase  the  in- 
tolerabilily  of  the  burthen  ? 

The  other  argument,  which  is  founded  on  a  man's 
knowledge  of  his  own  existence,  stands  thus.  A  man 
knows  not  only  that  he  now  is,  but  that  once  he  was 
not ;  consequently  there  must  have  been  a  cause.  But 
our  idea  of  causation  is  alone  derivable  from  the  con- 
stant conjunction  of  objects  and  the  consequent  infer- 
ence of  one  from  the  other ;  and,  reasoning  experi- 
mentally, we  can  only  infer  from  effects,  causes  ex- 
actly adequate  to  those  effects.  But  there  certainly 
is  a  generative  power  which  is  effected  by  certain 
instruments :  we  carmot  prove  that  it  is  inherent  in 
these  instruments ;  nor  is  the  contrary  hypothesis  ca- 
pable of  demonstration:  we  admit  that  the  generative 
power  is  incomprehensible ;  but  to  suppose  that  the 
same  effect  is  produced  by  an  eternal,  omniscient, 
omnipotent,  being,  leaves  the  cause  in  the  same  ob- 
scurity, but  renders  it  more  incomprehensible. 

3d.  Testimony.  It  is  required  that  testimony  should 
not  be  contrary  to  reason.  The  testimony  that  the 
Deity  convinces  the  senses  of  men  of  his  existence 
can  only  be  admitted  by  us,  if  our  mind  considers  it 
less  probable  that  these  men  should  have  been  de- 
ceived, than  that  the  Deity  should  have  appeared  to 
them.  Our  reason  can  never  admit  tlie  testimony  of 
men,  who  not  only  declare  that  they  were  eye-wit- 
nesses of  miracles,  but  that  the  Deity  was  irrational  ; 
for  he  commanded  that  he  should  be  believed,  he 
proposed  the  highest  rewards  for  faith,  eternal  punish- 
nient-s  for  disbelief  We  can  only  command  vol- 
untary actions ;  belief  is  not  an  act  of  volition ;  the 
mind  is  e\en  passive,  or  involuntarily  active :  from 
this  it  is  evident  that  we  have  no  sufficient  testimony, 
or  rather  that  testimony  is  insufficient  to  prove  the 
being  of  a  God.  It  lias  been  before  shown  that  it 
cannot  be  deduced  from  reason.  They  alone,  then, 
who  have  been  convinced  by  the  evidence  of  the 
senses,  can  belieye  it. 

Hence  it  is  evident  that,  having  no  proofs  from  either 
of  the  three  sources  of  conviction,  the  mind  cannot 
believe  the  existence  of  a  creative,  God  :  it  is  also 
evident,  that,  as  belief  is  a  passion  of  the  mind,  no 
degree  of  criminality  is  attachable  to  disbelief;  and 
that  they  only  are  reprehensible  who  neglect  to  re- 
move the  false  medium  through  which  their  mind 
views  any  subject  of  discussion.  Every  reflecting 
mind  must  acluiowledge  that  there  is  no  proof  of  the 
existence  of  a  Deity. 

God  is  an  hypothesis,  and,  as  such,  stands  in  need 
of  proof:  the  onus  probandi  rests  on  the  theist.  Sir 
Isaac  Newton  says  :  "  Hypotheses  non  fingo,  quicquid 
enim  ex  phaBuomenis  non  deducitur,  hypothesis  vo- 
canda  est,  ct  hypothesis  vel  meta  physicae,  vel  physicae, 
vel  qualitatum  occullarum,  seu  mechanica;,  in  philo- 
sophia  locum  non  habent.''  To  all  proofs  of  the 
existence  of  a  creative  God  apply  this  valuable  rule. 
We  see  a  variety  of  bodies  possessing  a  variety  of 


powers :  we  merely  know  their  effects ;  we  are  in  a 
state  of  ignorance  with  respect  to  their  essences  and 
causes.  These  Newton  calls  the  phenomena  of  things; 
but  the  pride  of  philosophy  is  unwilling  to  admit  its 
ignorance  of  their  causes.  From  the  phenomena, 
whicli  are  the  objects  of  our  senses,  we  attempt  to 
infer  a  cause,  which  we  call  God,  and  gratuitously 
endow  it  \\\\\\  all  negative  and  contradictory  qualities. 
From  this  hypothesis  we  invent  this  general  name,  to 
conceal  our  ignorance  of  causes  and  essences.  The 
being  called  God  by  no  means  answers  with  the  con- 
ditions prescribed  by  Newton ;  it  bears  every  mark 
of  a  veil  woven  by  philosophical  conceit,  to  hide  the 
ignorance  of  philosophers  even  from  themselves. 
They  borrow  the  threads  of  its  texture  from  the  an- 
thropomorphism of  the  vulgar.  Words  have  been 
used  by  sophists  for  the  same  purposes,  from  the 
occult  qualities  of  the  peripatetics  to  the  effluvium  of 
Boyle  and  tlie  crinities  or  nchula  of  Herschel.  God  is 
represented  as  infinite,  eternal,  incomprehensible  ;  he 
is  contained  under  every  predicate  in  non  that  the 
logic  of  ignorance  could~ fabricate.  Even  his  wor- 
shippers allow  that  it  is  impossible  to  form  any  idea 
of  him :  they  exclaim  with  the  French  poet. 

Pour  dire  ce  qu'il  est,  il  faut  etre  lui-meme. 

Lord  Bacon  says,  that  "  atheism  leaves  to  man 
reason,  philosophy,  natural  piety,  laws,  reputation, 
and  every  thing  that  can  serve  to  conduct  him  to 
virtue ;  but  superstition  destroys  all  these,  and  erects 
itself  into  a  tyranny  over  the  understandings  of  men: 
hence  atheism  never  disturbs  the  government,  but 
renders  man  more  clear-sighted,  since  he  sees  nothing 
be)ond  the  boundaries  of  the  present  life." — Bacon's 
Moral  Essays. 

La  premiere  theologie  de  I'homme  lui  fit  d'abord 
craindre  et  adorer  les  elements  meme,  des  objets  mate- 
riels  et  grossiers  ;  il  rendit  ensuite  ses  hommages  a  des 
agents  presidents  aux  elements,  a  des  genies  inferieurs, 
k  des  heros,  ou  a  des  liommes  doues  de  grandes  qua- 
liles.  A  force  de  reflechir,  il  crut  simplifier  les  clioses 
en  soumettantla  nature  entiere  a  un  seul  agent,  a  un 
esprit,  a  une  ame  universelle,  qui  mettoit  cette  nature 
et  ses  parties  en  mouvement.  En  remontant  des  causes 
en  causes,  les  niortels  out  fini  par  ne  rien  voir;  et  c'est 
dans  cette  obscurite  qu'ils  out  place  leurDieu;  c'est 
dans  cet  abyme  tencbreux  que  leur  imagination  in- 
quiete  travaille  toujours  a  se  fabriquer  des  chimeres, 
qui  les  affligeront  jusqu'a  ce  que  la  connoissance  de 
la  nature  les  detrompe  des  fantomes  qu'ils  ont  toujours 
si  vainement  adores. 

Si  nous  voulons  nous  rendre  compte  de  nos  idees  sur 
la  Diviuite,  nous  serous  obliges  de  convenir  que,  par  le 
mot  Dku,  les  homines  n'onl  jamais  pu  designer  que 
la  cause  la  plus  cachee,  la  plus  eloignee,  la  plus  incon- 
nue  des  effets  qu'ils  voyoient :  ils  ne  font  usage  de  ce 
mot,  que  lorsque  le  jeu  des  causes  naturelles  et  con- 
nues  cesse  d'etre  visible  pour  eux ;  des  qu'ils  perdent 
le  fil  de  ces  causes,  ou  des  que  leur  esprit  ne  pent 
plus  en  suivre  la  chaine,  ils  tranchent  leur  difficulte, 
et  termincnt  leur  recherches  en  appellant  Dieu  la 
derniere  des  causes,  c'est-a-dire  celle  qui  est  au-dela 
de  toutes  les  causes  qu'ils  connoissent ;  ainsi  ils  ne  font 
qu"assigner  ime  denomination  vague  k  une  cause 
ignoree,  a  laquelle  leur  paresse  ou  les  homes  de  leurs 
connoissances  les  forcent  de  s'arreter.  Toutes  les  fois 
qu'on  nous  dit  que  Dieu  est  I'auteur  de  quelque  phe- 
nomene,  cela  signifie  qu'on  ignore  comment  mi  tel 
378 


QUEEN  MAB. 


131 


])henoraene  a  pu  s'operer  par  le  secours  des  forces  ou 
des  causes  que  nous  connoissons  dans  la  nature.  C'est 
ainsi  que  le  comuiun  des  liommes,  dont  Fignorance 
est  le  partage,  attribue  a  la  Divinite  non  seulement 
les  effets  inusiies  qui  les  frappent,  mais  encore  Iqs 
evenemens  les  plus  simples,  dont  les  causes  sont  les 
plus  faciles  a.  connoUre  pour  quiconque  a  pu  les  me- 
diler.  En  un  mot,  riiomme  a  toujours  respecte  les 
causes  inconnues  des  efl'els  surprenan.^,  (jue  son  igno- 
rance rcinpeelioit  de  denieler.  Ce  I'ut  sur  Ics  debuts 
de  la  nature  que  les  liommes  eleverent  le  colosse 
imaginaire  de  la  Divinite. 

Si  I'ignorance  de  la  nature  donna  la  naissance  aux 
dicux,  la  connoissance  de  la  nature  est  faite  pour  les 
deiruire.  'A  mesiire  que  I'homme  s'instruit,  ses  forces 
et  ses  ressources  augmentent  avec  ses  lumicres ;  les 
sciences,  les  arts  conservateurs,  I'industrie,  lui  four- 
nissent  des  secours ;  Texperience  le  rassure  ou  lui 
procure  des  moyens  de  resisler  aux  efforts  de  bien 
des  causes  qui  cessent  de  I'alarmer  des  qu'il  les  a 
connues.  En  un  mot,  ses  terreurs  se  dissipent  dans 
la  meme  proportion  que  son  esprit  s'eclaire.  L'homme 
jnstruit  cesse  d'etre  supwstilieux. 

Ce  n'est  jamais  que  sur  parole  que  des  peuples 
cntiers  adorent  le  Dieu  de  leurs  peres  et  de  leurs 
prelres;  I'autorite,  la  confiance,  la  soumission,  et 
I'habitude,  leur  tiennent  lieu  de  conviction  et  de  preu- 
vcs  ;  ils  se  prosternent  et  prient,  parce  que  leurs  peres 
leur  out  appris  a  se  prosterner  et  prier  :  mais  pourquoi 
ceux-ci  se  sont-ils  mis  a  genoux  ?  C'est  que  dans  les 
temps  eloignes  leurs  Icgislateurs  et  leurs  guides  leur 
en  out  fait  uu  devoir.  "  Adorez  et  croyez,"  ont-ils 
dit,  "  des  dieux  que  vous  ne  pouvez  comprendre  ;  rap- 
portez-vous  en  a.  notre  sagesse  profonde  ;  nous  en  Sa- 
vons plus  que  vous  sur  la  Divimte."  Mais  pourquoi 
m  en  rapporterois-je  i  vous  ?  C'est  que  Dieu  le  veut 
ainsi,  c'est  que  Dieu  vous  punira  si  vous  osez  resister. 
Mais  ce  Dieu  n'est-il  done  pas  la  chose  en  question  ? 
Cependant  les  homraes  se  soni  toujours  payes  de  cc 
cercle  vicieux;  la  paresse  de  leur  esprit  leur  fit 
Irouver  plus  court  de  s'en  rapporter  au  jugement  des 
autres.  Toutes  les  notions  religieuses  sont  fondees 
uniquement  sur  I'autorite  ;  toutes  les  religions  du 
monde  defendent  I'examen  et  ne  veulentpas  que  Ton 
raisonne;  c'est  I'autorite  qui  veut  qu'on  croye  en 
Dieu  ;  ce  Dieu  n'est  lui-meme  fonde  que  sur  I'autorite, 
de  quelques  hommes  qui  pretcnJent  le  connoitre,  et 
venir  de  sa  part  pour  I'annoneer  ii.  la  terre.  Un  Dieu 
fait  par  les  homraes,  a  sans  doute  besoin  des  hommes 
pour  se  faire  connoitre  aux  hommes. 

IVc  .seroit-ce  done  que  pour  des  pretres,  des  inspires, 
des  metaphysiciens  que  seroit  reservee  la  conviction 
de  I'existcnce  d'un  Dieu,  que  Ton  dit  ncanmoins  si 
necessaire  a  tout  le  genre  humain  ?  Mais  trouvons- 
nous  de  I'harmonie  entre  les  opinions  theologiques 
des  diflerens  iaspires,  ou  des  penseurs  repandus  sur 
la  terre  ?  Ceux  memps  qui  font  profession  d'adorer  le 
meme  Dieu,  sont-ils  d'accord  sur  son  cotnpte  ?  Sont- 
ils  contents  des  preuves  que  leurs  collegucs  apportent 
de  son  existence  ?  Souscrivent-ils  unanimement  aux 
idees  qui'ils  i)resontcnt  sur  sa  nature,  sur  sa  conduite, 
sur  la  iiiron  d'eniendre  ses  pretendus  oracles  ?  Est-il 
une  coniree  sur  la  terre,  ou  la  science  de  Dieu  se 
soit  reellement  perfeciionn6e?  A-t-elle  pris  quelque 
purt  la  consistance  et  I'uniformite  que  nous  voyons 
prendre  aux  connoissances  humaines,  aux  arts  les  plus 
futiles,  aux  metiers  les  plus  meprises  ?  Des  mots  d'es- 
prit,  d'immaUrialifi,  de  eriation,  de  pridestinalion, 


de  grace ;  cette  foule  de  distinctions  subfiles  dont  la 
theologie  s'cst  partouf  remplio  dans  quelques  pays, 
ces  inventions  si  ingcnieuscs,  imaginees  par  des  pen- 
seurs qui  se  sont  succedes  dcpuis  tanl  de  siecles, 
n'ont  fait,  helas  !  qu'embrouiller  les  choses,  et  jamais 
la  science  la  plus  necessaire  aux  honuncs  n'a  jus- 
qu'ici  pu  aixjuerir  la  moindre  lixile.  Depuis  des  mil 
liers  d'annees,  ces  reveurs  oisii.s  se  sont  pcrpetuelle- 
ment  relayes  pour  mediter  la  Divinite,  pourdcvinerses 
voies  cachees,  pour  invenler  des  hypotheses  proprcs 
u  developper  cetie  enigme  imporlante.  Leur  peu  de 
succesn'a  point  decourage  la  vanite  theologique  ;  tou- 
jours on  a  parle  de  Dieu :  on  s'est  egorge  pour  lui, 
et  cet  etre  sublime  demeure  toujours  le  plus  ignore 
et  le  plus  discute. 

Les  homntes  auroient  ete  trop  heurcux,  si,  se  bor- 
nant  aux  objets  visibles  qui  les  intere.ssent,  ils  eu3 
sent  employe  a  perfeclionner  leurs  sciences  reelles, 
leurs  lois,  leur  morale,  leur  education,  la  moitie  des 
efforts  qu'ils  ont  mis  dans  leurs  reeherches  sur  la  Di- 
vinite. lis  auroient  ete  bien  plus  sages  encore,  et 
plus  fortunes,  s'ils  eussent  pu  con.sentir  a  laisser  leurs 
guides  desoeuvres  se  quereller  entre  cux,  ct  sender 
des  profondeurs  capables  de  les  eiourdir,  sans  se  mS- 
ler  de  leurs  disputes  insensees.  Mais  il  est  de  I'es- 
sence  de  I'ignorance  d'attacher  de  I'importance  a,  ce 
qu'elle  ne  comprends  pas.  La  vanite  humaine  fait  que 
I'esprit  se  roidit  contre  les  diflicuUes.  Plus  un  ob- 
jet  se  dsrobe  a  nos  yeux,  plus  nous  faisons  d'efforts 
pour  le  saisir,  parceque  des-lors  il  aiguillonne  notre 
orgueil,  il  excite  notre  curiosite,  il  nous  paroit  inler- 
essant.  En  combatlant  pour  son  Dieu  chacun  ne 
combattit  en  effet  que  pour  les  interets  de  sa  propre 
vanite,  qui  de  toutes  les  passions  produits  par  la  mal 
organisation  de  la  society,  est  la  plus  prompte  a  s'alar- 
mer,  et  la  plus  propre  a  produire  de  tres  grandes  folies. 

Si  ecartant  pour  un  moment  les  idees  fachcuses 
que  la  theologie  nous  donne  d'un  Dieu  capricieux, 
dont  les  decrels  partiaux  et  despotiques  decideat  du 
sort  des  humains,  nous  ne  voulons  fixer  nos  yeux  que 
sur  la  bonte  pretendue,  que  tous  les  hommes,  meme 
en  tremblant  devant  ce  Dieu,  s'accordent  a  lui  don- 
ncr ;  si  nous  lui  supposons  le  projet  qu'on  lui  prete, 
de  n'a  voir  travaiHe  que  pour  sa  propre  gloire ;  d'exi- 
gcr  les  hommages  des  etres  intelligens  ;  de  ne  cher- 
cher  dans  ses  ceuvres  que  le  bien-etre  du  genre  hu- 
inain ;  comment  concilier  ses  vues  et  ses  dispositions 
avec  I'ignorance  vraiment  invincible  dans  la(]uelle 
ce  Dieu,  si  glorieux  et  si  bon,  laisse  la  plujiart  des 
hommes  sur  son  compte  ?  Si  Dieu  veut  etre  connu, 
cheri,  remercie,  que  ne  se  monlre-f-il  sous  des  traits 
favorables  a  tous  ces  etres  intelligens  dont  il  veut 
Stre  aime  et  adore  ?  Pourquoi  ne  point  se  manifebter 
a  toute  la  terre  d'une  fifon  non  equivoque,  bien  plus 
cajiable  de  nous  convaincre,  que  ces  revelations  piir- 
ticuliercs  qui  semblent  accuser  la  Divinite  d'une  par- 
tialiie  facheuse  pour  quelques  unes  de  ses  creatures  ? 
Lc  Tout-Puissant  n'auroit-il  done  pas  dis  moyens 
plus  convainquans  de  se  monlrer  aux  hommes  que 
CCS  metamorphoses  ridicules,  ces  incarnations  pre- 
tendues,  qui  nous  sont  atlestecs  par  des  ecrivains  si 
peu  d'accord  entre  eux  dans  les  recits  qu'ils  en  font  ? 
Au  lieu  de  fant  de  miracles  inventus  pour  prouver 
la  mission  divine  de  tant  de  Icgislateiu's  reveres  par 
les  differens  peuples  du  monde,  le  souvcrain  des  es- 
prits  ne  pouvoit-il  pas  convaincre  tout  d'un  coup  I'es- 
prit humain  des  choses  qu'il  a  voulu  lui  faire  comioi- 
tre  ?  Au  lieu  de  suspeijdre  un  soleil  dans  la  voiite  du  . 
37a 


132 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


firmament ;  au  lieu  de  repandre  sans  ordre  les  etoiles 
et  les  constellations  qui  reraplissent  I'espace,  n'eut-il 
pas  ete  plus  conforme  aux  vues  d'un  Dieu  jaloux  de 
sa  gloire  et  si  bien  intentionn6  pour  Thomme,  d'ecrire 
d'une  fa9on  non  sujette  a  dispute,  son  nom,  ses  attri- 
buts,  ses  volontes  permanentes  en  caracteres  ineffaca- 
bles  et  lisible  egalement  pour  tons  les  habitans  de  la 
terre  ?  Personne  alors  n'auroit  pu  douter  de  I'exis- 
tence  d'un  Dieu,  de  ses  volontes  claires,  de  ses  in- 
tentions visibles.  Sous  les  yeux  de  ce  Dieu  si  terri- 
ble persorme  n'auroit  eu  I'audace  de  violer  ses  or- 
donnances  ;  nul  mortel  n'eilt  ose  se  mettre  dans  le 
cas  d'attirer  sa  colere  ;  enfin  nul  homrae  n'eut  eu  le 
front  d'en  imposer  en  son  nom,  ou  d'interpreter  ses 
volontes  suivant  ses  propres  fantaisies. 

En  effet,  quand  meme  on  admettroit  I'existence  du 
Dieu  theologique,  et  la  realite  des  attributs  si  discor- 
dans  qu'on  lui  donne,  Ton  ne  pent  en  rien  conclure, 
pourautoriser  la  conduite  ou  les  cultes  qu'on  present 
de  lui  rendre.  La  theologie  est  vraiment  le  tonneau 
des  Danaides.    A  force  de  qualites  contradictoires  et 


preconceptions  of  the  simob.  Had  this  author,  mstead 
of  inveighing  against  the  guilt  and  absurdity  of  athe- 
ism, demonstrated  its  falsehood,  his  conduct  would 
have  been  more  suited  to  the  modesty  of  the  sceptic 
and  the  toleration  of  the  philosopher. 

Omnia  enim  per  Dei  potentiam  facta  sunt:  irao, 
quia  natura  potentia  nulla  est  nisi  ipsa  Dei  potentia, 
artem  est  nos  catemus  Dei  potentiam  non  intelligere, 
quatenus  causas  naturales  ignoramus  ;  adeoque  stulte 
ad  eandem  Dei  potentiam  recurritur,  quando  rei  ali 
cujus,  causam  naturalem,  sive  est,  ipsam  Dei  poten- 
tiam ignoramus. — Spinosa,  Tract.  Theologico-Pol. 
chap.  i.  page  14. 

Note  14,  page  117,  col.  2. 
AhasueruB,  ilse ! 

"  Ahasuerus  the  Jew  crept  forth  from  the  dark 
cave  of  Mount  Carmel.  Near  two  thousand  years 
have  elapsed  since  he  was  first  goaded  by  never-end- 
ing restlessness  to  rove  the  globe  from  pole  to  pole. 


d'assertions  hasardees,  elle  a,  pour  ainsi  dire,  telle-  When  our  Lord  was  wearied  with  the  burthen  of 


ment  garote  son  Dieu  qu'elle  I'a  mis  dans  I'impossi- 
bilite  d'agir.  S'il  est  infinirnent  bon,  qu'elle  raison 
aurions  nous  de  le  craindre  ?  S'il  est  infinirnent  sage, 
de  quoi  nous  inquieter  sur  notre  sort  ?  S'il  salt  tout, 
poarquoi  I'avertir  de  nos  besoins,  et  le  fatiguer  de  nos 
prieres?  S'il  estpartout,  pourquoi  lui  elever  des  tem- 
ples? S'il  est  maitre  de  tout,  pourquoi  lui  faire  des 
sacrifices  et  des  oflfrandes  ?  S'il  est  juste,  comment 
croire  qu'il  punisse  des  creatures  qu'il  a  remplies  de 
foiblesses  ?  Si  la  grace  fait  tout  en  elles,  quelle  raison 
auroit-ildelesrecompenser?  S'il  est  tout-puissant,  com- 
ment I'offenser,  comment  lui  resister  ?  S'il  est  raison- 
nable, comment  semetlroit-il  en  colere  contre  de&aveu- 
gles,  a  qui  il  a  laisse  la  liberie  de  deraisonner !  S'il 
est  immuable,  de  quel  droit  pretendrions-nous  faire 
changer  ses  decrets  ?  S'il  est  inconcevable,  pourquoi 
nous  en  occuper  ?  S'il  a  parle,  pourquoi  l'Uni- 
VERS  n'est-ii.  pas  coiNVAiNCU  ?  Si  la  connoissance 
d'un  Dieu  est  la  plus  necessaire,  pourquoi  n'est-elle 
pas  la  plus  evidente,  et  la  plus  claire  ? — Systhne  de 
la  Nature.  London,  1781. 

The  enlightened  and  benevolent  Pliny  thus  pub- 
licly professes  himself  an  atheist : — Quapropter  effi- 
giem  Dei,  formamque  quEcrere,  imbecillitatis  human® 
reor.  Quisquis  est  Deus  (si  modo  est  alius)  et  qua- 
cunque  in  parte,  totus  est  sensus,  totus  est  visus,  totus 
auditus,  totus  animag,  totus  animi,  totus  sui.  *  *  * 
Jmperfectae  vero  in  homine  naturag  prsecipua  solatia 
ne  deum  quidem  posse  omnia.  Namque  nee  sibi  po- 
test mortem  consciscere,  si  velit,  quod  homini  dedit 
optimum  in  tantis  vita  poenis :  nee  mortales  a^ternitate 
donare,  aut  revocare  defunctos;  me  facere  ut  qui 
vixit  non  vixerit,  qui  honores  gessit  non  gesserit,  nul- 
lumque  habere  in  praiteritum  jus,  praeterquam  oblivi- 
onis,  atque  ut  facetis  quoque  argumentis  societas  hsc 
cum  deo  copuletur,  ut  bis  dena  viginta  non  shit,  et 
multa  similiter  efficere  non  posse. — Per  quae,  decla- 
ratur  haud  dubie,  naturae  potentiam  id  quoque  esse, 
quod  Deum  vocamus. — Plin.  A'd^  Hist.  cap.  de  Deo. 
The  consistent  Newtonian  is  necessarily  an  atheist. 

,  See  Sir  W.  Drummond's  Academical  Questions,  chap. 
iii. — Sir  W.  seems  to  consider  the  atheism  to  which 
it  leads,  as  a  sufficient  presumption  of  the  falsehood 
of  the  system  of  gravitation :  but  surely  it  is  more 
consistent  with  the  good  faith  of  philosophy  to  admit 
a  deduction  from  facts  than  an  hypothesis  incapable 

■  of  proof  although  it  might  militate  with  the  oWinate 


his  ponderous  cress,  and  wanted  to  rest  before  the 
door  of  Ahasuerus,  the  unfeeling  wretch  drove  him 
away  with  brutality.  The  Savior  of  mankind  stag- 
gered, sinking  under  the  heavy  load,  but  uttered  no 
complaint.  An  angel  of  death  appeared  before  Aha- 
suerus, and  exclaimed  indignantly, '  Barbarian  !  thou 
hast  denied  rest  to  the  Son  of  Man :  be  it  denied  thee 
also,  until  he  conies  to  judge  the  world.' 

"  A  black  demon,  let  loose  from  hell  upon  Ahasu 
erus,  goads  him  now  from  country  to  country :  he  is 
denied  tlie  consolation  which  death  aflbrds,  and  pre- 
cluded from  the  rest  of  the  peaceful  grave. 

"  Ahasuerus  crept  forth  from  the  dark  cave  of 
Mount  Carmel — he  shook  the  dust  from  his  beard — 
and  taking  up  one  of  the  skulls  heaped  there,  hurled 
il  down  the  eminence  :  it  rebounded  from  the  earth 
in  shivered  atoms.  This  was  my  father!  roared  Aha- 
suerus. Seven  more  skulls  rolled  down  from  rock  to 
rock;  while  the  infuriate  Jew,  following  them  with 
ghastly  looks,  exclaimed — And  these  were  my  wives  ! 
lie  still  continued  to  hurl  down  skull  after  skull,  roar- 
ing in  dreadful  accents — And  these,  and  these,  and 
these  were  my  children!  They  could  die;  but  I! 
reprobate  wretch,  alas  !  I  cannot  die  !  Dreadful  be- 
yond conception  is  the  judgment  that  hangs  over  me. 
Jerusalem  fell — I  crushed  the  sucking  babe,  and  pre- 
cipitated myself  into  the  destructive  flames.  I  cursed 
the  Romans — but,  alas  I  alas  !  the  restless  curse  held 
me  by  the  hair, — and  I  could  not  die! 

"  Rome  the  giantess  fell — I  placed  myself  before 
the  falling  statue — she  fell,  and  did  not  crush  me. 
Nations  sprung  up  and  disappeared  before  me  ; — but 
I  remained  and  did  not  die.  From  cloud-encircled 
c'ifls  did  I  precipitate  myself  into  the  ocean;  but  the 
foaming  billows  cast  me  upon  the  shore,  and  the 
burning  arrow  of  existence  pierced  my  cold  heart 
again.  I  leaped  into  Etna's  flaming  abyss,  and  roared 
with  the  giants  for  ten  long  months,  polluting  with 
my  groans  the  Mount's  sulphureous  mouth — ah  !  ten 
long  months.  The  volcano  fermented,  and  in  a  fieiy 
stream  of  lava  cast  me  up.  I  lay  torn  by  the  torture 
snakes  of  hell  amid  the  glowing  cinders,  and  yet 
continued  to  exist. — A  forest  was  on  fire :  I  darted 
on  wings  of  fury  and  despair  into  the  crackhng  wood. 
Fire  dropped  upon  me  from  the  trees,  but  the  flames 
only  singed  my  limbs ;  alas  !  it  could  not  consume 
them. — I  now  mixed  with  the  butchers  of  mankind, 
380 


QUEEN  MAB. 


133 


and  plunged  in  the  tempest  of  the  raging  battle.  I 
roared  defiance  to  the  infuriate  Gaul,  defiance  to  the 
victorious  German ;  but  arrows  and  spears  rebounded 
in  shivers  from  my  body.  The  Saracen's  flammg 
sword  broke  upon  my  skull:  balls  in  vain  hissed 
upon  me :  the  lightnings  of  battle  glared  harmless 
around  my  loins:  in  vain  did  the  elephant  trample 
on  me,  in  vain  the  iron  hoof  of  the  wratliful  steed ! 
The  mine,  big  with  destructive  power,  burst  upon 
me,  and  hurled  me  high  in  the  air — [  fell  on  heaps 
of  smoking  limbs,  but  was  only  singed.  The  giant's 
steel  club  rebounded  from  my  body ;  the  executioner's 
hand  could  not  strangle  me,  the  tiger's  tooth  could 
not  pierce  me,  nor  would  the  hungry  lion  in  the  cir- 
cus devour  me.  I  cohabitated  wiih  poisonous  snakes, 
and  pinched  the  red  crest  of  the  dragon.  The  ser- 
pent stung,  but  could  not  destroy  me. — The  dragon 
tormented,  but  dared  not  to  devour  me. — I  now  pro 
voked  the  furj'  of  tyrants:  I  said  to  Nero,  Thou  art 
a  bloodhound  !  I  said  to  Christiern,  Thou  art  a  blood 
hound!  I  said  to  Muley  Ismail,  Thou  art  a  blood- 
hound ! — The   tyrants  invented  cruel   torments,  but 

did  not   kill  me. Ha !  not  to  'oe  able  to 

die — not  to  be  able  to  die — not  to  be  permitted  to 
rest  after  the  toils  of  life — to  be  doomed  to  be  im- 
prisoned for  ever  in  the  clay-formed  diuigeon — to  be 
for  ever  clogged  with  this  worthless  body,  its  load  of 
diseases  and  infirmities — to  be  condemned  to  hold  for 
millenniums  that  yawning  monster  Sameness,  and 
Time,  that  hungry  hyena,  ever  bearing  children,  and 
ever  devouring  again  her  offspring  I — Ha  !  not  to  be 
permitted  to  die !  Awful  avenger  in  Heaven,  hast 
thou  in  thine  armory  of  wrath  a  punishment  more 
dreadful  ?  then  let  it  thunder  upon  me,  command  a 
hurricane  to  sweep  me  down  to  the  foot  of  Carmel, 
that  I  there  may  lie  extended ;  may  pant,  and  w-rithe, 
and  die!" 

This  fragment  is  the  translation  of  part  of  some 
German  work,  whose  title  I  have  vainly  endeavored 
to  discover.  I  picked  it  up,  dirty  and  torn,  some 
years  ago,  in  Lincoln's-Inn  Fields. 

Note  15,  page  118,  col.  1. 

I  will  beget  a  Son,  and  lie  shall  bear 

The  sins  of  all  the  world. 
A  book  is  put  into  our  hands  when  children,  called 
the  Bible,  the  purport  of  whose  history  is  briefly  this 
That  God  made  the  earth  in  six  days,  and  there  planted 
a  delightful  garden,  in  which  he  placed  the  first  pair 
of  human  beings.  In  the  midst  of  the  garden  he 
planted  a  tree,  whose  fruit,  although  within  their 
reach,  they  were  forbidden  to  touch.  That  the  Devil 
m  the  shape  of  a  snake,  persuaded  them  to  eat  of 
this  fruit ;  in  consequence  of  which  God  condemned 
both  them  and  their  posterity  yet  unborn,  to  satisfy 
his  justice  by  their  eternal  misery.  That,  four  thou- 
sand years  after  these  events  (the  human  race  in  the 
meanwhile  having  gone  unredeemed  to  perdition), 
God  engendered  with  the  betrothed  wife  of  a  car- 
penter in  Judea  (whose  virginity  was  nevertheless 
uninjured),  and  begat  a  Son,  whose  name  was  Jesus 
Christ ;  and  who  was  crucified  and  died,  in  order 
that  no  more  men  might  be  devoted  to  hell-fire,  he 
bearing  the  burthen  of  his  Father's  displeasure  by 
proxy.  The  book  states,  in  addition,  that  the  soul  of 
whoever  disbelieves  this  sacrifice  will  be  burned  with 
everlasting  fire 

During  many  ages  of  misery  and  darkness,  this 
Plory  gained  implicit  belief;  but  at  length  men  arose 
who  suspected  that  it  was  a  fable  and  imposture,  and 


that  Jesus  Christ,  so  far  from  being  a  God,  was  only 
a  man  like  themselves.  But  a  numerous  set  of  men, 
who  derived  and  still  derive  immense  emoluments 
from  this  opinion,  in  the  shape  of  a  popular  belief, 
told  the  vulgar,  that,  if  they  did  not  believe  in  the 
Bible,  they  would  be  damned  to  all  eternity;  and 
burned,  imprisoned,  and  poisoned  all  the  unbiassed 
and  unconnected  inquirers  who  occa.sionally  arose. 
They  still  oppress  them,  so  far  as  the  people,  now 
become  more  enlightened,  will  allow. 

The 'belief  in  all  that  the  Bible  contains,  is  called 
Christianity.  A  Roman  governor  of  Judea,  at  the  in- 
stances of  a  priest-led  mob,  crucified  a  man  called 
Jesus,  eighteen  centuries  ago.  He  was  a  man  of  pure 
life,  who  desired  to  rescue  his  countrymen  from  the 
tyranny  of  their  barbarous  and  degrading  superstitions. 
The  common  fate  of  all  who  desire  to  benefit  man- 
kind awaited  him.  The  rabble,  at  the  instigation  of 
the  priests,  demanded  his  death,  although  his  very 
judge  made  public  acknowledgment  of  his  innocence. 
Jesus  was  sacrificed  to  the  honor  of  that  God  with 
whom  he  was  afterwards  confounded.  It  is  of  im- 
portance, therefore,  to  distinguish  between  the  pre- 
tended character  of  this  being  as  the  Son  of  God 
and  the  Savior  of  the  world,  and  his  real  character 
as  a  man,  who,  for  a  vain  attempt  to  reform  the  world, 
paid  the  forfeit  of  his  life  to  that  overbearing  tyranny 
which  has  since  so  long  desolated  the  universe  in  his 
name.  Whilst  the  one  is  a  hypocritical  demon,  who 
announces  himself  as  the  God  of  compassion  and 
peace,  even  whilst  he  stretches  forth  his  blood-red 
hand  with  the  sword  of  discord  to  waste  the  earth, 
having  confessedly  devised  this  scheme  of  desolation 
from  eternity  ;  the  other  stands  in  the  foremost  list  of 
those  true  heroes,  who  have  died  in  the  glorious 
martyrdom  of  liberty,  and  have  braved  torture,  con- 
tempt, and  poverty,  in  the  cause  of  suffering  hu 
manity.* 

The  vulgar,  ever  in  extremes,  became  persuaded 
that  the  crucifixion  of  Jesus  was  a  supernatural  event. 
Testimonies  of  miracles,  so  frequent  in  unenlightened 
ages,  were  not  wanting  to  prove  that  he  was  some- 
thing divine.  This  belief,  rolling  through  the  lapse 
of  ages,  met  with  the  reveries  of  Plato  and  the  rea- 
sonings of  Aristotle,  and  acquired  force  and  extent, 
until  the  divinity  of  Jesus  became  a  dogma,  which 
to  dispute  was  death,  which  to  doubt  was  infamy. 

Ckrislianity  is  now  the  established  religion :  he 
who  attempts  to  impugn  it,  must  be  contented  to  be- 
hold murderers  and  traitors  take  precedence  of  him 
in  public  opinion  :  though,  if  his  genius  be  equal  to 
his  courage,  and  assisted  by  a  peculiar  coalition  of 
circumstances,  future  ages  may  exalt  him  to  a  di- 
vinity, and  persecute  others  in  his  name,  as  he  was 
persecuted  in  the  name  of  his  predeces.sor  in  the 
homage  of  the  world. 

The  same  means  that  have  supported  every  other 
popular  belief,  have  supported  Christianity.  War, 
imprisonment,  assassination,  and  falsehood  ;  deeds  of 
unexampled  and  incomparable  atrocity,  have  made  it 
what  it  is.  The  blood  shed  by  the  votaries  of  the 
God  of  mercy  and  peace,  since  the  establishment  of 
his  religion,  would  probably  suffice  to  drown  all  other 
sectaries  now  on  the  habitable  globe.  We  derive 
from  our  ancestors  a  faith  thus  fostered  and  support- 
ed :  we  quarrel,  persecute,  and  hate  for  its  mainte- 

*  Since  writing  tliis  note,  1  have  seen  reason  to  suspect 
that  Jesus  was  an  ambitious  man,  who  aspired  to  the 
throne  of  Judea. 

50  381 


134 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


nance.  Even  under  a  government  which,  whilst  it 
infringes  the  very  right  of  thought  and  speecli,  boasts 
of  permitting  the  liberty  of  the  press,  a  man  is  pil- 
loried and  imprisoned  because  he  is  a  deist,  and  no 
one  raises  his  voice  in  the  indignation  of  outraged 
Jiumanity.  But  it  is  ever  a  proof  that  the  falsehood 
of  a  proposition  is  felt  by  those  who  use  coercion, 
not  reasoning,  to  procure  its  admission  ;  and  a  dis- 
passionate observer  would  feel  himself  more  power- 
fully interested  in  favor  of  a  man,  who,  depending 
on  the  truth  of  his  opinions,  simply  staled  his  reasons 
for  entertaining  them,  than  in  that  of  his  aggressor, 
who  daringly  avowing  his  unwillingness  or  incapacity 
to  answer  them  by  argument,  proceeded  to  repress 
the  energies  and  break  the  spirit  of  their  promulgator 
by  that  torture  and  imprisonment  whose  infliction  he 
could  command. 

Analogy  seems  to  favor  the  opinion,  that  as,  like 
other  systems,  Christianity  has  arisen  and  augmented, 
so  like  them  it  will  decay  and  perish  ;  that,  as  vio- 
lence, darkness,  and  deceit,  not  reasoning  and  persua- 
sion, have  procured  its  admission  among  mankind, 
so,  when  enthusiasm  has  subsided,  and  time,  that  in- 
fallible controverter  of  false  opinions,  has  involved 
its  pretended  evidences  in  the  darkness  of  antiquity, 
it  will  become  obsolete  ;  that  Milton's  poem  alone 
will  give  permanency  to  the  remembrance  of  its  ab- 
surdities ;  and  that  men  will  laugh  as  heartily  at 
grace,  faith,  redemption,  and  original  sin,  as  they 
now  do  at  the  metamorphoses  of  Jupiter,  the  miracles 
of  Romish  saints,  the  efficacy  of  witchcraft,  and  the 
appearance  of  departed  spirits. 

Had  the  Christian  religion  commenced  and  con- 
tinued by  the  mere  force  of  reasoning  and  persuasion, 
the  preceding  analogy  would  be  inadmissible.  We 
should  never  speciilate  on  the  future  obsoleteness  of 
a  system  perfectly  conformable  to  nature  and  reason : 
it  would  endure  so  long  as  they  endured ;  it  would 
be  a  truth  as  indisputaijle  as  the  light  of  the  sun,  the 
criminality  of  murder,  and  other  facts,  whose  evi- 
dence, depending  on  our  organization  and  relative 
situations,  must  remain  acknowledged  as  satisfactory 
so  long  as  man  is  man.  It  is  an  incontrovertible  fact, 
the  consideration  of  which  ought  to  repress  the  hasty 
conclusions  of  credulity,  or  moderate  its  obstinacy  in 
maintaining  them,  that,  had  the  Jews  not  been  a 
fanatical  race  of  men,  had  even  the  resolution  of 
Pontius  Pilate  been  equal  to  his  candor,  the  Christian 
religion  never  could  have  prevailed,  it  could  not  even 
have  existed  :  on  so  feeble  a  thread  hangs  the  most 
cherished  opinion  of  a  sixth  of  the  human  race ! 
When  will  the  vulgar  learn  humility  ?  When  will  the 
pride  of  ignorance  Ijlush  at  having  believed  bejfore  it 
could  comprehend  ? 

Either  the  Christian  religion  is  true,  or  it  is  false : 
if  true,  it  comes  Ironi  God,  and  its  authenticity  can 
admit  of  doubt  and  dispute  no  further  than  its  om- 
nipotent author  is  willing  to  allow.  Either  the  power 
or  the  goodness  of  God  is  called  in  question,  if  he 
leaves  those  doctrines  most  essential  to  the  well-being 
of  man  in  doubt  and  dispute ;  the  only  ones  which, 
since  their  promulgation,  have  been  the  subject  of 
unceasing  cavil,  the  cause  of  irreconcilable  hatred. 
Jf  God  has  spoken,  why  is  the  universe  not  convinced? 

There  is  this  passage  in  the  Christian  Scriptures : 
"Those  who  obey  not  God,  and  believe  not  the  Gos- 
pel of  his  Son,  shall  be  punished  with  everlasting 
destruction."  This  is  the  pivot  upon  which  all  re- 
ligions turn  ;  they  all  assume  that  it  is  in  our  power 
to  believe  or  not  to  believe ;  whereas  the  mind  can 


only  believe  that  which  it  thinks  true.  A  human 
being  can  only  be  supposed  accountable  for  those 
actions  which  are  influenced  by  his  will.  But  belief 
is  utterly  distinct  from  and  unconnected  with  volition  t 
it  is  the  apprehension  of  the  agreement  or  disagree- 
ment of  the  ideas  that  compose  any  proposition.  Be- 
lief is  a  passion,  or  involuntary  operation  of  the  mind, 
and,  like  other  passions,  its  intensity  is  precisely  pro- 
portionate to  the  degrees  of  excitement.  Volition  is 
essential  to  merit  or  demerit.  But  the  Christian  reli- 
gion attaches  the  highest  possible  degrees  of  merit 
and  demerit  to  that  which  is  worthy  of  neither,  and 
which  is  totally  unconnected  with  the  peculiar 
faculty  of  the  mind,  whose  presence  is  essential  to 
their  being. 

Christianity  was  intended  to  refonn  the  world :  had 
an  all-wise  Being  planned  it,  nothing  is  more  improba- 
ble than  that  it  should  have  foiled :  omniscience 
would  infallibly  have  foreseen  the  inutility  of  a 
scheme  which  experience  demonstrates,  to  this  age 
to  have  been  utterly  unsuccessful. 

Christianity  inculcates  the  necessity  of  supplicating 
the  Deity.  Prayer  may  bo  considered  under  two 
points  of  view  ; — as  an  endeavor  to  change  the  in- 
tentions of  God,  or  as  a  formal  testimony  of  our  obe- 
dience. But  the  former  case  supjTOses  that  the  ca- 
prices of  a  limited  intelligence  can  occasionally  in- 
struct the  Creator  of  the  world  how  to  regulate  the 
tmiverse ;  and  the  latter,  a  certain  degree  of  servility 
analogous  to  the  loyalty  demanded  by  earthly  tyrants. 
Obedience  indeed  is  only  the  pitiful  and  cowardly 
egotism  of  him  who  thinks  that  he  can  do  something 
better  than  reason. 

Christianity,  like  all  other  religions,  rests  upon 
miracles,  prophecies,  and  martyrdoms.  Ko  religion 
ever  existed,  which  had  not  its  prophets,  its  attested 
miracles,  and,  above  all,  crowds  of  devotees  who 
would  bear  patiently  the  most  horrible  tortures  to 
prove  its  authenticity.  It  should  appear  that  in  no 
case  can  a  discriminating  mind  subscribe  to  the  genu- 
ineness of  a  miracle.  A  miracle  is  an  infraction  of 
nature's  law,  by  a  supernatural  cause ;  by  a  cause 
acting  beyond  that  eternal  circle  within  which  all 
things  are  included.  God  breaks  through  the  law  of 
nature,  that  he  may  convince  mankind  of  the  truth 
of  that  revelation  which,  in  spite  of  his  precautions, 
has  been,  since  its  introduction,  the  subject  of  un- 
ceasing schism  and  cavil. 

Miracles  resolve  themselves  into  the  following 
questions:* — Whether  it  is  more  probable  the  laws 
of  nature,  hitherto  so  immutably  harmonious,  should 
have  undergone  violation,  or  that  a  man  should  have 
told  a  lie  ?  Whether  it  is  more  probable  that  we  are 
ignorant  of  the  natural  cause  of  an  event,  or  that  we 
know  the  supernatural  one  ?  That,  in  old  times, 
wlien  the  powers  of  nature  were  less  known  than 
at  present,  a  certain  set  of  men  were  themselves  de- 
ceived, or  had  some  hidden  motive  for  deceiving 
others ;  or  that  God  begat  a  son,  who,  in  his  legisla- 
tion, measuring  merit  by  belief,  evidenced  himself 
to  be  totally  ignorant  of  the  powers  of  the  human 
mind — of  what  is  voluntary,  and  what  is  tiie  con- 
trary ? 

We  have  many  instances  of  men  telling  lies ; — 
none  of  an  infraction  of  nature's  laws,  those  laws  of 
whose  government  alone  we  have  any  knowledge 
or  experience.  The  records  of  all  nations  af!brd  in- 
numerable instances  of  men  deceiving  others,  either 


*  See  Hume's  Essays,  vol.  ii.  page  121. 
382 


QUEEN  MAB. 


135 


from  vanity  or  interest,  ot  thernseh  is  being  deceived 
by  the  liniitedness  of  ihcir  views  and  their  ignorance 
of  naniral  causes:  hut  where  is  tlic  accredited  case 
of  God  having  come  upon  earth,  to  give  the  lie  to 
his  own  creations  ?  There  would  be  something  truly 
wonderful  in  the  appearance  of  a  ghost ;  but  the 
assertion  of  a  child  that  he  saw  one  as  he  passed 
through  the  church-yard  is  universally  admitted  to  be 
less  miraculous. 

But  even  supposing  that  a  man  should  raise  a  dead 
body  to  life  before  our  eyes,  and  on  this  fact  rest  his 
claim  to  being  considered  the  son  of  God ; — the  Hu- 
mane Society  restores  drowned  persons,  and  because 
it  makes  no  mystery  of  the  method  it  employs,  its 
members  are  not  mistaken  for  the  sons  of  God.  All 
that  we  have  a  right  to  infer  from  our  ignorance  of 
the  cause  of  any  event  is,  that  we  do  not  know  it : 
had  the  Mexicans  attended  to  this  simple  rule  when 
they  heard  the  cannon  of  the  Spaniards,  they  would 
not  have  considered  tliem  as  gods :  the  experiments 
of  modern  chemistrj'  would  have  defied  the  w'isest 
philosophers  of  ancient  Greece  and  Rome  to  have 
accounted  for  them  on  natural  principles.  An  author 
of  strong  common  sense  has  observed,  that  "  a  miracle 
is  no  miracle  at  second-hand  ;"  he  might  have  added, 
that  a  miracle  is  no  miracle  in  any  case ;  for  until 
we  are  acquainted  with  all  natural  causes,  we  have 
no  reason  to  imagine  others. 

There  remains  to  be  considered  another  proof  of 
Christianity — Prophecy.  A  book  is  written  before  a 
certain  event,  in  which  this  event  is  foretold  ;  how 
could  the  prophet  have  foreknown  it  without  inspi- 
ration ?  how  could  he  have  been  inspired  without 
God  ?  The  greatest  stress  is  laid  on  the  prophecies  of 
Moses  and  Hosea  on  the  dispersion  of  the  Jews,  and 
that  of  Isaiah  concerning  the  coming  of  the  Messiah. 
The  prophecy  of  Moses  is  a  collection  of  every  pos- 
sible cursing  and  blessing  ;  and  it  is  so  far  from  being 
marvellous  that  the  one  of  dispersion  should  have 
been  fulfilled,  that  it  would  have  been  more  sur- 
prising if  out  of  all  these,  none  should  have  taken 
effect.  In  Deutcronom\%  chap,  xxviii.  ver.  64,  where 
Moses  explicitly  foretells  the  dispersion,  he  states  that 
they  shall  there  ser\"e  gods  of  wood  and  stone  :  "  And 
the  Lord  shall  scatter  thee  among  all  people,  from  the 
one  end  of  the  earth  even  to  the  other,  a7id  there  (hoii 
shah  serve  other  gods,  which  neither  thou  nor  thy 
fathers  have  known,  even  gods  of  wood  and  slone." 
Tlie  Jews  are  at  this  day  remarkably  tenacious  of 
their  religion.  Moses  also  declares  that  they  shall 
be  subjected  to  these  causes  for  disobedience  to  his 
ritual :  "  And  it  shall  come  to  pass,  if  thou  wilt  not 
hearken  unto  the  voice  of  the  Lord  thy  God,  to  ob- 
serve to  do  all  the  commandments  and  statutes  which 
I  command  you  this  day,  that  all  these  curses  shall 
come  upon  thee  and  overtake  thee."  Is  this  the  real 
reason  ?  The  third,  fourth  and  fifth  chapters  of  Ilosea 
are  a  piece  of  immodest  confession.  The  indelicate 
type  might  apply  in  a  hundred  senses  to  a  hundred 
things.  The  fifty-third  chapter  of  Isaiah  is  more 
explicit,  yet  it  does  not  exceed  in  clearness  the  oracles 
of  Delphos.  The  historical  proof,  that  Moses,  Isaiah 
and  Hosea  did  write  when  they  are  said  to  have 
written,  is  far  from  being  clear  and  circumstantial. 

But  prophecy  requires  proof  in  its  character  as  a 
miracle ;  we  have  no  right  to  suppose  that  a  man 
foreknew  future  events  from  God,  until  it  is  demon- 
strated that  he  neither  could  know  them  I)y  his  owti 
exertions,  nor  that  the  writings  which  contain  the 
prediction  could  possibly  have  been  fabricated  after 


the  event  pretended  to  be  foretold.  It  is  more  prob- 
able that  writings,  pretending  to  divine  inspiration, 
sliould  have  been  fabricated  after  the  fulfilment  of 
their  pretended  prediction,  than  tliat  they  should  have 
really  been  divinely  inspired ;  when  we  consider 
that  the  latter  supposition  makes  God  at  once  tho 
creator  of  the  hiunan  mind,  and  ignorant  of  its  pri 
mary  powers,  particularly  as  we  have  numberless 
instances  of  false  religions,  and  forged  prophecies  of 
things  long  past,  and  no  accredited  case  of  God  hav- 
ing conversed  with  men  directly  or  indirectly.  It  is 
also  possible  that  the  description  of  an  event  might 
have  foregone  its  occurrence ;  but  this  is  far  from 
being  a  legitimate  proof  of  a  divine  revelation,  as 
many  men,  not  pret(;nding  to  the  character  of  a 
prophet,  have  nevertheless,  in  this  sense,  prophesied. 

Lord  Chesterfield  was  never  taken  for  a  prophet, 
even  by  a  bishop,  yet  he  uttered  this  remarkable 
prediction  :  "  The  despotic  government  of  France  is 
screwed  up  to  the  highest  pitch;  a  revolution  is  fast 
approaching;  that  revolution,  I  am  convinced,  will 
be  radical  and  sangumary."  This  appeared  in  the 
letters  of  the  prophet  long  before  the  accomplishment 
of  this  wonderful  prediction.  Now,  have  these  par- 
ticulars come  to  pass,  or  have  they  not  ?  If  they  have, 
how  could  the  Earl  have  foreknown  them  without 
inspiration  ?  If  we  admit  the  truth  of  the  Christian 
rehgion  on  testimony  such  as  this,  w^e  must  admit, 
on  the  same  strength  of  evidence,  that  God  has  af- 
fixed the  highest  rewards  to  belief,  and  the  eternal 
tortures  of  the  never-dying  worm  to  disbelief;  both 
of  which  have  been  demonstrated  to  be  involuntary. 

The  last  proof  of  the  Christian  religion  depends 
on  the  influence  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  Theologians 
divide  the  influence  of  the  Holy  Ghost  into  its  ordi- 
nary and  extraordinary  modes  of  operation.  The 
latter  is  supposed  to  be  that  which  inspired  the 
Prophets  and  Apostles ;  and  the  former  to  be  the 
grace  of  God,  which  summarily  makes  known  the 
truth  of  his  revelation,  to  those  whose  mind  is  fitted 
for  its  reception  by  a  submissive  perusal  of  his  word. 
Persons  con\inced  in  this  manner,  can  do  any  thing 
but  account  for  their  conviction,  describe  the  time  at 
which  it  happened,  or  the  manner  in  which  it  came 
upon  them.  It  is  supposed  to  enter  the  mind  by 
other  channels  than  those  of  the  senses,  and  there- 
fore professes  to  be  superior  to  reason  founded  on 
their  experience. 

Admitting,  however,  the  usefulness  or  possibility 
of  a  divine  revelation,  unless  we  demolish  the  foim- 
dalions  of  all  human  knowledge,  it  is  requisite  that 
our  reason  should  previously  demonstrate  its  genu- 
ineness ;  for,  before  we  extinguish  the  steady  ray  of 
reason  and  common  sense,  it  is  fit  that  we  should  dis- 
cover whether  we  can  do  without  their  assistance, 
whether  or  no  there  be  any  other  which  may  suffice 
to  guide  us  through  the  labyrinth  of  life:*  for,  if  a 
man  is  to  be  inspired  upon  all  occasions,  if  he  is  to 
be  sure  of  a  thing  because  he  is  sure,  if  the  ordinary 
operations  of  the  spirit  are  not  to  be  considered  very 
extraordinar)'  modes  of  demonstration,  if  enthusiasm 
is  to  usurp  the  place  of  proof,  and  madness  that  of 
sanit)-,  all  reasoning  is  superfluous.  The  Mahometan 
dies  fighting  for  his  prophet,  the  Indian  immolates 
himself  at  the  chariot-wheels  of  Brahma,  the  Hot- 
tentot worships  an  insect,  the  Negro  a  bunch  of  fea- 


*  Pee  Locke's  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding,  book 
iv.  cliap.  .xix.  on  Enthusiasm. 

383 


136 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


thers,  the  Mexican  sacrifices  human  victims !  Their 
degree  of  conviction  must  certainly  be  very  strong: 
it  cannot  arise  from  conviction,  it  must  from  feehngs, 
the  reward  of  their  prayers.  If  each  of  these  should 
affirm,  in  opposition  to  the  strongest  possible  argu- 
ments, that  inspiration  carried  internal  evidence,  I 
fear  their  inspired  brethren,  the  orthodox  Mission- 
aries, would  be  so  uncharitable  as  to  pronounce  them 
obstinate. 

Miracles  cannot  be  received  as  testimonies  of  a 
disputed  fact,  because  all  human  testimony  has  ever 
been  insufficient  to  establish  the  possibility  of  mira- 
cles. That  which  is  incapable  of  proof  itself,  is  no 
proof  of  any  thing  else.  Prophecy  has  also  been 
rejected  by  the  test  of  reason.  Tho.se,  then,  who 
have  been  actually  inspired,  are  the  only  true  be- 
lievers in  the  Christian  religion. 

Mox  numine  vise 
Virginei  tumuere  sinus,  innuptaque  mater 
Arcane  stupuit  compleri  viscera  partu 
Auctorem  peritura  suum.    Mortalia  corda 
Artiticem  texere  poU,  latuitque  suh  uno 
Pectore,  qui  totum  late  coniplectitur  orbem. 

Claudiam,  Carmen  Paschali. 

Does  not  so  monstrous  and  disgusting  an  absurdity 
carry  its  own  infamy  and  refutation  with  itself? 

Note  16,  page  120,  col.  2. 

Him  (still  from  hope  lo  hope  the  bliss  pursuing. 
Which,  from  the  exhaustless  lore  of  human  weal 
Dawne  on  the  virtuous  mind),  the  thoughts  that  rise 
In  time-destroying  infiniteness,  gift 
With  self-enshrined  eternity,  etc. 

Time  is  our  consciousness  of  the  succession  of 
ideas  in  our  mind.  Vivid  sensation,  of  either  pain 
or  plfasure,  makes  the  time  seem  long,  as  the  com- 
mon phrase  is,  because  it  renders  us  more  acutely 
conscious  of  our  ideas.  If  a  mind  be  conscious  of  a 
hundred  ideas  during  one  minute,  by  the  clock,  and 
of  two  hundred  during  another,  the  latter  of  these 
spaces  would  actually  occupy  so  much  greater  extent 
in  the  mind  as  two  exceed  one  in  quantity.  If,  there- 
fore, the  human  mind,  by  any  future  improvement 
of  its  sensibility,  should  become  conscious  of  an  in- 
finite number  of  ideas  in  a  minute,  that  minute  would 
be  eternity.  I  do  not  hence  infer  that  the  actual 
space  between  the  birth  and  death  of  a  man  will 
ever  be  prolonged  ;  but  that  his  sensibility  is  per- 
fectible, and  that  the  number  of  ideas  which  his 
mind  is  capable  of  receiving  is  indefinite.  One  man 
IS  stretched  on  the  rack  during  twelve  hours  ;  another 
sleeps  soundly  in  his  bed :  the  diflference  of  time 
perceived  by  these  two  persons  is  immense ;  one 
hardly  will  believe  that  half  an  hour  has  elapsed, 
the  other  could  credit  that  centuries  had  flown  dur- 
ing his  agony.  Thus,  the  life  of  a  man  of  virtue 
and  talent  who  should  die  in  his  thirtieth  year,  is, 
with  regard  to  his  own  feelings,  longer  than  that  of 
a  miserable  priest-ridden  slave,  who  dreams  out  a 
century  of  dullness.  The  one  has  perpetually  cul- 
tivated his  mental  faculties,  lias  rendered  himself 
master  of  his  thoughts,  can  abstract  and  generalize 
amid  the  lethargy  of  every-day  business ; — the  other 
can  slumber  over  the  brightest  moments  of  his  being, 
and  is  unable  to  remember  the  happiest  hour  of  his 
life.  Perhaps  the  perishing  ephemeron  enjoys  a 
longer  life  than  the  tortoise. 


Dark  flood  of  time ! 
Roll  as  it  listeth  thee — I  measure  not 
By  months  or  moments,  thy  ambiguous  course. 
Another  may  stand  by  me  on  the  brink. 
And  watch  the  bubble  vvhirl'd  beyond  his  ken 
That  pauses  at  my  feet.    The  sense  of  love. 
The  thirst  for  action,  and  the  impassion'd  thought, 
Prolong  my  being:  if  I  wake  no  more. 
My  life  more  actual  living  will  contain 
Than  some  gray  veteran's  of  the  world's  cold  school, 
Whose  listless  hours  unprotitably  roll. 
By  one  enthusiast  feeling  unredeem'd. 

See  Godwin's  Pol.  Jus.  vol.  i.  page  411; — and 
Condorcei,  Esquisse  d'un  Tableau  Historique  des 
Progres  de  V Esprit  Humain,  Epoque  ix. 

Note  17,  page  120,  col.  2. 

No  longer  now 
He  slays  the  lamb  that  looks  him  in  the  face. 

I  hold  that  the  depravity  of  the  physical  and  moral 
nature  of  man  originated  in  his  unnatural  habits  of 
life.  The  origin  of  man,  like  that  of  the  universe 
of  which  he  is  a  part,  is  enveloped  in  impenetrable 
mystery.  His  generations  either  had  a  beginning,  or 
they  had  not.  The  weight  of  evidence  in  favor  of 
each  of  these  suppositions  seems  tolerably  equal ; 
and  it  is  perfectly  unimportant,  to  the  present  argu- 
ment, which  is  assumed.  The  language  spoken 
however  by  the  mythology  of  nearly  all  religions 
seems  to  prove,  that  at  some  distant  period  man  for- 
sook the  path  of  nature,  and  sacrificed  the  purity  and 
happiness  of  his  being  to  unnatural  appetites.  The 
date  of  this  event  seems  to  have  also  been  that  of 
some  great  change  in  the  climates  of  the  earth,  with 
which  it  has  an  obvious  correspondence.  The  alle- 
gory of  Adam  and  Eve  eating  of  the  tree  of  evil, 
and  entailing  upon  their  posterity  the  wrath  of  God, 
and  the  loss  of  everlasting  life,  admits  of  no  other 
explanation  than  the  disease  and  crime  that  have 
flowed  from  unnatural  diet.  Milton  was  so  well 
aware  of  this,  that  he  makes  Raphael  thus  exhibit  to 
Adam  the  consequence  of  his  disobedience. 

Immediately  a  place 

Before  his  eyes  appear'd  :  sad,  noisome,  dark: 
A  lazar  house  it  seem'd  ;  wherein  were  laid 
Numbers  of  all  diseased;  all  maladies 
Of  ghastly  spasm,  or  racking  torture,  qualms 
Of  heartsick  agony,  all  feverous  kinds, 
Convulsions,  epilepsies,  tierce  catarrhs. 
Intestine  stone,  and  ulcer,  cholic  pangs, 
Dfemoniac  frenzy,  moping  melancholy. 
And  moon-struck  madness,  pining  atrophy. 
Marasmus  and  wide-wasting  pestilence. 
Dropsies,  and  asthmas,  and  joint-racking  rheums. 

And  how  many  thousands  more  might  not  be 
added  to  this  frightful  catalogue ! 

The  story  of  Prometheus  is  one  likewise  which, 
although  universally  admitted  to  be  allegorical  has 
never  been  satisfactory  explained.  Prometheus  stole 
fire  from  heaven,  and  was  chained  for  this  crime  to 
Mount  Caucasus,  where  a  vulture  continually  de- 
voured his  liver,  that  grew  to  meet  its  hunger.  He- 
siod  says,  that,  before  the  time  of  Prometheus,  man- 
kind were  exempt  from  suffering  ,•  that  they  enjoyed 
a  vigorous  youth,  and  that  death,  when  at  length  it 
came,  approached  like  sleep,  and  gently  closed  their 
eyes.  Again,  so  general  was  this  opinion,  that  Horace, 
a  poet  of  the  Augustan  age,  writes — 
Audax  omnia  perpeti. 
Gens  humana  ruit  per  vetitum  nefns ; 

384 


QUEEN  MAB. 


137 


Auilax  lapeti  genus 
Ignein  fiaude  mala  gentibus  intulit: 

Post  igncm  tetlieria  domo 
Subiiuctum,  macieset  nova  febrium 

Terris  iiicubiiit  coliors, 
Semotiqiie  prius  tarda  necessitas 

Lellii  corripuit  gradum. 

How  plain  a  language  is  spoken  by  all  this  !  Prome- 
Iheus  (who  represents  the  human  race)  effected  some 
great  change  in  the  conililion  of  his  nature,  and  ap- 
plied fire  to  culinary  purposes ;  thus  inventing  an  ex- 
pedient for  screening  from  his  disgust  the  horrors  of 
tlie  shambles.  From  this  moment  his  vitals  were 
devoured  by  the  vulture  of  disease.  It  consumed 
liis  being  in  every  shape  of  its  lothesome  and  infinite 
variety,  inducing  the  soul-quelling  sinkings  of  prema- 
ture and  violent  death.  All  vice  arose  from  the  ruin 
of  healthful  innocence.  Tyranny,  superstition,  com- 
merce, and  inequality,  were  then  first  known,  when 
reason  vainly  attempted  to  guide  the  wanderings  of 
exacerbated  passion.  I  conclude  this  part  of  the 
subject  with  an  extract  from  Mr.  Newton's  Defence 
of  ^>getable  Regimen,  from  whom  I  have  borrowed 
this  interpretation  of  the  fable  of  Prometheus. 

"  Making  allowance  for  such  transposition  of  the 
events  of  the  allegory  as  time  might  produce  after 
the  important  truths  were  forgotten,  which  this  por- 
tion of  the  ancient  mythology  was  intended  to  trans- 
rait,  the  drift  of  the  fable  seems  to  lie  this  : — Man  at 
his  creation  was  endowed  with  the  gift  of  perpetual 
youth;  that  is,  he  was  not  formed  to  be  a  sickly  suf- 
fering creature  as  we  now  see  him,  but  to  enjoy 
health,  and  to  sink  by  slow  degrees  into  the  bosom 
of  his  parent  earth,  without  disease  or  pain.  Prome- 
theus first  taught  the  use  of  animal  food  (primus 
bovem  occidit  Prometheus*)  and  of  fu-e,  with  which 
to  render  it  more  digestible  and  pleasing  to  the  taste. 
Jupiter,  and  the  rest  of  the  gods,  foreseeing  the  con- 
sequences of  these  inventions,  were  amused  or  irri- 
tated at  the  short-sighted  devices  of  the  newly-formed 
creature,  and  left  him  to  experience  the  sad  effects 
of  them.  Thirst,  the  necessary  concomitant  of  a 
flesh  diet,"  (perhaps  of  all  diet  vitiated  by  culinary 
preparation,)  "  ensued ;  water  was  resorted  to,  and 
man  forfeited  the  inestimable  gift  of  health  which  he 
had  received  from  Heaven :  lie  became  diseased,  the 
partaker  of  a  precarious  existence,  and  no  longer 
descended  slowly  to  his  grave."t 

But  just  disease  to  luxury  succeeds. 
And  every  deatli  its  own  avenger  breeds; 
The  fury  passions  from  that  blood  began. 
And  turn'd  on  man  a  fiercer  savage — man. 

Man,  and  the  animals  whom  he  has  infected  with 
nis  society,  or  dejiraved  by  his  dominion,  are  alone 
diseased.  The  wild  hog,  the  moullon,  the  bison,  and 
the  wolf,  are  perfectly  exempt  from  malady,  and  in- 
variably die  either  from  external  violence,  or  natural 
old  age.  But  the  domestic  hog,  the  sheep,  the  cow, 
and  the  dog,  are  subject  to  an  incredible  variety  of 
distempers;  and,  like  the  corrupters  of  their  nature, 
have  physicians  who  thrive  upon  their  miseries.  The 
Bupereminence  of  man  is  like  Satan's,  a  superemi- 
nence  of  pain;  and  the  majority  of  his  species, 
doomed  to  penur)',  disea.se,  and  crime,  have  reason  to 
curse  the  untoward  event,  that  by  enabling  him  to 

*  Plin.  Nat.  Hist.,  lib.  vii.  sect.  57. 
t  Return  to  Nature.    Cadell,  18]  1. 

2y 


communicate  his  sensations,  raised  him  above  the 
level  of  his  fellow  animals.  But  the  steps  that  have 
been  taken  are  irrevocable.  The  whole  of  human 
science  is  comprised  in  one  question: — How  can  the 
advantages  of  intellect  and  civilization  be  reconciled 
with  the  liberty  and  pure  pleasures  of  natural  life  ? 
How  can  we  lake  the  benefits,  and  reject  the  evils 
of  the  system,  which  is  now  interwoven  with  all  the 
fibres  of  our  being? — I  believe  that  abstinence  from 
animal  food  and  spirituous  liquors  would  in  a  great 
measure  capacitate  us  for  the  solution  of  this  import- 
ant question. 

It  is  true,  that  mental  and  bodily  derangement  is 
attributable  in  part  to  other  deviations  from  rectitude 
and  nature  than  those  which  concern  diet.  The  mis- 
takes cherished  by  society  respecting  the  connexion 
of  the  sexes,  whence  the  misery  and  diseases  of  un- 
satisfied celibacy,  unenjoying  prostitution,  and  the 
premature  arrival  of  puberty,  necessarily  spring;  the 
putrid  atmosphere  of  crowded  cities  ;  the  exhalations 
of  chemical  processes  ;  the  muffling  of  our  bodies  in 
superfluous  apparel;  the  absurd  treatment  of  infants  : 
— all  these,  and  innumerable  other  causes,  contribute 
their  mite  to  the  mass  of  human  evil. 

Comparative  anatomy  teaches  us  that  man  resem- 
bles frugivorous  animals  m  everything,  and  carnivor- 
ous in  nothing ;  he  has  neither  claws  wherewith  to 
seize  his  prey,  nor  distinct  and  pointed  teeth  to  tear 
the  living  fibre.  A  Mandarin  of  the  first  class,  with 
nails  two  inches  long,  would  probably  find  Ihem  alone 
inefficient  to  hold  even  a  hare.  After  every  subter- 
fuge of  gluttony,  the  bull  must  be  degraded  into  the 
ox,  and  the  ram  into  the  wether,  by  an  unnatural 
and  inhuman  operation,  that  the  flaccid  fibre  may 
offer  a  fainter  resistance  to  rebellious  nature.  It  is 
only  by  softening  and  disguising  dead  flesh  by  culi- 
nary preparation,  that  it  is  rendered  susceptible  of 
mastication  or  digestion  ;  and  that  the  sight  of  its 
bloody  juices  and  raw  horror  does  not  excite  intoler- 
able loihing  and  disgust.  Let  the  advocate  of  animal 
food  force  himself  to  a  decisive  experiment  on  its 
fitne.ss,  and,  as  Plutarch  recommends,  tear  a  living 
lamb  with  his  teeth,  and  plunging  his  head  into  its 
vitals,  slake  his  thirst  with  the  streaming  blootl ;  when 
fresh  from  the  deed  of  horror,  let  him  revert  to  the 
irresistible  instincts  of  nature  that  would  rise  in  judg- 
ment against  it,  and  say.  Nature  formed  me  for  such 
work  as  this.  Then,  and  then  only,  would  he  be 
consistent. 

Man  resembles  no  carnivorous  animal.  There  is 
no  exception,  unless  man  be  one,  to  the  rule  of  her- 
bivorous animals  having  cellulated  colons. 

The  orang-outang  perfectly  resembles  man  both 
in  the  order  and  number  of  his  teeth.  The  orang- 
outang is  the  most  anthropomorphous  of  the  ape  tribe, 
all  of  which  are  strictly  frugivorous.  There  is  no 
other  species  of  animals,  which  live  on  different  food, 
in  which  this  analogy  exists.^  In  many  frugivorous 
animals,  the  canine  teeth  are  more  pointed  and  dis- 
tinct than  those  of  man.  The  resemblance  also  of 
the  human  stomach  to  that  of  the  orang-outang,  is 
greater  than  to  that  of  any  other  animal. 

The  intestines  are  also  identical  v\ith  those  of  her- 
bivorous animals,  which  present  a  larger  surface  for 
absorption,  and  have  ample  and  cellulated  colons. 
The  coecum  also,  though  short,  is  larger  than  that  of 


I  Cuvier,  Lecons  d'Anat.  Comp.  torn.  iii.  page  '. 
448,  465,  4S0.    Rces's  Cyclppsdia,  article  Man. 
385 


9,373, 


138 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


carnivorous  animals  ;  and  even  here  the  orang-outang 
retains  its  accustomed  similarity. 
.  The  structure  of  the  human  frame  then  is  that  of 
one  fitted  to  a  pure  vegetable  diet,  in  every  essential 
particular.  It  is  true,  that  the  reluctance  to  abstain 
from  animal  food,  in  those  who  have  been  long  ac- 
customed to  its  slimulus,  is  so  great  in  some  persons 
of  weak  minds,  as  to  bo  scarcely  overcome ;  but  this 
is  far  from  bringing  any  argument  in  its  favor.  A 
lamb,  wliich  was  fed  for  some  time  on  flesh  by  a 
ship's  crew,  refused  its  natural  diet  at  the  end  of  the 
voyage.  There  are  numerous  instances  of  horses, 
sheep,  oxen,  and  even  wood-pigeons,  having  been 
taught  to  live  upon  flesh,  until  they  have  lothed  their 
natural  aliment.  Young  children  evidently  prefer 
pastry,  oranges,  apples,  and  other  fruit,  to  the  flesh 
of  animals;  until,  by  the  gradual  depravation  of  the 
digestive  organs,  the  free  use  of  vegetables  has  for  a 
time  produced  serious  inconveniences ;  for  a  time,  I 
say,  since  there  never  was  an  instance  wherein  a 
change  from  spirituous  liquors  and  animal  food  to 
vegetables  and  pure  water,  has  failed  ultimately  to 
invigorate  the  body,  by  rendering  its  juices  bland 
and  consentaneous,  and  to  restore  to  the  mind  that 
cheerfulness  and  elasticity,  which  not  one  in  flfly 
possesses  on  the  present  system.  A  love  of  strong 
liquors  is  also  with  di/licully  taught  to  infants.  Al- 
most every  one  remembers  the  wry  faces  which  the 
first  glass  of  port  produced.  Unsophisticated  instinct 
is  invariably  unerring ;  but  to  decide  on  the  fitness 
of  animal  food,  from  the  perverted  appetites  which 
its  constrained  adoption  produces,  is  to  make  the 
criminal  a  judge  in  his  own  cause  :  it  is  even  worse, 
it  is  appealing  to  the  infatuated  drunkard  in  a  ques- 
tion of  the  salubrity  of  brandy. 

What  is  the  cause  of  morbid  action  in  the  animal 
system  ?  Not  the  air  we  lircathe,  Ibr  our  fellow-deni- 
zens of  nature  breathe  the  same  uninjured  ;  not  the 
water  we  drink,  (if  remote  from  the  pollutions  of 
man  and  his  inventions,*)  for  the  animals  drink  it  too; 
not  the  earth  we  tread  upon ;  not  the  unobseured 
sight  of  glorious  nature,  in  the  wood,  the  field,  or  the 
expanse  of  sky  and  ocean ;  nothing  that  we  are  or 
do  in  common  with  the  imdiseased  inhabitants  of  the 
forest.  Something  then  wherein  we  differ  from  them : 
our  habit  of  altering  our  food  by  fire,  so  that  our  ap- 
petite is  no  longer  a  just  criterion  for  the  fitness  of  its 
gratification.  Except  in  children,  there  remain  nq 
traces  of  that  instinct  which  determines,  in  all"  other 
animals,  what  aliment  is  natural  or  otherwise ;  and 
so  perfectly  obliterated  are  tliey  in  the  reasoning  adults 
of  our  species,  that  it  has  become  necessary  to  urge 
consideraiiotis  drawn  from  comparative  anatomy  to 
prove  that  we  are  naturally  frugivorous.        ^ 

Crime  is  madness.  Madness  is  disease.  Whenever 
the  cause  of  disease  shall  he  discovered,  the  root, 
from  which  all  vice  and  misery  have  so  long  over- 
shadowed the  globe,  will  lie  bare  to  the  ax.  All  the 
exertions  of  man,  from  that  moment,  may  be  consid- 
ered as  tending  to  the  clear  profit  of  his  species.  No 
sane  mind  in  a  sane  body  resolves  upon  a  real 
crime.    It  is  a  man  of  violent  passions,  blood-shot 


*  The  necessity  of  resorting  to  some,  means  of  purifying 
water,  and  the  disease  wtiich  arises  from  its  adulteration 
in  civilized  countries,  is  sufficiently  apparent.— See  Dr. 
Lambe's  Reports  on  Cancer.  I  do  not  assert  that  the  use 
of  water  is  in  itself  unnatural,  but  that  the  unperverted 
palate  would  swallow  no  liquid  capable  of  occasioning 
disease. 


eyes,  and  swollen  veins,  that  alone  can  grasp  the 
knife  of  murder.  The  system  of  a  simple  diet  prom- 
ises no  Utopian  advantages.  It  is  no  mere  reform  of 
legislation,  whilst  the  furious  passions  and  evil  pror 
pensities  of  the  human  heart,  in  which  it  had  its 
origin,  are  still  unassuaged.  It  strikes  at  the  root  of 
all  evil,  and  is  an  experiment  which  may  be  tried 
with  success,  not  alone  by  nations,  but  by  small  so- 
cieties, families,  and  even  individuals.  In  no  case 
has  a  return  to  vegetable  diet  produced  the  slightest 
injury;  in  most  it  has  been  attended  with  changes 
undeniably  beneficial.  Should  ever  a  physician  be 
bom  with  the  genius  of  Locke,  I  am  persuaded  that 
he  might  trace  all  bodily  and  mental  derangements 
to  our  unnatural  habits,  as  clearly  as  that  philosopher 
has  traced  all  knowledge  to  sensation.  What  prolific 
sources  of  disease  are  not  those  mineral  and  vegeta- 
ble poisons  that  have  been  introduced  for  its  extirpa- 
tion !  How  many  thousands  have  become  murderers 
and  robbers,  bigots  and  domestic  tyrants,  dissolute 
and  abandoned  adventurers,  from  the  use  of  fer- 
mented liquors!  who,  had  they  slaked  their  thirst 
only  with  pure  water,  would  have  lived  but  to  dif- 
fuse the  happiness  of  their  own  unperverted  feelings. 
How  many  groundless  opinions  and  absurd  institutions 
have  not  received  a  general  sanction  from  the  sot- 
tishuess  and  intemperance  of  individuals !  Who  will 
assert  that,  had  the  populace  of  Paris  satisfied  their 
hunger  at  the  ever-furnished  table  of  vegetable 
nature,  they  would  have  lent  their  brutal  sufl[rage  to 
tjie  proscription-list  of  Robespierre  ?  Could  a  set  of 
men,  whose  passions  were  not  perverted  by  unnatu- 
ral stimuli,  look  with  coolness  on  an  auto  da  f e  ?  Is 
it  to  be  believed  that  a  being  of  gentle  feelings, 
rising  from  his  meal  of  roots,  would  take  delight  in 
sports  of  blood  ?  Was  Nero  a  man  of  temperate 
life  ?  could  you  read  calm  health  in  his  cheek,  flushed 
with  ungovernable  propensities  of  hatred  for  the 
human  race  ?  Did  Muley  Ismael's  pulse  beat  evenly, 
was  his  skin  transparent,  did  his  eyes  beam  with 
healthfulness,  arid  its  invariable  concomitants,  cheer- 
fulness and  benignity?  Though  historj' has  decided 
none  of  these  questions,  a  child  could  not  hesitate  to 
answer  in  the  negative.  Surely  the  bile-suffused 
check  of  Bonaparte,  his  wrinkled  brow,  and  yellow 
eye,  the  ceaseless  inquietude  of  his  nervous  system, 
speak  no  less  plainly  the  character  of  his  unresting 
ambition  than  his  murders  and  his  victories.  It  is 
impossible,  had  Bonaparte  descended  from  a  race  of 
vegetable  feeders,  that  he  could  have  had  either  the 
inclination  or  the  power  to  ascend  the  throne  of  the 
Bourbons.  The  desire  of  tyranny  cotild  scarcely  be 
excited  in  the  individual,  the  power  to  tyrannize 
would  certainly  not  be  delegated  by  a  society  neither 
frenzied  by  inebriarion  nor  rendered  impotent  and 
irrational  by  disease.  Pregnant  indeed  with  inex- 
haustible calamity  is  the  renunciation  of  instinct,  as 
it  concerns  our  physical  nature ;  arithmetic  cannot 
enumerate,  nor  reason  perhaps  suspect,  the  multitu- 
dinous sources  of  disease  in  civilized  life.  Even 
common  water,  that  apparently  innoxious  pabulum 
when  corrupted  by  the  filih  of  populous  cities,  is  a 
deadly  and  insidious  destroyer.*  Wlio  can  wonder 
tliat  all  the  inducements  held  out  hy  God  himself  in 
the  Bible  to  virtue  should  have  been  vainer  than  a 
nurse's  tale;  and  that  those  dogmas,  by  which  he  has 
there  excited  and  justified  the  most  ferocious  propen. 


*  Lambe's  Reports  on  Cancer. 
386 


aUEEN  MAB. 


139 


sities,  should  have  alone  been  deemed  essential  ; 
whilst  Christians  are  in  the  daily  practice  of  all  those 
habits,  which  have  infected  with  disease  and  crime, 
not  only  the  reprobate  sons,  but  those  favored  chil- 
dren of  the  common  Father's  love?  Omnipotence 
itself  could  not  save  them  from  the  consequences  of 
this  original  and  univereal  sin. 

There  is  no  disease,  bodily  or  mental,  which  adop- 
tion of  vegetable  diet  and  pure  water  has  not  infalli- 
bly mitigated,  wherever  the  experiment  has  been 
fairly  tried.  DebiUty  is  gradually  converted  into 
strength,  disease  into  healthfulness  ;  madness,  in  all 
its  hideous  variety,  from  the  ravings  of  the  fettered 
maniac,  to  the  unaccountable  irrationalities  of  ill 
temper,  that  make  a  hell  of  domestic  life,  into  a  calm 
and  considerate  evenness  of  temper,  that  alone  might 
offer  a  certain  pledge  of  the  future  moral  reformation 
of  society.  On  a  natural  system  of  diet,  old  age 
would  be  our  last  and  our  only  malady ;  the  term  of 
our  existence  would  be  protracted  ;  we  should  enjoy 
life,  and  no  longer  preclude  others  from  the  enjoy- 
ment of  it ;  all  sensational  delights  would  be  infi- 
nitel}'  more  exquisite  and  perfect ;  the  very  sense  of 
being  would  then  be  a  continued  pleasure,  such  as 
we  now  feel  it  in  some  few  and  favored  moments  of 
our  youth.  By  all  that  is  sacred  in  our  hopes  for 
the  human  race,  I  conjure  those  who  love  happiness 
and  truth,  to  give  a  fair  trial  to  the  vegetable  sptem. 
Reasoning  is  surely  superfluous  on  a  subject  whose 
merits  an  experience  of  six  months  would  set  for 
ever  at  rest.  But  it  is  only  among  the  enlightened 
and  benevolent  that  so  great  a  sacrifice  of  appetite 
and  prejudice  can  be  expected,  even  though  its  ulti- 
mate excellence  should  not  admit  of  dispute.  It  is 
found  easier,  by  the  short-sighted  victims  of  disea.se, 
to  palliate  their  torments  by  medicine,  than  to  pre- 
vent them  by  regimen.  The  vulgar  of  all  ranks  are  in- 
variably sensual  and  indocile  ;  yet  I  cannot  but  feel 
myself  persuaded,  that  when  tjie  benefits  of  vegeta- 
ble diet  are  mathematically  proved ;  when  it  is  as 
clear,  that  those  who  live  naturally  are  exempt 
fiom  premature  death,  as  that  nine  is  not  one,  tlie 
most  sottish  of  mankind  will  feel  a  preference  to- 
wards a  long  and  tranquil,  contrasted  with  a  short  and 
painful  life.  On  an  average,  out  of  sixty  persons, 
four  die  in  three  years.  Hopes  are  entertained  that, 
in  April  1814,  a  statement  will  be  given,  that  si.xty 
persons,  all  having  lived  more  than  three  years  on 
vegetables  and  pure  water,  are  then  in  perfect  heallh. 
More  than  two  yeais  have  now  elapsed  ;  not  one  of 
them  has  died  ;  no  such  example  will  be  found  in  any 
sixty  persons  taken  at  random.  Seventeen  persons 
of  all  ages  (the  families  of  Dr.  Lamb  and  Mr.  New- 
ton) have  lived  for  seven  years  on  this  diet  without 
a  death,  and  almost  without  the  slightest  illness.  Sure- 
ly, when  we  consider  that  some  of  lhe.se  were  infants, 
and  one  a  martyr  to  asthma  now  nearly  subdued,  we 
may  challenge  any  seventeen  persons  taken  at  ran- 
dom in  this  city  to  exhibit  a  parallel  case.  Those 
who  have  been  excited  to  question  the  rectitude  of 
established  habits  of  diet,  by  these  loose  remarks, 
sliould  consult  Mr.  Newton's  luminous  and  eloquent 
essay.*  "" 

When  these  proofs  come  fairly  before  the  world, 
and  are  clearly  seen  by  all  who  understand  arithmetic. 


*  "  Return  to  Nature,  or  Defence  of  Vegetable  Regimen.' 
Cadell,  1811. 


it  is  scarcely  possible  that  abstinence  from  aliments 
demonstrably  pernicious  should  not  become  univer- 
sal. In  proportion  to  the  number  of  proselytes,  so 
will  be  the  weight  of  evidence ;  and  when  a  thou- 
sand persons  can  be  produced,  living  on  vegetables 
and  distilled  water,  who  have  to  dread  no  disease  but 
old  age,  the  world  will  be  compelled  to  regard  ani- 
mal flesh  and  fermented  liquore  as  slow  but  certain 
poisons.  The  change  which  would  be  produced  by 
simpler  habits  on  political  economy  is  sufficiently  re- 
markable. The  monopolizing  eater  of  animal  flesh 
would  no  longer  destroy  his  constitution  by  devouring 
an  acre  at  a  meal,  and  many  loaves  of  bread  would 
cease  to  contribute  to  gout,  madness  and  apoplexy, 
in  the  shape  of  a  pint  of  porter,  or  a  dram  of  gin, 
when  appeasing  the  long-protracted  famine  of  the 
hard-working  peasant's  hungry  babes.  The  quantity  of 
nutritious  vegetable  matter,  consumed  in  fattening  the 
carcass  of  an  ox,  would  afford  ten  times  the  sustenance, 
undepraving  indeed,  and  incapable  of  generating  dis- 
ease, if  gathered  immediately  from  the  bosom  of  the 
earth.  The  most  fertile  districts  of  the  habitable  globe 
are  now  actually  cultivated  by  men  for  animals,  at  a 
delay  and  waste  of  aliment  absolutely  incapable  of 
calculation.  It  is  only  the  wealthy  that  can,  to  any 
great  degree,  even  now,  indulge  the  minatural  cra- 
ving for  dead  flesh,  and  they  pay  for  the  greater 
license  of  the  privilege  by  subjection  to  supernu- 
merary diseases.  Again,  the  spirit  of  tlie  nation  that 
should  lake  the  lead  in  this  great  reform,  would  in- 
sensibly become  agricultural ;  commerce,  with  all  its 
vice,  selfishness  and  corruption,  would  gradually  de- 
cline ;  nwre  natural  habits  would  produce  gentler 
manners,  and  the  excessive  comphcaUon  of  political 
relations  would  be  so  far  simplified,  that  every  indi- 
vidual might  feel  and  understand  why  he  loved  his 
country,  and  took  a  personal  interest  in  its  welfare. 
How  would  England,  for  example,  depend  on  the 
caprices  of  foreign  rulers,  if  she  contained  within 
herself  all  the  necessaries  and  despised  whatever 
ihey  possessed  of  the  luxuries  of  life  ?  IIow  could 
they  slarve  her  into  compliance  with  their  views' 
Of  what  consequence  would  it  be  that  they  refused 
to  take  her  woollen  manufactures,  when  large  and 
fertile  tracts  of  the  island  ceased  to  be  allotted  to  the 
waste  of  pasturage  ?  On  a  natural  system  of  diet,  we 
should  require  no  spices  from  India;  no  wines  from 
Portugal,  Spain,  France,  or  Madeira;  none  of  those 
multitudinous  articles  of  luxury,  for  whicii  every 
corner  of  the  globe  is  rifled,  and  which  are  the  causes 
of  so  much  individual  rivalship,  such  calamitous  and 
sanguinary  national  disputes.  In  tlie  historj'  of  mod- 
ern times,  the  avarice  of  commercial  monopoly,  no 
less  than  the  ambition  of  weak  and  wicked  chiefs, 
seems  lo  have  fomented  the  universal  discord,  to 
have  added  stubbornness  to  the  mistakes  of  cabinets, 
and  indocility  to  the  infal nation  of  the  people.  Let 
it  ever  be  remembered,  that  it  is  the  direct  influence 
of  commerce  to  make  the  interval  between  the  rich- 
est and  the  poorest  man  wider  and  more  unconquer- 
able. Let  it  be  remembered,  that  it  is  a  foe  to  every 
thing  of  real  worth  and  excellence  in  the  human 
character.  The  odious  and  disgusting  aristocracy 
of  wealth  is  built  upon  the  ruins  of  all  that  is  good 
in  chivalry  or  republicanism ;  and  luxury  is  the  fore- 
runner of  a  barbarism  scarce  capable  of  cure.  Is  it 
impossible  to  realize  a  state  of  society,  where  all  the 
energies  of  man  shall  be  directed  to  the  production 
of  his  solid  happiness?  Certainly,  if  this  advantage 
387 


140 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


(the  object  of  all  political  speculation)  be  in  any 
degree  attainable,  it  is  attainable  only  by  a  commu- 
nity, which  holds  out  no  factitious  incentives  to  the 
avarice  and  ambition  of  the  few,  and  which  is  inter- 
nally organized  for  the  liberty,  security  and  comfort 
of  the  many.  None  must  be  intrusted  with  power 
(and  money  is  the  completest  species  of  power)  who 
do  not  stand  pledged  to  use  it  exclusively  for  the 
general  benefit.  But  the  use  of  animal  flesh  and 
fermented  liquors,  directly  militates  with  this  equal- 
ity of  the  riglils  of  man.  The  peasant  cannot  gratify 
these  fashionable  cravings  without  leaving  his  family 
to  starve.  Without  disease  and  war,  those  sweeping 
curtailers  of  population,  pasturage  would  include  a 
waste  too  great  to  be  afforded.  The  labor  requisite 
to  support  a  family  is  far  lighter*  than  is  usually 
supposed.  The  peasantry  work,  not  only  for  them- 
selves, but  for  the  aristocracy,  the  army,  and  the  man- 
ufacturers. 

The  advantage  of  a  reform  in  diet  is  obviously 
greater  than  that  of  any  other.  It  strikes  at  the  root 
of  the  evil.  To  remedy  the  abuses  of  legislation, 
before  we  annihilate  the  propensities  by  which  they 
are  produced,  is  to  suppose,  that  by  taking  away  the 
effect,  the  cause  will  cease  to  operate.  But  the  effi- 
cacy of  this  system  depends  entirely  on  the  prose- 
lylism  of  individuals,  and  grounds  its  merits,  as  a 
benefit  to  the  community,  upon  the  total  change  of 
the  dietetic  habits  in  its  members.  It  proceeds  se- 
curely from  a  number  of  particular  cases  to  one  that 
is  univemal,  and  has  this  advantage  over  the  contra- 
ry mode,  that  one  error  does  not  invalidate  all  that 
has  gone  before. 

Let  not  too  much  however  be  expected  from  this 
system.  The  healthiest  among  us  is  not  e.xempt  from 
hereditary  disease.  The  most  symmetrical,  athletic, 
and  long-lived,  is  a  being  inexpressibly  inferior  to 
what  he  would  have  been,  had  not  the  unnatural 
habits  of  his  ancestors  accumulated  for  him  a  certain 
portion  of  malady  and  deformity.  In  the  most  per- 
fect specimen  of  civilized  man,  something  is  still 
found  wanting  by  the  physiological  critic.  Can  a 
return  to  nature,  then,  instantaneously  eracidate  pre- 
dispositions that  have  been  slowly  taking  root  in  the 
silence  of  inninuerable  ages?— Indubitably  not.  All 
that  I  contend  for  is,  that  from  the  moment  of  the 
relinquishing  all  unnatural  habits,  no  new  disease  is 
generated  :  and  that  the  predisposition  to  hereditary 
maladies  gradually  perishes,  for  want  of  its  accustom- 
ed supply.  In  cases  of  consumption,  cancer,  gout, 
asthma,  and  scrofula,  such  is  the  invariable  tendency 
of  a  diet  of  vegetables  and  pure  water. 

Those  uho  may  be  induced  by  these  emarks  to 
give  the  vegetable  system  a  fair  trial,  should,  in  the 
first  place,  dale  the  commencement  of  their  practice 
from  the  moment  of  their  conviction.  All  depends 
upon  breaking  through  a  pernicious  habit  resolutely 
and  at  once.  Dr.  Trottert  asserts,  that  no  drunkard 
was  ever  reformed    by  gradually  relinquishing  his 


*  It  has  come  under  the  author's  experience,  that  some 
of  the  workmen  on  an  embankment  in  North  Wales,  who, 
in  consequence  nf  the  inability  of  the  proprietor  to  pay 
them,  seldom  received  their  vvascs,  have  supported  large 
families  by  cnltivatini;  small  spots  of  sterile  ground  by 
moonlight.  In  the  notes  to  Pratt's  Poem,  "  Bread  of  the 
Poor,"  is  an  account  of  an  imliistrions  laborer,  who,  by 
working  in  a  small  garden,  before  and  after  his  day's 
task,  attained  to  an  enviable  state  of  independence. 

■f  See  Trotter  on  the  Nervous  Temperament. 


dram.  Animal  flesh,  in  its  effects  on  the  human 
stomach,  is  analogous  to  a  dram.  It  is  similar  to  tho 
kind,  though  differing  in  the  degree,  of  its  operation 
The  proselyte  to  a  pure  diet  must  be  warned  to  ex- 
pect a  temporary  diminution  of  muscular  strength. 
The  subtraction  of  a  powerful  stimulus  will  suffice 
to  account  for  this  event.  But  it  is  only  temporary, 
and  is  succeeded  by  an  equable  capability  for  exer- 
tion, far  surpassing  his  former  various  and  fluctuating 
strength.  Above  all,  he  will  acquire  an  easiness  of 
breathing,  by  which  such  exertion  is  performed,  with 
a  remarkable  exemption  from  that  painful  and  diffi- 
cult panting  now  felt  by  almost  every  one,  after 
hastily  climbing  an  ordinary  mountain.  He  will  be 
equally  capable  of  bodily  exertion,  or  menial  appli- 
cation, after  as  before  his  simple  meal.  He  will  feel 
none  of  the  narcotic  effects  of  ordinary  diet.  Irrita- 
bility, the  direct  consequence  of  exhausting  stimuli, 
\'\ould  yield  to  the  power  of  natural  and  tranquil 
impulses.  lie  will  no  longer  pine  under  the  lethargy 
of  ennui,  that  unconquerable  weariness  of  life,  more 
to  be  dreaded  than  death  itself  He  v^ill  escape  the 
epidemic  madness,  which  broods  over  its  own  injuri- 
ous notions  of  the  Deity,  and  "  realizes  the  hell  that 
priests  and  beldams  feign."  Every  man  forms  as  it 
were  his  god  from  his  own  character ;  to  the  divinity 
of  one  of  simple  habits,  no  oflering  would  be  more 
acceptable  than  the  happiness  of  his  creatures.  He 
would  be  incapable  of  hating  or  persecuting  others 
for  the  love  of  God.  He  will  find,  moreover,  a  sys- 
tem of  simple  diet  to  be  a  system  of  perfect  epi- 
curism. He  will  no  longer  be  incessantly  occupied 
in  blunting  and  destroying  those  organs  from  which 
he  expects  his  gratification.  The  pleasures  of  taste 
to  be  derived  from  a  dinner  of  potatoes,  beans,  peas, 
turnips,  lettuces,  with  a  dessert  of  apples,  gooseber- 
ries, strawberries,  currants,  raspberries,  and, in  winter, 
oranges,  apples  and  pears,  is  far  greater  than  is  sup- 
posed. Those  who  wait  until  they  can  eat  this  plain 
fare  with  the  sauce  of  appetite  will  scarcely  join 
with  the  hypocritical  sensualist  at  a  lord-mayor's 
feast,  who  declaims  against  the  pleasures  of  the  table. 
Solomon  kept  a  thousand  concubines,  and  owned  in 
despair  that  all  was  vanity.  The  man  v/hose  hap- 
piness is  constituted  by  the  society  of  one  amiable 
woman,  would  find  some  difficulty  in  sympathizing 
wilh  the  disappointment  of  this  venerable  debauchee. 
I  address  myself  not  only  to  the  young  enthusiast, 
the  ardent  devotee  of  truth  and  virtue,  the  pure  and 
passionate  moralist,  yet  unvitiated  by  the  contagion 
of  the  world.  He  will  embrace  a  pure  system,  from 
its  abstract  truth,  its  beauty,  its  simplicity,  and  its 
promise  of  wide-extended  benefit;  unless  custom  has 
turned  poison  into  food,  he  will  hate  the  brutal  pleas- 
ures of  the  chase  by  instinct ;  it  will  be  a  contem- 
plation full  of  horror  and  disappointment  to  liis  mind, 
that  beings  capable  of  the  gentlest  and  most  admira- 
ble sympathies,  should  take  delight  in  the  death- 
pangs  and  last  convulsions  of  dying  animals.  The 
elderly  man,  whose  youth  has  been  poisoned  by  in- 
temperance, or  w  ho  has  lived  with  apparent  modera- 
tion, and  is  affiicted  with  a  variety  of  painful  mala- 
dies, would  find  his  account  in  a  beneficial  change 
produced  without  the  risk  of  poisonous  medicines. 
The  mother,  to  whom  the  perpetual  restlessness 
of  disease,  and  unaccountable  deaths  incident  to 
her  children,  are  the  causes  of  incurable  unhap- 
pine-ss,  would  on  this  diet  experience  the  satisfaction 
of  beholding  their  perpetual  health  and  natural 
388 


ALASTOR. 


141 


playfulness*  The  most  valuable  lives  are  daily  de- 
Btroyed  by  diseases,  that  it  is  dangerous  to  palliate 
and  impossible  to  cure  by  medicine.  How  much 
longer  will  man  continue  to  pirn))  for  the  gluttony  of 
death,  his  most  insidious,  implacable,  and  eternal 
foe? 

'AXAo  ipoKtivTas  aypioi's  (caXtTrt  Kai  vap6t\{is  Kai 
XiovTos,  avToi  Ss  ixiaipoveiri  d;  ufxdTijTa  Kara^iirovTes 
iiceivois  ovSev.  iKCivois  fitv  b  <p6vos  rpoipti,  r}jHV  6i  cipov 
iarlv. 

****** 

On  yap  ovK  toTiv  avOpdnro^i  Kara  (pvatv  T6<TapK0<payuv, 
TTpiir$r  ftiv   and  twv  aw/zdroii/  irjXovrai  r^j  KaTaaKcvt]^. 


*  See  Mr.  Newton's  bonk.  His  children  are  the  most 
beautiful  and  healthy  creatures  it  is  possible  to  conceive ; 
the  girls  are  perfect  models  for  a  sculptor;  their  disposi- 
tions are  also  the  most  gentle  and  conciliating ;  the  judi- 
cious treatment,  which  they  experience  in  other  points, 
may  be  a  correlative  cause  of  this.  In  the  first  five  years 
of  their  life,  of  18,000  children  that  are  born,  7,500  die  of 
various  diseases ;  and  how  many  more  of  those  that  sur- 
vive are  not  rendered  miserable  by  maladies  not  immedi- 
ately mortal?  The  quality  and  quantity  of  a  woman's 
milk  are  materially  injured  by  the  use  of  dead  flesh.  In 
an  island  near  Iceland,  where  no  vegetables  are  to  be  got, 
the  children  invariably  die  of  tetaruis,  bnfore  they  are 
three  weeks  old,  and  the  population  is  supplied  from  the 
main  land. — Sir  G.  Mackenzie's  Hist,  of  Iceland.  See  also 
EmiU,  chap.  i.  pages  53,  54, 56. 


Ovhv  yap  loiKt  ri  avOpSirov  aSita  nov  enl  aapKO(pay'i<f 
ytyoi'drwv,  ov,  ^punrdrri;  j^ciXouf,  ovK  i^vTrj^  Svv^Oi  ov 
Tpa^VTi]g  (JtViTwi'  Trpdaeariv,  ov  fcoiXiaf  cvTOvt'a,  Kai  Tzviv- 
ftaro;  &cpij6rns,  rpi^pai,  Kai  KaTipydaadOai  lixivaTi)  t6  (iapu 
Kai  Kptiodc;  ;  dXX'  avrdOcv  ly  ibvcrii  Ttj  Xtidn/ri  T(i)v  didvTiaVf 
Kai  TT)  a^iKporriTi  too  aopdro;,  Kai  rr/  jiaXaKdTtjTi  rijj 
y)nia(7t]s,  Kai  ttj  -Kpo;  rriipiv  apSXvrriTi  Tov  Tviv/taTo;, 
e^OfivvTai  rfiv  (TapKo(payidv.  Ei  St.  \cyels  itc^vKivai  acav 
TOV  iTTi  TOiauTijv  (SwSrjv,  0  fio'oyci  (payuv,  irpdrov  avros 
aTTdKTCivov.  dXX'  avrSg,  iiii  (TtavTou  fin  ^prjadjitvo;  KoniSrj, 
pnSe  TviJ-rravo^  fiij^f  ttcMkci.  a)^\a  o>;  Xvkoi,  Kai  apKTOt,  /cat 
Xcdvi?  avToi  (US  £a(t>ioviTt  (povcvovuiv,  avc\c  irjyfiaTi  fiovv, 
tj  aiijiari  avv,  rj  apva  ij  Xayiaov  Sidpprj^ov,  Kai  (pdye  Tpoa- 
Tttaiiv  c~i  fwiTo;  (ogiKuva. 

****** 

HpLUs  5f  ovToi;  ev  tii)  fiianphvu^  Tpv^Hpttv,  SiaTt  Sxpov  rb 
Kpiai  TTpoaayoptvojitv,  lira  o\pi>>v  ~l>os  avrd  to  Kpias  Sio' 
liida,  avajjuyrvvTzs  tXaiov,  olvov,  ///X(,  ydpov,  S^oi,  ri  6ia- 
jiatji  yivpiaKot;,  'A/)/5a6iKor?,  winztp  ovTiitg  vcKpSv,  ivTa(l>i- 
a^ovTCi.  Kat  yap  era);  avTutv  8iaXv<pivTu>v  Kai  na\a^(piv- 
Tojv  Kai  TpoTTOV  Tivd  KpivaaT(vvT(j)v  epyov  iori  rr/v  nlxpiv 
KpaTT](xai  Kai  SiaKpaTi]9iiur]S  ^f  Scivdg  (iaovTijTai  iitrroiu 
Kat  vocwici?  aiTtij-'idi. 

O'iiTd}  TO  vpioTOV  liypiov  ti  ^dov  tSpi'odi]  Kai  KaKOvpyov 
cira  opvis  ns  Ij  Ix^^S  ciXKviTTO'  Kai  ycvoixcvov,  ovto  Kai 
vpoixtXeTT]<!av  ev  iKcivoig  to  vikovv  fVi  fSotJv  IpyaTrjV  >;X0£, 
Kai  TO  Koapov  irpoSaTov  nai  tov  olKovpov  dXcKTpvova'  Kai 
KarapiKpbv  ovto  T)]V  aTiXrjcrTidv  -noviicavTiij  eincr(payai. 
avOpwirdv,  Kai  fovov;  Kai  -KoXifiovi  -/rporiXBtv. 

nXoiT.  -azpi  Tir;  aapKoiJ>aXias> 


ma^tor;  or  ttic  <^|)uit  of  ^olfttitrc^ 


Nondum  amabam,  et  amare  amabam,  qusrebam  quid  amarem  amans  amare. 

Confess.  St.  August. 


PREFACE. 


The  poem  entitled  "  Alastor,"  may  be  considered  as 
allegorical  of  one  of  the  most  interesting  situations 
of  the  human  mind.  It  represents  a  youth  of  uncor- 
rupted  feelings  and  adventui-ous  genius  led  forth  by 
an  imagination  inflamed  and  purified  through  fami- 
liarity with  all  that  is  excellent  and  majestic,  to  the 
contemplation  of  the  universe.  He  drinks  deep  of 
the  fountains  of  knowledge,  and  is  still  insatiate. 
The  magnificence  and  beauty  of  the  external  world 
sinks  profoundly  into  the  frame  of  his  conceptions, 
and  aflbrds  to  their  modifications  a  variety  not  to  be 
exhausted,  So  long  as  it  is  possible  for  his  desires 
to  point  towards  objects  thus  infinite  and  unmeasured, 
he  is  joyous,  and  tranquil,  and  selfpossessed.  But 
the  period  arrives  when  these  objects  cease  to  suf 
fice.  His  mind  is  at  length  suddenly  awakened,  and 
thirsts  for  intercourse  with  an  intelligence  similar  to 
itself.  He  images  to  himself  the  being  whom  he 
loves  conversant  with  speculations  of  the  snblimest 
and  most  perfect  natures,  the   vision  in  which  he 


embodies  his  own  imaginations  unites  all  of  wonder 
fal,  or  wise,  or  beautiful,  which  the  poet,  the  philoso- 
pher, or  the  lover  could  depicture.  The  intellectual 
faculties,  the  imagination,  the  functions  of  sense,  have 
their  respective  requisitions  on  the  sympathy  of  cor- 
responding powers  in  other  human  beings.  The  Poet 
is  represented  as  uniting  these  requisitions,  and  at- 
taching them  to  a  single  image.  He  seeks  in  vain 
for  a  prototype  of  his  conception.  Blasted  by  hia 
disappointment,  he  descends  to  an  untimely  grave. 
The  picture  is  not  barren  of  instruction  to  actual 
men.  The  Poet's  self  centred  seclusion  was  avenged 
by  the  furies  of  an  irresistible  passion  pursuing  him 
to  speedy  ruin.  But  that  power  which  strikes  the 
luminaries  of  the  •world  with  sudden  darkness  and 
extinction,  by  awakening  them  to  too  exquisite  a  per- 
ception of  its  influences,  dooms  to  a  slow  and  poison- 
ous decay  those  meaner  spirits  that  dare  to  abjure  its 
dominion.  Their  destiny  is  more  abject  and  inglori- 
ous, as  their  delinquency  is  more  contemptible  and 
pernicious.  They  who,  deluded  by  no  generous  er- 
ror, instigated  by  no  sacred  thirst  of  doubtful  know- 
ledge, duped  by  no  illustriou.s  superstition,  loving 
nothing  on  this  earth,  and  cherishing  no  hopes  be- 
yond, vet  keep  aloof  from  sympathies  with  their  kind 
51  389 


142 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


rejoicing  neither  in  human  joy  nor  mourning  with 
human  grief;  these,  and  such  as  they,  have  tlieir 
apportioned  curse.  They  languish,  because  none 
feel  with  them  their  common  nature.  They  are 
morally  dead.  They  are  neither  friends,  nor  lovers, 
nor  fathers,  nor  citizens  of  the  world,  nor  benefactors 
li'  thf.ie  country.  Among  those  who  attempt  to  exist 
without  human  sympathy,  the  pure  and  tender-hearted 
perish  through  the  intensity  and  passion  of  their 
search  after  its  communities,  when  the  vacancy  of 
their  spirit  suddenly  makes  itself  felt.  All  else,  sel- 
fish, blind,  and  torpid,  are  those  unforeseeing  multi- 
tudes who  constitute,  together  with  their  own,  the 
lasting  misery  and  loneliness  of  the  world.  Those 
vv.ho  love  not  their  fellow-beings,  live  unfruitful  lives, 
and  prepare  for  their  old  age  a  miserable  grave. 

The  good  die  tirst, 
And  those  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer's  dust, 
Burn  to  the  socket ! 

December  14,  1815. 


ALASTOR; 
OR,  THE  SPIRIT  OF  SOLITUDE. 


Earth,  ocean,  air,  beloved  brotherhood! 
If  our  great  Mother  has  imbued  my  soul 
With  aught  of  natural  piety  to  feel 
Your  love,  and  recompense  the  boon  with  mine  ; 
If  dewy  morn,  and  odorous  noon,  and  even, 
With  sunset  and  its  gorgeous  ministers. 
And  solemn  midnight's  tingling  silenlness  ; 
f  autumn's  hollow  sighs  in  the  sere  wood. 
And  winter  robing  with  pure  snow  and  crowns 
Of  starry  ice  the  gray  grass  and%are  boughs ; 
If  spring's  voluptuous  pantings  when  she  breathes 
Her  first  sweet  kisses,  have  been  dear  to  me  ; 
If  no  bright  bird,  insect  or  gentle  beast 
I  consciously  have  injured,  but  still  loved 
And  cherish'd  these  my  kindred  ; — then  forgive 
This  boast,  beloved  brethren,  and  withdraw 
No  portion  of  your  wonted  iiivor  now ! 

Mother  of  this  unfathomable  world  ! 
Favor  my  solemn  song,  for  I  have  loved 
Thee  ever,  and  thee  only;  I  iiave  watch'd 
Thy  shadow,  and  the  darkness  of  thy  steps. 
And  my  heart  ever  gazes  on  the  depth 
Of  thy  deep  mysteries.     I  have  made  my  bed 
In  charnels  and  on  coffins,  where  black  death 
Keeps  record  of  the  trophies  won  from  thee, 
Hoping  to  still  these  obstinate  questionings 
Of  thee  and  thine,  by  forcing  some  lone  ghost, 
Thy  messenger,  to  render  up  the  tale 
Of  what  we  are.     In  lone  and  silent  hours. 
When  night  makes  a  weird  sound  of  its  own  stillness. 
Like  an  inspired  and  desperate  alchemyst 
Staking  his  very  life  on  some  dark  hope. 
Have  I  mix'd  awful  talk  and  asking  looks 
With  my  most  innocent  love,  until  strange  tears, 
Uniting  with  those  breathless  kisses,  made 
Such  magic  as  compels  the  charmed  night 
To  render  up  thy  charge  :  and,  though  ne'er  yet 
Thou  hast  unveil'd  thy  inmost  sanctuary, 


Enough  from  incommunicable  drearn. 

And  twilight  phantasms,  and  deep  noonday  thought 

Has  shone  within  me,  that  serenely  now, 

And  moveless  as  a  long-forgotten  lyre, 

Suspended  in  the  solitary  dome 

Of  some  mysterious  and  deserted  fane, 

I  wait  thy  breath.  Great  Parent,  that  my  strain 

May  modulate  with  murmurs  of  the  air. 

And  motions  of  the  forest  and  the  sea. 

And  voice  of  living  beings,  and  woven  hymns 

Of  night  and  day,  and  the  deep  heart  of  man. 

There  was  a  Poet  whose  untimely  tomb 
No  human  hands  with  pious  reverence  rear'd. 
But  the  charm'd  eddies  of  autumnal  winds 
Built  o'er  his  mouldering  bones  a  pyramid 
Of  mouldering  leaves  in  the  waste  wilderness; 
A  lovely  youth ! — no  mourning  maiden  deck'd 
With  weeping  flowers,  or  votive  cypress  wreath, 
The  lone  couch  of  his  everlasting  sleep : 
Gentle,  and  brave,  and  generous,  no  lorn  bard 
Breathed  o'er  his  dark  fate  one  melodious  sigh  : 
He  lived,  he  died,  he  sung,  in  solitude. 
Strangers  have  wept  to  hear  his  passionate  notes, 
And  virgins,  as  unknown  he  past,  have  sigh'd 
And  wasted  for  fond  love  of  his  wild  eyes. 
The  fire  of  those  soft  orbs  has  ceased  to  burn, 
And  Silence,  too  enamor'd  of  that  voice. 
Locks  its  mute  music  in  her  rugged  cell. 


By  solemn  vision  and  bright  silver  dream, 
His  infancy  was  nurtured.     Every  sight 
And  sound  from  the  vast  earth  and  ambient  air, 
Sent  to  his  heart  its  choicest  impulses. 
The  fountains  of  divine  philosophy 
Fled  not  his  thirsting  lips ;  and  all  of  great. 
Or  good,  or  lovely,vvhich  the  sacred  past 
In  truth  or  fable  consecrates,  he  felt 
And  knew.     When  early  youth  had  past,  he  left 
His  cold  fireside  and  alienated  home, 
To  seek  strange  truths  in  undiscover'd  lands. 
Many  a  wide  waste  and  tangled  wilderness 
Has  lured  his  fearless  steps ;  and  he  has  bought 
With  his  sweet  voice  and  eyes,  from  savage  men. 
His  rest  and  food.     Nature's  most  secret  steps 
He,  like  her  shadow,  has  pursued,  where'er 
The  red  volcano  ovcrcanopies 
Its  fields  of  snow  and  pinnacles  of  ice 
With  burning  smoke ;  or  where  bitumen  lakes. 
On  black  bare  pointed  islets  ever  beat 
With  sluggish  surge ;  or  where  the  secret  caves. 
Rugged  and  dark,  winding  among  the  springs 
Of  fire  and  poison,  inaccessible 
To  avarice  or  pride,  their  starry  domes 
Of  diamond  and  of  gold  expand  above 
Numberless  and  immeasurable  halls. 
Frequent  with  crystal  column,  and  clear  shrines 
Of  pearl,  and  thrones  radiant  with  chr^^solite. 
Nor  had  that  scene  of  ampler  majesty 
Than  gems  of  gold,  the  varying  roof  of  heaven 
And  the  green  earth,  lost  in  his  heart  its  claims 
To  love  and  wonder;  he  would  linger  long 
In  lonesome  vales,  making  the  wild  his  home. 
Until  the  doves  and  squirrels  would  partake 
From  his  innocuous  hand  his  bloodless  food, 
Lured  by  the  gentle  meaning  of  his  looks, 
390 


ALASTOR. 


143 


And  the  wild  antelope,  that  starts  whene'er 
The  dry  leaf  rustles  m  the  brake,  suspend 
Her  timid  steps,  to  gaze  upon  a  form 
More  graceful  than  her  own. 


His  wandering  step, 
Obedient  to  high  thoughts,  has  visited 
The  awful  ruins  of  the  days  of  old  : 
Athens,  and  Tyre,  and  Balbec,  and  the  wsiste 
Where  stood  Jerusalem,  the  fallen  towers 
Of  Babylon,  the  eternal  pyramids, 
Memphis  and  Thebes,  and  whatsoe'er  of  strange, 
Sculptur'd  on  alabaster  obelisk, 
Of  jasper  tomb,  or  mutilated  sphinx, 
Dark  Ethiopia  on  her  desert  hills 
Conceals.     Among  the  ruin'd  temples  there, 
Stupendous  columns,  and  wild  images 
Of  more  than  man,  where  marble  demons  watch 
The  Zodiac's  brazen  mystery,  and  dead  men 
Hang  their  mute  thoughts  on  the  mute  walls  around, 
He  linger'd,  poring  on  memorials 
Of  the  world's  youth,  through  the  long  burning  day 
Gazed  on  those  speechless  shapes,  nor,  when  the  moon 
Fill'd  the  mysterious  halls  with  floating  shades 
Suspended  he  that  task,  but  ever  gazed 
And  gazed,  till  meaning  on  his  vacant  mind 
Flash'd  like  strong  inspiration,  and  he  saw 
The  thrilling  secrets  of  the  birth  of  time. 

Meantime  an  Arab  maiden  brought  his  food, 
Her  daily  portion,  from  her  father's  tent. 
And  spread  her  matting  for  his  couch,  and  stole 
From  duties  and  repose  to  tend  his  steps  : — 
Enamor'd,  yet  not  daring  for  deep  awe 
To  speak  her  love : — and  watch'd  his  nightly  sleep, 
Sleepless  herself,  to  gaze  upon  his  lips 
Parted  in  slumber,  whence  the  regular  breath 
Of  innocent  dreams  arose  :  then,  when  red  morn 
Made  paler  the  pale  moon,  to  her  cold  home. 
Wilder 'd  and  wan  and  panting,  she  return'd 

The  Poet  wandering  on,  through  Arabia 
And  Persia,  and  the  wild  Carmanian  waste. 
And  o'er  the  aerial  mountains  wliich  jwur  down 
Indus  and  Oxus  from  their  icy  caves. 
In  joy  and  exultation  held  his  way, 
Till  in  the  vale  of  Cachmire,  far  within 
Its  loneliest  dell,  where  odorous  plants  entwine 
Beneath  the  hollow  rocks  a  natural  bovver. 
Beside  a  sparkling  rivulet  he  stretch'd 
His  languid  limbs.     A  vision  on  his  sleep 
There  came,  a  dream  of  hopes  that  never  yet 
Had  dush'd  his  cheek.     He  dream'd  a  veiled  maid 
Sate  near  him,  talking  in  low  silver  tones. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  his  own  soul 
Heard  in  the  calm  of  thought :  its  music  long, 
Like  woven  sounds  of  streams  and  breezes,  held 
His  inmost  sense  suspended  in  its  web 
Of  many-color'd  woof  and  shifting  hues. 
Knowledge  and  truth  and  virtue  were  her  theme, 
And  lofty  hopes  of  divine  liberty. 
Thoughts  the  most  dear  to  him,  and  poesy, 
Herself  a  poet.     Soon  the  solemn  mood 
Of  her  pure  mind  kindled  through  all  her  frame 
A  permeating  fire:  wild  numbers  then 
She  raised,  with  voice  stif?ed  in  tremulous  sobs 


Subdued  by  its  own  pathos  :  her  fair  hands 

Were  bare  alone,  sweeping  from  some  strange  harp 

Strange  symphony,  and  in  their  branching  veins 

The  eloquent  blood  told  an  ineffable  tale. 

The  beating  of  her  heart  was  heard  to  fill 

The  pauses  of  her  music,  and  her  breath 

Tumultuously  accorded  with  those  fits 

Of  intermitted  song.     Sudden  she  rose. 

As  if  her  heart  impatiently  endured 

Its  bursting  burthen :  at  the  .sound  he  turn'd, 

And  saw  by  the  warm  light  of  their  own  life 

Her  glowing  limbs  beneath  the  sinuous  veil 

Of  woven  wind ;  her  outspread  arms  now  bare, 

Her  dark  locks  floating  in  the  breatli  of  night, 

Her  beamy  bending  eyes,  her  parted  lips 

Outstretch'd,  and  pale,  and  quivering  eagerly. 

His  strong  heart  sunk  and  sicken'd  with  excess 

Of  love.  He  rear'd  his  shuddering  limbs,  and  quell'd 

His  gasping  breath,  and  spread  his  arms  to  meet 

Her  panting  bosom : — she  drew  back  awhile, 

Then,  yielding  to  the  irresistible  joy. 

With  frantic  gesture  and  short  breathless  cry 

Folded  his  frame  in  her  dissolving  arms. 

Now  blackness  veil'd  his  dizzy  eyes,  and  night 

Involved  and  swallow'd  up  the  vision ;  sleep, 

Like  a  dark  flood  suspended  in  its  coui-se, 

RoU'd  back  its  impulse  on  his  vacant  brain. 


Roused  by  the  shock,  he  started  from  his  trance — 

The  cold  white  light  of  morning,  the  blue  moon 

Low  in  the  west,  the  clear  and  garish  hills. 

The  distinct  valley  and  the  vacant  woods. 

Spread  round  where  he  stood. — Whither  have  fled 

The  hues  of  heaven  that  canopied  his  bovver 

Of  yesternight  ?  The  sounds  that  soothed  his  sleep 

The  mystery  and  the  majesty  of  earth. 

The  joy,  the  exultation?  His  wan  eyes 

Gaze  on  the  empty  scene  as  vacantly 

As  ocean's  moon  looks  on  the  moon  in  heaven. 

The  spirit  of  sweet  human  love  has  sent 

A  vision  to  the  sleep  of  hira  who  spurn'd 

Her  choicest  gifts.     He  eagerly  pursues 

Beyond  the  realms  of  dream  that  fleeting  shade  • 

He  overleaps  the  bound.     Alas  !  alas ! 

Were  limbs  and  breath,  and  being  intertwined 

Thus  treacherously  ?  Lost,  lost,  for  ever  lost, 

In  the  wide  pathless  desert  of  dim  sleep. 

That  beautiful  shape !  does  tlie  dark  gate  of  death 

Conduct  to  thy  mysterious  paradise, 

O  Sleep?  Does  the  bright  arch  of  rainbow  clouds. 

And  pendent  mountains  seen  in  the  calm  lake. 

Lead  only  to  a  black  and  watery  depth, 

While  death's  blue  vault  with  lotheliest  vapors  hung 

Where  every  shade  which  the  foul  grave  exhales 

Hides  it.s  dead  eye  from  the  detested  day. 

Conduct,  O  Sleep,  to  thy  delightful  realms? 

This  doubt  with  sudden  tide  flovv'd  on  his  heart. 

The  insatiate  hope,  which  it  awaken'd,  stung 

His  brain  even  like  despair. 


While  daylight  held 
The  sky,  the  Poet  kept  mute  conference 
With  his  still  soul.     At  night  the  passion  came, 
Like  the  fierce  fiend  of  a  distemper'd  dream, 
And  shook  him  from  his  rest,  and  led  him  forth 
Into  the  darkness. — As  an  eagle  grasp'd 
391 


144 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


In  folds  of  the  green  serpent,  feels  her  breast 

Bum  with  the  poison,  and  precipitates 

Through  niglit  and  day,  tempest,  and  calm  and  cloud, 

Frantic  with  dizzj'ing  anguish,  her  blind  flight 

O'er  the  wide  aery  wilderness :  thus  driven 

By  the  bright  shadow  of  that  lovely  dream, 

Beneath  the  cold  glare  of  the  desolate  night, 

Through  tangled  swamps  and  deep  precipitous  dells. 

Startling  with  careless  step  the  moonlight  snake, 

He  fled — Red  morning  dawn'd  upon  his  flight, 

Shedding  the  mockery  of  its  vital  hues 

Upon  his  cheek  of  death.     He  wander'd  on ; 

Till  vast  Aornos  seen  from  Pelra's  steep 

Hung  o'er  the  low  horizon  like  a  cloud ; 

Through  Balk,  and  where  the  desolated  tombs 

Of  Parthian  kings  scatter  to  every  wind 

Their  wasting  dust,  wildly  he  wander'd  on, 

Day  after  day,  a  weary  waste  of  hours, 

Bearing  within  liis  life  the  brooding  care 

That  ever  fed  on  its  decaying  flame. 

And  now  his  limbs  were  lean  ;  his  seatter'd  hair, 

Sered  by  the  autumn  of  strange  suffering. 

Sung  dirges  in  the  wind ;  his  listless  hand 

Hung  like  dead  bone  within  its  wither'd  skin ; 

Life,  and  the  lustre  that  consumed  it,  shone 

As  in  a  furnace  burning  secretly 

From  his  dark  eyes  alone.     The  cottagers, 

Who  moisten'd  with  human  charity 

His  human  wants,  beheld  with  wondering  awe 

Their  fleeting  visitant.     The  mountaineer, 

Encountering  on  some  dizzy  precipice 

That  spectral  form,  deem'd  that  the  Spirit  of  wind, 

With  lightning  eyes,  and  eager  breath,  and  feet 

Disturbing  not  tlie  drifted  snow,  had  paused 

In  his  career.     Tlie  infant  would  conceal 

His  troubled  visage  in  liis  mother's  robe. 

In  terror  at  the  glare  of  those  wild  eyes, 

To  remember  their  strange  light  in  many  a  dream 

Of  after-times  :  but  youtliful  maidens  taught 

By  nature,  would  interpret  half  the  woe 

That  wasted  him,  would  call  him  with  false  names 

Brother,  and  friend,  would  pre.ss  his  pallid  hand 

At  parting,  and  watch,  dim  through  tears,  the  path 

Of  his  departure  from  their  father's  door. 


At  length  upon  the  lone  Chorasmian  shore 
He  paused,  a  wide  and  melancholy  waste 
Of  putrid  marshes — a  s'trong  impulse  urged 
His  steps  to  the  sea-shore.     A  swan  was  there 
Beside  a  sluggish  stream  among  the  reeds. 
It  rose  as  he  approach'd,  and  witli  strong  wings 
Scaling  the  upward  sky,  bent  its  bright  course 
High  over  the  immeasurable  main. 
His  eyes  pursued  its  flight : — "  Thou  hast  a  home, 
Beautiful  bird :  thou  voyagest  to  thine  home, 
WTiere  thy  sweet  mate  will  twine  her  downy  neck 
With  thine,  and  welcome  thy  return  with  eyes 
Bright  in  the  lustre  of  their  own  fond  joy. 
And  what  am  I,  that  I  sliould  linger  here, 
With  voice  far  sweeter  than  tliy  dying  notes, 
Spirit  more  vast  than  thine,  frame  more  attuned 
To  beauty,  wasting  these  surpassing  powers 
In  the  deaf  air,  to  the  blind  earth,  and  heaven, 
That  echoes  not  my  thoughts  ?"  A  gloomy  smile 
Of  desperate  hope  wrinkled  his  quivering  lips. 
For  sleep,  he  knew,  kept  most  relentlessly 


Its  precious  charge,  and  silent  death  exposed, 

Faithless,  perhaps  as  sleep,  a  shadowy  lure, 

With  doubtful  sraile  mocking  its  own  strange  charnw 

Startled  by  his  ovm  thoughts  he  look'd  around 
There  was  no  fair  fiend  near  him,  not  a  sigh 
Or  sound  of  awe  but  in  his  own  deep  mind. 
A  little  shallop  floating  near  the  shore 
Caught  the  impatient  wandering  of  his  gaze. 
It  had  been  long  abandon'd,  for  its  sides 
Gaped  wide  with  many  a  rift,  and  its  frail  joints 
Sway'd  with  the  undulations  of  the  tide. 
A  restless  impulse  urged  him  to  embark. 
And  meet  lone  Death  on  the  drear  ocean's  waste  ; 
For  well  he  knew  that  mighty  Shadow  loves 
The  slimy  caverns  of  the  populous  deep. 

The  day  was  fair  and  sunny:  sea  and  sky 
Drank  its  inspiring  radiance,  and  the  wind 
Swept  strongly  from  the  shore,  blackening  the  waves 
Following  his  eager  soul,  the  wanderer 
Leap'd  in  the  boat,  he  spread  his  cloak  aloft 
On  the  bare  mast,  and  took  his  lonely  seat, 
And  felt  the  boat  speed  o'er  the  tranquil  sea 
Like  a  torn  cloud,  before  the  hurricane. 

As  one  that  in  a  silver  vision  floats 

Obedient  to  the  sweep  of  odorous  winds 

Upon  resplendent  clouds,  so  rapidly 

Along  the  dark  and  ruffled  waters  fled 

The  straining  boat. — A  whirlwind  swept  it  on, 

With  fierce  gusts  and  precipitating  force. 

Through  the  white  ridges  of  the  chafed  sea. 

The  waves  arose.     Higher  and  higher  still 

Their  fierce  necks  writhed  beneath  the   tempest's 

scourge. 
Like  serpents  struggling  in  a  vulture's  grasp. 
Calm  and  rejoicing  in  the  fearful  war 
Of  wave  running  on  wave,  and  blast  on  blast 
Descending,  and  black  flood  on  whirlpool  driven 
With  dark  obliterating  course,  he  sate  : 
.4s  if  their  genii  were  the  ministers 
Appointed  to  conduct  him  to  the  light 
Of  those  beloved  eyes,  the  Poet  sate 
Holding  the  steady  helm.     Evening  came  on. 
The  beams  of  sunset  hung  their  rainbow  hues 
High  'mid  the  shifting  domes  of  sheeted  spray 
That  canopied  his  path  o'er  the  waste  deep ; 
Twilight,  ascending  slowly  from  the  east. 
Entwined  in  duskier  wreaths  her  braided  loclis 
O'er  the  fair  front  and  radiant  eyes  of  day ; 
Night  follow'd,  clad  with  stars.     On  every  side 
More  horribly  the  multitudinous  streams 
Of  ocean's  mountainous  waste  to  mutual  war 
Rush'd  in  dark  tumult  thundering,  as  to  mock 
The  calm  and  spangled  sky.     The  little  boat 
Still  fled  before  the  storm ;  still  fled,  like  foam 
Down  the  steep  cataract  of  a  wintry  river  ; 
Now  pausing  on  the  edge  of  the  riven  wave  • 
Now  leaving  far  behind  the  btu-sting  mass 
That  fell,  convulsing  ocean.     Safely  fled — 
As  if  that  frail  and  wasted  human  form 
Had  been  an  elemental  god. 

At  midnight 
The  moon  arose  :  and  lo  !  the  ethereal  cliflS 
Of  Caucasus,  whose  icy  summits  shone 
392 


ALASTOR. 


145 


Among  the  stars  like  sunlight,  and  around 
Whose  cavern'd  base  the  whirlpools  and  the  waves 
Bursting  and  eddying  irresistibly 
Rage  and  resound  for  ever. — Who  shall  save  ? 
The  boat  lied  on. — the  boiling  torrent  drove, — 
The  crags  closed  round  with  black  and  jagged  arms, 
The  sliatter'd  raounlain  overhung  the  sea, 
And  faster  still,  beyond  all  human  speed, 
Su.spended  on  the  sweep  of  the  smooth  wave, 
The  litile  Ixiat  W'as  driven.    A  cavern  there 
Yawii'd,  and  amid  its  slant  and  winding  deptlis 
Ingulf'd  the  rushing  sea.    The  boat  fled  on  ■ 
With  imrelaxing  speed.    "  Vision  and  Love  ! " 
The  Poet  cried  aloud,  "  I  have  beheld 
The  path  of  thy  departure.    Sleep  and  death 
Shall  not  divide  us  loiiK." 


The  boat  pursued 
The  windings  of  the  cavern. — Daylight  shone 
At  length  upon  that  gloomy  river's  flow; 
Now,  where  the  fiercest  war  among  the  waves 
Is  calm,  on  the  unfalhoniable  stream 
The  boat  moved  slowly.    Where  the  motmtain  riven 
Exposed  those  black  depths  to  the  azure  sky, 
Ere  yet  the  flood's  enormous  volume  fell 
Even  to  the  base  of  Caucasus,  with  sound 
That  shook  the  everlasting  rocks,  the  mass 
Fill'd  with  one  whirlpool  all  that  ample  chasm  ; 
Stair  above  stair  the  eddying  waters  rose, 
Circling  immeasurably  fast,  and  laved 
With  alternating  dash  the  gnarled  roots 
Of  mighty  trees,  that  stretch'd  their  giant  arms 
In  darkness  over  it.    I'  the  midst  wa.s  left, 
Reflecting,  yet  distorting  every  cloud, 
A  pool  of  treacherous  and  tremendous  calm. 
Seized  by  the  sway  of  the  ascending  stream. 
With  dizzy  swiftness,  round,  and  round,  and  round. 
Ridge  after  ridge  the  straining  boat  arose. 
Till  on  the  verge  of  the  extremest  curve. 
Where  through  an  opening  of  the  rocky  bank 
The  waters  overflow,  and  a  smooth  spot 
Of  glassy  quiet  'mid  those  battling  tides 
Is  left,  the  boat  paused  shuddering.    Shall  it  sink 
Down  the  abyss  ?    Shall  the  reverting  stress 
Of  that  resistless  gidf  embosom  it  ? 
Now  shall  it  fall  ?    A  wandering  stream  of  wind. 
Breathed   from  the  west,  has  caught  the  expanded 

sail, 
And,  lo !  w  ith  gentle  motion  between  banks 
Of  mossy  slope,  and  on  a  placid  stream. 
Beneath  a  woven  grove,  it  sails,  and,  hark ! 
The  ghasily  torrent  mingles  its  far  roar 
With  the  breeze  murmuring  in  the  musical  woods. 
^Vhere  the  einlwwering  trees  recede,  and  leave 
A  little  space  of  green  expanse,  the  cove 
Is  closed  by  meeting  banks,  whose  yellow  flowers 
For  ever  gaze  on  their  own  drooping  eyes, 
Reflected  in  the  crystal  calm.    The  wave 
Of  the  boat's  motion  marr'd  their  pensive  task, 
\Vhich  naught  but  vagrant  bird,  or  wanton  wind, 
Or  falling  spear-grass,  or  their  own  decay 
Had  e'er  disturb'd  before.    The  Poet  long'd 
To  deck  with  their  bright  hues  his  wilher'd  hair, 
But  on  his  heart  its  solitude  return'd. 
And  he  forbore.    Not  the  strong  impulse  hid 
In  those  flusn'd    cheeks,    bent  eyes,   and  shadowy 

frame. 
Had  yel  perform'd  its  ministry :  it  hung 
2Z 


Upon  his  life,  as  lightning  in  a  cloud 
Gleams,  hovering  ere  it  vanish,  ere  the  lloods 
■Of  night  close  over  it. 


The  noonday  sun 
Now  shone  ii]ion  the  forest,  one  vast  mass 
Of  mingling  shade,  whose  brown  magnificence 
A  narrow  vale  embosoms.    There,  huge  caves, 
Seoop'd  in  the  dark  base  of  those  aery  rocks, 
Mocking  its  moans,  respond  and  roar  for  ever. 
The  meeting  boughs  and  implicated  leaves 
Wove  twilight  o'er  the  Poet's  path,  as  led 
By  love,  or  dream,  or  God,  or  mightier  Death, 
He  sought  in  Nature's  dearest  haunt,  some  bank, 
Her  cradle,  and  his  sepulchre.    More  dark 
And  dark  the  shades  accumulate — the  oak, 
Expanding  its  immeasurable  arms. 
Embraces  the  light  beach.    The  pyramids 
Of  the  tall  cedar  overarching,  frame 
Most  solemn  domes  within,  and  far  below, 
Like  clouds  suspended  in  an  emerald  sky, 
The  ash  and  the  acacia  floating  hang 
Tremulous  and  pale.    Like  restless  serpents,  clothed 
In  rainbow  and  in  fire,  the  parasites, 
Starr'd  with  ten  thousand  blossoms,  flow  around 
The  gray  trunks,  and  as  gamesome  infants'  eyes, 
With  gentle  meanings,  and  most  innocent  wiles. 
Fold  their  beams  round  the  hearts  of  those  that  love, 
These  twine  their  tendrils  with  the  wedded  boughs. 
Uniting  their  close  union ;  the  woven  leaves 
Make  net-work  of  the  dark-blue  light  of  day. 
And  the  night's  noontide  clearness,  mutable 
As  shapes  in  the  weird  clouds.    Soft  mossy  lawns 
Beneath  these  canopies  extend  their  swells. 
Fragrant  with  perfumed  herbs,  and  eyed  with  blooma 
Minute  yet  beautiful.    One  darkest  glen 
Sends  from  its  woods  of  musk-rose,  twined  with  jas- 
mine, 
A  soul-dissolving  odor,  to  invite 
To  some  more  lovely  mj-stery.    Through  the  dell, 
Silence  and  Twilight  here,  twin-sisters,  keep 
Their  noonday  watch,  and  sail  among  the  shades 
Like  vaporous  shapes  half  seen ;  beyond,  a  well, 
Dark,  gleaming,  and  of  most  translucent  wave. 
Images  all  the  woven  boughs  above, 
And  each  depending  leaf,  and  every  speck 
Of  azure  sky,  darting  between  their  chasms : 
Nor  aught  else  in  the  liquid  mirror  laves 
Its  portraiture,  but  some  inconstant  star 
Between  one  foliaged  lattice  twinkling  fair, 
Or,  painted  bird,  sleeping  beneath  the  moon, 
Or  gorgeous  insect  floating  motioidess, 
Unconscions  of  the  day,  ere  yet  his  wings 
Have  spread  their  glories  lo  the  gaze  of  noon. 


Hither  the  Poet  came.    His  eyes  beheld 
Their  own  wan  light  through  the  reflected  lines 
Of  his  thin  hair,  distinct  in  the  dark  depth 
Of  that  still  fountain ;  .as  the  human  heart. 
Gazing  in  dreams  over  the  gloomy  grave. 
Sees  its  own  treacherous  likeness  there.   He  heard 
The  motion  of  the  leaves,  the  grass  that  sprung 
Startled  and  glanced  and  trembled  even  to  feel 
An  miaccustomed  presence,  and  the  sound 
Of  the  sweet  brook  that  from  the  secret  springs 
Of  that  dark  fountain  rose.    A  Spirit  seem'd 
To  stand  beside  him — clothed  in  no  bright  robot 
393 


146 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  shadowy  silver  or  enshrining  light, 
Borrow'd  from  aught  the  visible  world  affords 
Of  grace,  or  majesty,  or  mystery ; 
But  undulating  woods,  and  silent  well, 
And  leaping  rivulet,  and  evening  gloom 
Now  deepening  the  dark  shades,  for  speech  assuming 
Held  commune  with  him,  as  if  he  and  it 
Were  all  that  was, — only — when  his  regard 
Was  raised  by  intense  pensiveness — two  eyes. 
Two  starry  eyes,  hung  in  the  gloom  of  thought. 
And  seem'd  with  their  serene  and  azure  smiles 
To  beckon  him. 


Obedient  to  the  light 
That  shone  within  his  soul,  he  went,  pursuing 
The  windings  of  the  dell. — The  rivulet 
Wanton  and  wild,  through  many  a  green  ravine 
Beneath  the  forest  flow'd.    Sometimes  it  fell 
Among  the  moss  with  hollow  harmony 
Dark  and  profound.  Now  on  the  polish'd  stones 
It  danced,  like  ehikUiood  laugliing  as  it  went : 
Then  through  the  plain  in  tranquil  wanderings  crept, 
Reflecting  every  herb  and  drooping  bud 
That  overhung  its  quietness. — "  O  stream  ! 
Whose  source  is  inaccessibly  profound, 
Wliither  do  thy  mysterious  waters  tend  ? 
Thou  imagest  my  life.    Thy  darksome  stillness, 
Thy  dazzling  waves,  thy  loud  and  hollow  gulfs, 
Thy  searchless  fountain  and  invisible  course 
Have  each  their  type  in  me :  and  the  wide  sky, 
And  measureless  ocean  may  declare  as  soon 
What  oozy  cavern  or  what  wandering  cloud 
Contains  thy  waters,  as  the  universe 
Tell  where  these  living  thoughts  reside,  when  stretch'd 
Upon  thy  flowers  my  bloodless  limbs  shall  waste 
r  the  passing  wind  I" 


Beside  the  grassy  shore 
Of  the  small  stream  he  went ;  he  did  impress 
On  the  green  moss  his  tremulous  step,  that  caught 
Strong  shuddering  from  his  burning  limbs.    As  one 
Roused  by  some  joyous  madness  from  the  couch 
Of  fever,  he  did  move ;  yet,  not  like  him. 
Forgetful  of  the  grave,  where,  when  the  flame 
Of  his  frail  exultation  shall  be  spent. 
He  must  descend.    With  rapid  steps  he  went 
Beneath  the  shade  of  trees,  beside  the  flow 
Of  the  wild  babbling  rivulet ;  and  now 
The  forest's  solemn  canopies  were  changed 
For  the  uniform  and  lightsome  evening  sky. 
Gray   rocks   did    peep   from    the   spare    moss,   and 

stemm'd 
The  struggling  brook :  tall  spires  of  windle-stroe 
Threw  their  thin  shadows  down  the  rugged  slope, 
And  naught  but  gnarled  roots  of  ancient  pines. 
Branchless  and  blasted,  clench'd  with  grasping  roots 
The  unwilling  soil.    A  gradual  change  was  here, 
Yet  ghastly.    For,  as  fast  years  flow  away, 
The  smooth  brow  gathers,  and  the  hair  grows  thin 
And  white ;  and  where  irradiate  dewy  eyes 
Had  shone,  gleam  slony  orbs :  so  from  his  steps 
Bright  flowers  departed,  and  the  beautiful  shade 
Of  the  green  groves,  with  all  their  odorous  winds 
And  musical  motions.    Calm,  he  still  pursued 
vThe  stream,  that  with  a  larger  volume  now 
RoU'd  through  the  labyrinthine  dell ;  and  the.e 
Fretted  a  path  tlirough  its  descending  curves 


With  its  wintry  speed.    On  every  side  now  rose 

Rocks,  which,  in  unimaginable  forms. 

Lifted  their  black  and  barren  pinnacles 

In  the  light  of  evening,  and  its  precipice 

Obscuring  the  ravine,  disclosed  above, 

'Mid  toppling  stones,  black  gulfs,  and  yawning  caves 

Whose  windings  gave  ten  thousand  various  tongues 

To  the  loud  stream.    Lo!  Where  the  pass  expands 

Its  stony  jaws,  the  abrupt  mountain  breaks, 

And  seems,  with  its  accumulated  crags. 

To  overhang  the  worJd  :  far  wide  expand 

Beneath  the  wan  stars  a'ld  descending  moon 

Islanded  seas,  blue  mountains,  mighty  streams, 

Dim  tracts  and  vast,  robed  in  the  lustrous  gloom 

Of  leaden-color'd  even,  and  (lery  hills 

Mingling  their  flames  with  twilight,  on  the  verge 

Of  the  remote  horizon.    The  near  scene. 

In  naked  and  severe  simplicity. 

Made  contrast  with  the  universe.    A  pine, 

Rock-rooted,  stretch'd  athwart  the  vacancy 

Its  swinging  boughs,  to  eacli  inconstant  blast 

Yielding  one  only  response  at  each  pause, 

In  most  familiar  cadence,  with  the  howl 

The  thunder  and  the  hiss  of  homeless  streams 

Mingling  its  solemn  song,  whilst  the  broad  river, 

Foaming  and  hurrying  o'er  its  rugged  path, 

Fell  into  that  immeasurable  void 

Scattering  its  waters  to  the  passing  winds. 


Yet  the  gray  precipice,  and  solemn  pine 
And  torrent,  were  not  all ; — one  silent  nook 
Was  there.    Even  on  the  edge  of  that  vast  mountain. 
Upheld  by  knotty  roots  and  fallen  rocks, 
It  overlook'd  in  its  serenity 
The  dark  eartli,  and  the  bending  vault  of  stars. 
It  was  a  tranquil  spot,  tiiat  seem'd  to  smile 
Even  in  the  lap  of  horror.    Ivy  clasp'd 
The  fissured  stones  with  its  entwining  arms, 
And  did  embower  with  leaves  for  ever  green, 
And  berries  dark,  the  smooth  and  even  space 
Of  its  inviolated  floor ;  and  here 
The  children  of  the  autumnal  whirlwind  bore. 
In  wanton  sport,  those  briglit  leaves,  whose  decay 
Red,  yellow,  or  ethereally  pale. 
Rival  the  pride  of  summer.    'T  is  the  haunt 
Of  every  gentle  wind,  whose  breath  can  teach 
The  wilds  to  love  tranquillity.    One  step. 
One  human  step  alone,  has  ever  broken 
The  stillness  of  its  solitude : — one  voice 
Alone  inspired  its  echoes  ; — even  that  voice 
Which  hither  came,  floating  among  the  winds, 
And  led  the  loveliest  among  human  forms 
To  make  their  wild  haunts  the  depositoiy 
Of  all  the  grace  and  beauty  that  endued 
Its  motions,  render  up  its  majesty, 
Scatter  its  music  on  the  unfeeling  storm, 
And  to  the  damp  leaves  and  blue  cavern  mould. 
Nurses  of  rainbow  flowers  and  branching  moss. 
Commit  the  colors  of  that  varying  cheek. 
That  snowy  breast,  those  dark  and  drooping  eyes 


The  dim  and  homed  moon  hung  low,  and  pour'd 
A  sea  of  lustre  on  the  horizon's  verge 
That  overflow'd  its  mountains.    Yellow  mist 
Fill'd  the  imbounded  atmosphere,  and  drank 
Wan  moonlight  even  to  fullness :  not  a  star 
394 


ALASTOR. 


147 


Shone,  not  a  sound  was  heard  ;  the  very  winds, 

Danger's  grim  playmates,  on  that  precipice 

Slept,  clasp'd  in  his  embrace. — O,  storm  of  death  I 

Whose  sightless  speed  divides  this  sullen  night  : 

And  thou,  colossal  Skeleton,  that,  still 

(Uiiding  its  irresistible  career 

In  thy  devastating  omnipotence. 

Art  King  of  this  frail  world,  from  tlie  red  field 

Of  slaughter,  from  the  reeking  hospital, 

Tiie  patriot's  sacred  couch,  the  snowy  bed 

Of  innocence,  the  scaflbld  and  the  throne, 

A  mighty  voice  invokes  ihee.     Ruin  calls 

His  Brother  Death.     A  rare  and  regal  prey 

He  hath  prepared,  prowling  around  the  world ; 

Glutted  with  which,  thou  mayest  repose,  and  men 

Go  to  their  graves  like  tlowers  or  creeping  worms, 

Nor  ever  more  offer  at  thy  dark  shrine 

The  unheeded  tribute  of  a  broken  heart. 

When  on  the  threshold  of  the  green  recess 
The  wanderer's  footsteps  fell,  he  knew  that  death 
Was  on  him.     Yet  a  little,  ere  it  fled, 
Did  he  resign  his  high  and  holy  soul 
To  images  of  the  majestic  past. 
That  paused  within  his  passive  being  now, 
Like    winds    that   bear  sweet   music,   when   they 

breathe 
Through  some  dim  latticed  chamber.    He  did  place 
His  pale  lean  hand  upon  the  rugged  trunk 
Of  the  old  pine.     Upon  an  ivied  stone 
Recliued  his  languid  head ;  his  limbs  did  rest, 
Difliised  and  motionless,  on  the  smooth  brink 
Of  that  obscurest  chasm ; — and  thus  he  lay. 
Surrendering  to  their  final  impulses 
The  tiovering  powers  of  life.     Hope  and  Despair, 
The  torturers,  slept:  no  mortal  pain  or  fear 
Warr'd  his  repose,  the  influxes  of  sense. 
And  his  own  being  unalloy'd  by  pain, 
Yet  feebler  and  more  feeble,  calmly  fed 
The  stream  of  tiiought,  till  he  lay  breathing  there 
At  peace,  and  faintly  smiling : — his  last  sight 
Was  the  great  moon,  which  o'er  the  western  line 
Of  the  wide  world  her  mighty  horn  suspended, 
With  whose  dun  beams  inwoven  darkness  seem'd 
To  mingle.     Now  upon  the  jagged  hills 
It  rests,  and  still  as  the  divided  frame 
Of  the  vast  meteor  sunk,  the  Poet's  blood, 
That  ever  beat  in  mystic  sympathy 
With  nature's  ebb  and  flow,  grew  feebler  still: 
And  when  two  lessening  points  of  light  alone 
Glcam'd  through  the  darkness,  the  alternate  gasp 
Of  his  faint  respiration  scarce  did  stir 
The  stagnate  night : — till  the  minutest  ray 
Was  quench'd,  the  pulse  yet  linger'd  in  his  heart. 
It  paused — it  flutter'd.     But  when  heaven  remain'd 
Utterly  black,  the  murky  shades  involved 
An  image,  silent,  cold,  and  motionless, 
As  their  own  voiceless  earth  and  vacant  air. 
Even  as  a  vapor  fed  with!  golden  beams 


That  minister'd  on  sunlight,  ere  the  west 

Eclipses  it,  was  now  that  wondrous  frame — 

No  sense,  no  motion,  no  divinity — 

A  fragile  lute,  on  whose  harmonious  strings 

Tlie  breath  of  heaven  did  wander — a  bright  stream 

Once  fed  with  many-voiced  waves — a  dream 

Of  youth,  which  jiighl  and   lime  have  quench'd  for 

ever. 
Still,  dark,  and  dry,  and  unremember'd  now. 

O,  for  Medea's  wondrous  alchemy, 
Which,  wheresoe'er  it  fell,  made  tlie  earth  gleam 
With  bright  flov^ers,  and  the  wintry  boughs  exhale 
From  vernal  blooms  fresh  fragrance  !  O,  that  God, 
Prollise  of  poisons,  would  conceal  the  chalice 
Which  but  one  living  man  lias  drain'd,  who  now, 
Vessel  of  deathless  wrath,  a  slave  that  feels 
No  proud  exemption  in  the  blighting  curse 
He  bears,  over  the  world  wantlers  for  ever. 
Lone  as  incarnate  death !  O,  that  the  dream 
Of  dark  magician  in  his  vision'd  cave. 
Raking  the  cinders  of  a  crucilile 
For  life  and  power,  even  when  his  feeble  hand 
Shakes  in  its  last  decay,  were  the  true  law 
Of  this  so  lovely  world  I  But  thou  art  fled 
Like  some  frail  exhalation,  which  the  dawn 
Robes  in  its  golden  beams, — ah  !  thou  hast  fled ; 
The  brave,  the  gentle,  and  the  beautiful. 
The  child  of  grace  and  genius.     Heartless  things 
Are  done  and  said  i'  the  world,  and  many  worms 
And  beasts  and  men  live  on,  and  mighty  Earth 
From  sea  and  mountain,  city  and  wilderness, 
Tn  vesper  low  or  joyous  orison. 
Lifts  still  its  solemn  voice  : — but  thou  art  fled — 
Thou  canst  no  longer  know  or  love  the  shapes 
Of  this  phantasmal  scene,  who  have  to  thee 
Been  purest  ministers,  who  are,  alas ! 
Now  thou  art  not.     Upon  those  pallid  lips 
So  sweet  even  in  their  silence,  on  those  eyes 
That  image  sleep  in  death,  upon  that  form 
Yet  safe  from  the  worm's  outrage,  let  no  tear 
Be  shed — not  even  in  thought.  Nor,  when  those  hues 
Are  gone,  and  those  divinest  lineaments. 
Worn  by  the  senseless  wind,  shall  live  alone 
In  the  frail  pauses  of  this  simple  strain. 
Let  not  high  verse,  mourning  the  memory 
Of  that  w  hich  is  no  more,  or  painting's  woe, 
Or  sculpture,  speak  in  feeble  imagery 
Their  own  cold  powers.     Art  and  eloquence. 
And  all  the  sliows  o'  the  world,  are  frail  and  vain 
To  weep  a  loss  tlial  turns  their  light  to  shade. 
It  is  a  woe  too  "  deep  for  tears,"  when  all 
Is  reft  at  once,  when  some  surpassing  Spirit, 
Whose  light  adorn'd  the  world  around  it,  leaves 
Those  who  remain  behind,  nor  sobs  nor  groans, 
The  passionate  tumult  of  a  clinging  hope ; 
But  pale  despair  and  cold  tranquillity, 
Nature's  vast  frame,  the  web  of  human  things, 
Birth  and  the  grave,  that  are  not  as  they  vrere 

395 


143 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  MODERN  ECLOGUE. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  story  of  Rosalind  and  Helen,  is,  undoubtedly, 
not  an  attempt  in  the  highest  style  of  poetry.  It  is 
in  no  degree  calculated  to  excite  profound  meditation; 
and  if,  by  interesting  the  affections  and  amusing  the 
imagination,  it  awaken  a  certain  ideal  melancholy 
favorable  to  the  reception  of  more  important  im- 
pressions, it  will  produce  in  the  reader  all  that  the 
writer  experienced  in  tlie  composition.  I  resigned 
myself,  as  I  wrote,  to  ihe  impulse  of  the  feelings 
which  moulded  the  conception  of  ihe  story  ;  and  this 
impulse  determined  the  pauses  of  a  measure,  which 
only  pretends  to  be  regular  inasmuch  as  it  corresponds 
with,  and  expresses,  the  irregularity  of  the  imagina- 
tions which  inspired  it. 
Naples,  Dec.  20,  1818. 


ROSALIND  AND  HELEN. 

SCENE.— TAe  Shore  of  ihe  Lake  of  Coma. 
Rosalind,  Helen,  and  her  Child. 

HELEN. 

Come  hither,  my  sweet  Rosalind. 
'Tis  long  since  thou  and  I  have  met, 
And  yet  methinks  it  were  unkind 
Those  moments  to  forget 
Come,  sit  by  me.     I  see  thee  stand 
By  this  lone  lake,  in  this  far  land. 
Thy  loose  hair  in  the  light  wind  flying, 
Thy  sweet  voice  to  eacli  tone  of  even 
United,  and  thine  eyes  replying 
To  the  hues  of  yon  fair  heaven. 
Come,  gentle  friend !  wilt  sit  by  me  ? 
And  be  as  thou  wert  wont  to  be 
Ere  we  were  disunited  ? 
None  dolh  behold  us  now :  the  power 
That  led  us  forth  at  this  lone  hour 
Will  be  but  ill  requited 
If  thou  depart  in  scorn  :  oh  !  come, 
And  talk  of  our  abandon'd  home. 
Remember,  this  is  Italy, 
And  we  are  exiles.     Talk  with  me 
Of  that  our  land,  whose  wilds  and  floods, 
Barren  and  dark  although  they  be, 
Were  dearer  than  these  chestnut  woods ; 
Those  heathy  paths,  that  inland  stream. 
And  the  blue  mountains,  shapes  which  seem 
Like  wrecks  of  childhood's  sunny  dream : 
Which  that  we  have  abandon'd  now, 
Weighs  on  the  heart  like  that  remorse 
Which  alter'd  friendship  leaves.     I  seek 
No  more  our  youthful  intercourse. 
.  That  cannot  be !  Rosalind,  speak, 


Speak  to  me.     Leave  me  not. — When  morn  did 

come. 
When  evening  fell  upon  our  common  home, 
When  for  one  hour  we  parted, — do  not  frown ; 
I  Avould  not  chide  thee,  though  thy  failh  is  broken 
But  turn  to  me.     Oh  I  by  this  cherish'd  token, 
Of  woven  hair,  which  thou  wilt  not  disown 
Turn,  as  't  were  but  the  memory  of  me. 
And  not  my  scorned  self  who  pray'd  to  thee 

ROSALIND. 

Is  it  a  dream,  or  do  I  see 

And  hear  frail  Helen?  I  would  flee 

Thy  tainting  touch  ;  but  former  years 

Arise,  and  bring  forbidden  tears  ; 

And  my  o'erburthen'd  memory 

Seeks  3'et  its  lost  repose  in  thee. 

I  share  thy  crime.     I  cannot  choose 

But  weep  for  thee :  mine  own  strange  gno' 

But  seldom  stoops  to  such  relief; 

Nor  ever  did  I  love  thee  less. 

Though  mourning  o'er  thy  wickedness 

Even  with  a  sister's  woe.     I  knew 

AVhat  to  the  evil  world  is  due. 

And  therefore  sternly  did  refuse 

To  link  me  with  the  infamy 

Of  one  so  lost  as  Helen.     Now 

Bewilder'd  by  my  dire  despair. 

Wondering  I  blush,  and  weep  that  thou 

Shouldst  love  me  siill,  thou  only  I — There 

Let  us  sit  on  that  gray  stone. 

Till  our  mournful  talk  be  done. 

HELEN. 

Alas  !  not  there  ;  I  cannot  bear 

The  murmur  of  this  lake  to  hear. 

A  sound  from  thee,  Rosalind  dear, 

Which  never  yet  I  heard  elsewhere 

But  in  our  native  land,  recurs. 

Even  here  where  now  we  meet.     It  stirs 

Too  much  of  suflijcating  sorrow ! 

In  the  dell  of  yon  dark  chestnut  wood 

Is  a  stone  seat,  a  solitude 

Less  like  our  own.     The  ghost  of  peac» 

Will  not  desert  this  spoL     To-morrow, 

If  thy  kind  feelings  should  not  cease. 

We  may  sit  here. 

ROSALIND. 

Thou  lead,  my  sweet. 
And  I  \vi\\  follow. 

HENRY. 

'Tis  Fenici's  seat 
Where  you  are  going  ?  This  is  not  the  vxi-y 
Mamma;  it  leads  behind  those  trees  thai  gro«' 
Close  to  the  little  river. 

HELEN. 

Yes ;  I  know  : 
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ROSALIND  AND  HELEN. 


149 


T  \vas  bewilder'd.    Kiss  me,  and  be  guy, 
Dear  boy,  why  do  you  sob  ? 

HENRY. 

I  do  not  know 
liut  it  might  break  any  one's  heart  to  see 
You  and  the  lady  cry  so  bitterly. 


It  is  a  gentle  child,  my  friend.  Go  home, 
Henry,  aiid  play  with  Lilla  till  they  come. 
We  only  cried  with  joy  to  see  each  other ; 
We  are  quite  merry  now — Good  night. 

The  boy 
Lifted  a  sudden  look  upon  his  mother, 
And  in  the  gleam  of  forced  and  hollow  joy 
Which  lighten'd  o'er  her  face,  laugh'd  with  the  glee 
Of  light  and  unsuspecting  infancy, 
And  whisper'd  in  her  ear,  "  Bring  home  with  j'ou 
That  sweet  strange  lady-friend."  Then  off  he  flew. 
But  stopp'd.  and  beckon'd  with  a  meaning  smile. 
Where  the  road  tum'd.    Pale  Rosalind  the  while, 
Hiding  her  iace,  stood  weeping  silently. 

In  silence  then  they  look  the  way 

Beneath  the  forest's  solitude. 

It  was  a  vast  and  antique  wood, 

Through  which  they  took  their  way ; 

And  the  gray  shades  of  evening 

O'er  that  green  wilderness  did  fling 

Still  deeper  solitude. 

Pursuing  still  the  path  that  wound 

The  vast  and  knotted  trees  around 

Through  which  slow  shades  were  wandering. 

To  a  deep  lawny  dell  they  came, 

To  a  stone  seat  beside  a  spring. 

O'er  which  the  column'd  wood  did  frame 

A  roofless  temple,  like  the  fane 

Where,  ere  new  creeds  could  faith  obtain, 

Man's  early  race  once  knelt  beneath 

The  overhanging  deity. 

O'er  this  fair  fountain  hung  the  sky, 

Now  spangled  with  rare  stars.    The  snake. 

The  pale  snake,  that  with  eager  breath 

Creeps  here  his  noontide  thirst  to  slake. 

Is  beaming  with  many  a  mingled  hue, 

Shed  from  yon  dome's  eternal  blue, 

When  he  floats  on  that  dark  and  lucid  flood 

In  the  light  of  his  own  loveliness ; 

And  the  birds  that  in  the  fountain  dip 

Their  plumes,  with  fearless  fellowship 

Above  and  round  him  wheel  and  hover. 

The  fitful  wind  is  heard  to  stir 

One  solitary  leaf  on  higli ; 

The  chirping  of  the  grasshopper 

Fills  every  pause.    There  is  emotion 

In  all  that  dwells  at  noontide  here  : 

Then,  through  the  intricate  wild  wood, 

A  maze  of  life  and  light  and  motion 

Is  woven.    But  there  is  stillness  now ; 

Gloom,  and  the  trance  of  Nature  now : 

The  snake  is  in  his  cave  asleep ; 

The  birds  are  on  the  branches  dreaming : 

Only  the  shadows  creep ; 

Only  the  glow-worm  is  gleaming ; 


Only  the  owls  and  the  nightingales 
Wake  in  this  dell  wlicn  daylight  fails. 
And  gray  shades  galhcr  in  the  woods : 
And  the  owls  have  all  lied  far  away 
In  a  merrier  glon  to  hoot  and  play. 
For  the  moon  is  veil'd  and  sli^eping  now. 
The  accustom'd  nightingale  still  broods 
On  her  accustom'd  bough, 
But  she  is  mute;  for  her  false  mate 
Has  fled  and  left  her  desolate. 


This  silent  spot  tradition  old 

Had  peopled  with  the  spectral  dead. 

For  the  roots  of  the  speaker's  hair  felt  cold 

And  stiff,  as  with  tremulous  lips  he  told 

That  a  hellish  shape  at  midnight  led 

The  gliosl  of  a  youth  with  hoary  hair. 

And  sate  on  tiie  seat  beside  him  there, 

Till  a  naked  child  came  wandering  by, 

When  the  fiend  would  ehaitge  to  a  lady  fair! 

A  fearful  tale  !    The  truth  was  worse  : 

For  here  a  sister  and  a  brother 

Had  solemnized  a  monstrous  curse. 

Meeting  in  this  fair  solitude  : 

For  beneath  yon  very  sky. 

Had  they  resign'd  to  one  another 

Body  and  soul.    The  multitude, 

Tracking  them  to  the  secret  wood. 

Tore  limb  from  limb  their  innocent  child, 

And  stabb'd  and  trampled  on  its  mother; 

But  the  youth,  for  God's  most  holy  grace, 

A  priest  saved  to  burn  hi  the  market-place. 


Duly  at  evening  Helen  came 

To  this  lone  silent  spot, 

From  the  wrecks  of  a  tale  of  wilder  sorrow 

So  much  sympathy  to  borrow 

As  soothed  her  own  dark  lot. 

Duly  each  evening  from  her  home. 

With  her  fair  child  would  Helen  come 

To  sit  upon  that  antique  seat, 

While  the  hues  of  day  were  pale ; 

And  the  bright  boy  Ijeside  her  feet 

Now  lay,  lifting  at  intervals 

His  broad  blue  eyes  on  her ; 

Now,  where  some  sudden  impulse  calls 

Following.    He  was  a  gentle  boy 

And  in  all  gentle  sports  took  joy  ; 

Oft  in  a  dry  leaf  for  a  boat, 

With  a  small  feather  for  a  sail. 

His  fancy  on  that  spring  would  float. 

If  some  invisible  breeze  might  stir 

Its  marble  calm :  and  Helen  smiled 

Through  teai-s  of  awe  on  the  gay  child, 

To  think  that  a  boy  as  fair  as  he. 

In  years  which  never  more  may  be, 

By  that  same  fount,  in  that  same  wood, 

The  like  sweet  fancies  had  pursued ; 

And  that  a  mother,  lost  like  her. 

Had  mournfully  sate  watching  him. 

Then  all  the  scene  was  wont  to  swim 

Through  the  mist  of  a  burning  tear. 


For  many  months  had  Helen  known 
This  scene  ;  and  now  she  tliither  tum'd 
52  397 


150 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Her  footsteps,  not  alone. 

The  friend  whose  falsehood  she  had  mourn'd, 

Sate  with  her  on  that  seat  of  stone. 

Silent  they  sate  ;  for  evening, 

And  the  power  its  glimpses  bring 

Had,  Avith  one  awful  shadow,  quell'd 

The  passion  of  their  grief    They  Sate 

With  linked  hands,  for  unrepell'd 

Had  Helen  taken  Rosalind's. 

Like  the  autumn  wind,  when  it  unbinds 

The  tangled  locks  of  the  nightshade's  hair, 

Which  is  twined  in  the  sultry  summer  air 

Round  the  walls  of  an  outworn  sepulchre, 

Did  the  voice  of  Helen,  sad  and  sweet, 

And  the  sound  of  her  heart  that  ever  beat, 

As  with  sighs  and  words  she  breathed  on  her, 

Unbind  the  knots  of  her  friend's  despair, 

Till  her  thoughts  were  free  to  float  and  flow ; 

And  from  her  laboring  bosom  now, 

Like  the  bursting  of  a  prison'd  flame. 

The  voice  of  a  long-pent  sorrow  came. 


ROSALIND. 

I  saw  the  dark  earth  fall  upon 

The  coflin ;  and  I  saw  the  stone 

Laid  over  him  whom  this  cold  breast 

Had  pillow'd  to  his  nightly  rest ! 

Thou  knowest  not,  thou  canst  not  know 

My  agony.    Oh  !  I  could  not  weep  : 

The  sources  whence  such  blessings  flow 

Were  not  to  be  approach'd  by  m.e ! 

But  I  could  smile,  and  I  could  sleep, 

Though  with  a  self-accusing  heart. 

In  morning's  light,  in  evening's  gloom, 

I  watch'd, — and  would  not  thence  depart, — 

My  husband's  unlamenled  tomb. 

My  children  knew  their  sire  was  gone. 

But' .when  I  told  them,  "  he  is  dead," 

They  laugh'd  aloud  in  frantic  glee. 

They  clapp'd  their  hands  and  leap'd  about. 

Answering  each  other's  ecstasy 

With  many  a  prank  and  merry  shout. 

But  I  sate  silent  and  alone, 

Wrapp'd  in  the  mock  of  mourning  weed. 


They  laugh'd,  for  he  was  dead  ;  but  I 
Sale  with  a  hard  and  tearless  eye. 
And  with  a  heart  which  would  deny 
The  secret  joy  it  could  not  quell. 
Low  muttering  o'er  his  lothed  name ; 
Till  from  that  self-contention  came 
Remorse  where  sin  was  none  ;  a  hell 
Which  in  pure  spirits  should  not  dwell. 


I  '11  tell  the  truth.   He  was  a  man 

Hard,  selfish,  loving  only  gold. 

Yet  full  of  guile :  his  pale  eyes  ran 

With  tears,  which  cacli  some  falsehood  told, 

And  oft  his  smooth  and  bridled  tongue 

Would  give  the  lie  to  his  flushing  cheek : 

He  was  a  coward  to  the  strong  ; 

He  was  a  tyrant  to  the  weak. 

On  whom  his  vengeance  he  would  wreak : 

For  scorn,  whose  arrows  search  the  heart. 

From  many  a  stranger's  eye  would  dart, 


And  on  his  memory  cling,  and  follow 

His  soul  to  its  home  so  cold  and  hollov 

He  was  a  tyrant  to  the  weak, 

And  we  were  such,  alas  the  day ! 

Oft,  when  my  little  ones  at  play, 

Were  in  youth's  natural  lightness  gay, 

Or  if  they  listen'd  to  some  tale 

Of  travellers,  or  of  fairy-laud, — 

When  the  light  from  the  wood-fire's  dying  brand 

Flash'd  on  their  faces, — if  they  heard 

Or  thought  they  heard  upon  the  stair 

His  footstep,  the  suspended  word 

Died  on  my  lips :  we  all  grew  pale  ; 

The  babe  at  my  bosom  was  hush'd  with  fear. 

If  it  thought  it  heard  its  father  near ; 

And  my  two  wild  boys  would  near  my  knee 

Cling,  covv'd  and  cowering  fearfully. 


I  '11  tell  the  truth :  I  loved  another. 

His  name  in  my  ear  was  ever  ringing, 

His  form  to  my  brain  was  ever  clinging ; 

Yet  if  some  stranger  breathed  that  name. 

My  lips  turn'd  white,  and  my  heart  beat  fast : 

My  nights  were  once  haunted  by  dreams  of  flame 

My  days  were  dim  in  the  shadow  cast, 

By  the  memory  of  the  same ! 

Day  and  night,  day  and  night, 

He  was  my  breath  and  life  and  light. 

For  three  short  years,  which  soon  were  past 

On  the  fourth,  my  gentle  mother 

Led  me  to  the  shrine,  to  be 

His  sworn  bride  eternally. 

And  now  we  stood  on  tlie  altar-stair, 

When  my  father  came  from  a  distant  land. 

And  with  a  loud  and  fearful  cry, 

Rush'd  between  us  suddenly. 

I  saw  the  stream  of  his  thin  gray  hair, 

I  saw  his  lean  and  lifted  hand. 

And  heard  his  words, — and  live !  O  God ! 

Wherefore  do  I  live  ? — "  Hold,  hold  ! " 

He  cried, — "  I  tell  thee  'tis  her  brother! 

Thy  mother,  boy,  beneath  the  sod 

Of  yon  church-yard  rests  in  her  shroud  so  cold 

I  am  now  weak,  and  pale,  and  old  : 

We  were  once  dear  to  one  another, 

I  and  that  corpse  !    Thou  art.  our  child ! " 

Then  with  a  laugh  both  long  and  wild 

The  youth  upon  the  pavement  fell : 

They  found  him  dead  !    All  look'd  on  me. 

The  spasms  of  my  despair  to  see ; 

But  I  was  calm.    I  went  away  ; 

I  was  clammy-cold  like  clay  ! 

I  did  not  weep — I  did  not  speak  ; 

But  day  by  day,  week  after  week, 

I  walk'd  about  like  a  corpse  alive ! 

Alas !  sweet  friend,  you  must  believe 

This  heart  is  stone — it  did  not  break. 


My  father  lived  a  little  while. 
But  all  might  see  that  he  was  dying. 
He  smiled  with  such  a  woful  smile  ! 
When  he  was  in  the  church-yard  lying 
Among  the  worms,  he  grew  quite  pojr. 
So  that  no  one  would  give  us  brea  J. 
My  mother  look'd  at  me,  and  said 
393 


ROSALIND  AND  HELEN. 


151 


Faint  words  of  cheer,  i/hich  only  meant 

That  she  coul J  die  and  be  content ; 

So  I  went  forth  from  the  same  church-door 

To  another  husband's  bed. 

And  this  was  he  who  died  at  last, 

When  weeks  and  nionllis  and  years  had  past, 

Through  which  I  firmly  did  fulfil 

My  duties,  a  devoted  wife, 

Witli  the  stern  step  of  vanquish'd  will. 

Walking  beneath  the  night  of  life. 

Whose  hours  extinguish'd,  like  slow  rain 

Falling  for  ever,  pain  by  pain. 

The  very  hope  of  death's  dear  rest ; 

Which,  since  the  heart  within  ray  breast 

Of  natural  life  was  dispossest, 

Its  strange  sustaiiier  there  had  been. 


When  flowers  were  dead,  and  grass  was  green 

Upon  my  mother's  grave, — that  mother 

Whom  to  outlive,  and  cheer,  and  make 

My  wan  eyes  glitter  for  her  sake, 

Was  my  vow'd  task,  the  single  care 

Which  once  gave  life  to  my  despair, — 

When  she  was  a  thing  that  did  not  stir. 

And  the  crawling  worms  were  cradling  her 

To  a  sleep  more  deep  and  so  more  sweet 

Than  a  baby's  rock'd  on  its  nurse's  knee, 

I  lived ;  a  living  pulse  ttien  beat 

Beneath  my  heart  that  awaken'd  me. 

What  was  this  pulse  so  warm  and  free  ? 

Alas !  I  knew  it  could  not  be 

My  own  dull  blood:  'twas  like  a  thought 

Of  liquid  love,  that  spread  and  wrought 

Under  my  bosom  and  in  my  brain. 

And  crept  with  the  blood  through  every  vein; 

A  nd  hour  by  hour,  day  after  day. 

The  wonder  could  not  charm  away. 

But  laid  in  sleep,  my  wakeful  pain, 

Unhl  I  knew  it  was  a  child. 

And  then  I  wept.    For  long,  long  years 

These  frozen  eyes  had  shed  no  tears  : 

But  now — 't  was  the  season  fair  and  mild 

^\^len  April  has  wept  itself  to  May : 

I  sate  through  the  sweet  sunny  day 

By  my  window  bower'd  round  with  leaves. 

And  down  my  cheeks  the  quick  tears  ran 

Like  twinkling  rain-drops  from  the  eaves, 

When  warm  spring  showers  are  passing  o'er : 

O  Helen,  none  can  ever  tell 

The  joy  it  was  to  weep  once  more ! 


I  wept  to  think  how  hard  it  were 

To  kill  my  babe,  and  take  from  it 

The  sense  of  light,  and  the  warm  air, 

And  my  own  fond  and  tender  care. 

And  love  and  smiles ;  ere  I  knew  yet 

That  these  for  it  might,  as  for  me. 

Be  the  masks  of  a  grinning  mockery. 

And  haply,  I  would  dream,  'twere  sweet 

To  feed  it  from  my  faded  breast. 

Or  mark  my  owti  heart's  restless  beat 

Rock  it  to  its  untroubled  rest. 

And  watch  the  growing  soul  beneath 

Dawn  in  faint  smiles ;  and  hear  its  breath. 

Half  interrupted  by  calm  sighs, 


And  search  the  depth  of  its  fair  eyes 

For  long  departed  memories ! 

And  so  I  lived  till  that  sweet  load 

Was  lighten'd.    Daridy  forward  flow'd 

The  stream  of  years,  and  on  it  bore 

Two  shapes  of  gladness  lo  my  sight  ; 

Two  other  babes,  delightful  more 

In  my  lost  soul's  abandon'd  night, 

Than  their  own  country  ships  may  be 

Sailing  towards  wreck'd  marinere. 

Who  cling  to  the  rock  of  a  vvinliy  sea. 

For  each,  as  it  came,  brought  soothing  tear* 

And  a  loosening  warmth,  as  each  one  lay 

Sucking  the  sullen  milk  away 

About  my  frozen  heart,  did  play, 

And  wean'd  it,  oh  how  painfully  I — 

As  they  themselves  were  wean'd  each  one 

From  that  sweet  food, — even  from  the  thirst 

Of  death,  and  nothingness,  and  rest, 

Strange  inmate  of  a  living  breast ! 

Which  all  that  I  had  undergone 

Of  grief  and  sliame,  since  she,  who  first 

The  gates  of  that  dark  refuge  closed, 

Came  to  my  sight,  and  almost  burst 

The  seal  of  that  Leihean  spring  ; 

But  these  fair  shadows  interposed  : 

For  all  delights  are  shadows  now! 

And  from  my  brain  to  my  dull  brow 

The  heavy  tears  gather  and  flow  : 

I  cannot  speak — Oh  let  me  weep ! 


The  tears  which  fell  from  her  wan  eyes 
Glimmer'd  among  the  moonlight  dew  ; 
Her  deep  hard  sobs  and  heavy  sighs 
Their  echoes  in  the  darkness  threw. 
When  she  grew  calm,  she  thus  did  keep 
The  tenor  of  her  tale  : — 


He  died, 
I  know  not  how.    He  was  not  old, 
If  age  be  number'd  by  its  years  ; 
But  he  was  bow'd  and  bent  with  fears. 
Pale  with  the  quenchless  thirst  of  gold. 
Which,  like  fierce  fever,  left  him  weak , 
And  his  strait  lip  and  bloated  cheek 
Were  warp'd  in  spasms  by  hollow  sneers, 
And  selfish  cares  with  barren  plow, 
Not  age,  had  lined  his  narrow  brow. 
And  foul  and  cruel  thoughts,  which  feed 
Upon  the  withering  life  within. 
Like  vipers  on  some  poisonous  weed. 
Whether  his  ill  were  death  or  sin 
None  knew,  until  he  died  indeed. 
And  then  men  own'd  they  were  the  same. 

Seven  days  within  my  chamber  lay 
That  corse,  and  my  babes  made  holiday : 
At  last,  I  told  them  what  is  death : 
The  eldest,  with  a  kind  of  shame. 
Came  to  my  knees  with  silent  breath. 
And  sate  awe-stricken  at  my  feet  j 
And  soon  the  others  left  their  play. 
And  sate  there  too.    It  is  unmeet 
To  shed  on  the  brief  flower  of  youth 
The  withering  knowledge  of  the  grave , 
From  me  remorse  then  wrung  that  truth 
399 


152 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I  could  not  bear  the  joy  wliich  gave 
Too  just  a  response  to  mine  own. 
In  vain.    I  dared  not  feign  a  groan ; 
And  in  their  artless  looks  I  saw, 
Between  the  mists,  of  fear  and  awe, 
That  my  own  thought  was  theirs ;  and  they 
Express'd  it  not  in  words,  but  said, 
Each  in  its  heart,  how  every  day 
Will  pass  in  happy  work  and  play, 
Now  he  is  dead  and  gone  away. 


After  the  funeral  all  our  kin 

Assembled,  and  the  will  was  read. 

My  friend,  I  tell  thee,  even  the  dead 

Have  strength,  their  putrid  shrouds  within, 

To  blast  and  torture.    Those  who  live 

Still  fear  the  living,  but  a  corse 

Is  merciless,  and  power  doth  give 

To  such  pale  tyrants  half  the  spoil 

He  rends  from  those  who  groan  and  toil, 

Because  they  blush  not  with  remorse 

Among  their  crawling  worms.    Behold, 

I  have  no  child !  my  tale  grows  old 

With  grief,  and  staggers  :  let  it  reach 

The  limits  of  my  feeble  speech, 

And  languidly  at  length  recline 

On  the  brink  of  its  own  grave  and  mine. 


Thou  knowest  what  a  thing  is  Poverty 

Among  the  fallen  on  evil  days: 

'Tis  Crime,  and  Fear,  and  Infamy, 

And  houseless  Want  in  frozen  ways 

Wandering  ungarmented,  and  Pain, 

And,  wor.se  than  all,  that  inward  slain 

Foul  Self-contempt,  which  drowns  in  sneers 

Youth's  starlight  smile,  and  makes  its  tears 

First  like  hot  gall,  then  dry  for  ever . 

And  well  thou  knowest  a  mother  never 

Could  doom  her  children  to  this  ill. 

And  well  he  knew  the  same.    The  will 

Imported,  that  if  e'er  again 

I  sought  my  children  to  behold. 

Or  in  my  birth-place  did  remain 

Beyond  three  days,  wliose  hours  were  told. 

They  should  inherit  naught :  and  he, 

To  whom  next  came  iheir  patrimony, 

A  sallow  lawyer,  cruel  and  cold. 

Aye  watch'd  me,  as  the  will  was  read. 

With  eyes  askance,  which  sought  to  see 

The  secrets  of  my  agony ; 

And  with  close  lips  and  anxious  brow 

Stood  canvassing  still  to  and  fro 

The  chance  of  my  resolve,  and  all 

The  dead  man's  caution  just  did  call; 

For  in  that  killing  lie  'twas  said — 

"  She  is  adulterous,  and  doth  hold 

In  secret  that  the  Christian  creed 

Is  false,  and  therefore  is  much  need 

That  I  should  have  a  care  to  save 

My  children  from  eternal  fire." 

Friend,  he  was  shelter'd  by  the  grave, 

And  therefore  dared  to  be  a  liar ! 

In  truth,  the  Indian  on  the  pyre 

Of  her  dead  husband,  half  consumed, 

As  well  might  there  be  false,  as  I 

To  those  abhorr'd  embraces  doom'd. 


Far  worse  than  fire's  brief  agony. 

As  to  the  Christian  creed,  if  true 

Or  false,  I  never  question'd  it : 

I  look  it  as  the  vulgar  do : 

Kor  my  vext  soul  had  leisure  yet 

To  doubt  the  things  men  say,  or  deem 

That  they  are  other  than  Ihey  seem. 


All  present  who  those  crimes  did  hear, 

In  feign'd  or  actual  scorn  and  fear. 

Men,  women,  children,  slunk  away. 

Whispering  with  self-contented  pride. 

Which  half  suspects  its  own  base  lie. 

I  spoke  to  none,  nor  did  abide. 

But  silently  I  went  my  way. 

Nor  noticed  I  where  joyously 

Sate  my  two  younger  babes  at  play. 

In  the  court-yard  through  which  I  past; 

But  vient  with  footsteps  firm  and  fast 

Till  I  came  to  the  brink  of  the  ocean  green, 

And  there,  a  woman  with  gray  hairs. 

Who  had  my  mother's  servant  been. 

Kneeling,  with  many  tears  and  prayers, 

Made  me  accept  a  purse  of  gold, 

Half  of  the  earnings  she  had  kept 

To  refuge  her  when  weak  and  old. 


With  woe,  which  never  sleeps  or  slept, 

I  wander  now.    'Tis  a  vain  thought — 

But  on  yon  alp,  whose  snowy  head 

'Mid  the  azure  air  is  islanded 

(We  see  it  o'er  the  flood  of  cloud, 

Which  sunrise  from  ils  eastern  caves 

Drives,  wrinkling  into  golden  waves, 

Hung  with  its  precipices  prpud, 

From  that  gray  stone  where  first  we  met), 

There,  now  who  knows  the  dead  feel  naught  f 

Should  be  my  grave ;  for  he  who  yet 

Is  my  soul's  soul,  once  said  :  "  'T  were  sweet 

'Mid  stars  and  lightnings  to  abide. 

And  winds  and  lulling  snows,  that  beat 

^Vith  their  soft  flakes  the  mountain  wide, 

When  weary  meteor  lamps  repose. 

And  languid  storms  their  pinions  close  : 

And  all  things  strong  and  bright  and  pure, 

And  ever-during,  aye  endure: 

Who  luiows,  if  one  were  buried  there, 

But  these  things  might  our  spirits  make, 

Amid  the  all-surrounding  air, 

Their  own  eternity  partake  ?" 

Then  'twas  a  wild  and  playful  saying 

At  which  I  laugh'd  or  seem'd  to  laugh : 

They  were  his  words  :  now  heed  my  prayiflg 

And  let  them  be  my  epitaph. 

Thy  memory  for  a  term  may  be 

My  monument.    Wilt  remember  me  ? 

I  know  thou  wilt,  and  canst  forgive 

Whilst  in  this  erring  world  to  live 

My  soul  disdain'd  not,  that  I  thought 

Its  lying  forms  were  worthy  aught, 

And  much  less  thee. 


O  speak  not  so, 
But  come  to  me  and  pour  thy  woe 
Into  this  heart,  full  though  it  be, 

400 


ROSALIND  AND  HELEN. 


153 


Aye  overflowing  with  its  owTi  : 

I  thought  that  grief  had  sever'd  me 

From  all  beside  who  weep  and  groan ; 

Its  likeness  upon  earth  to  be, 

Its  express  image ;  but  thou  art 

More  wretched.    Sweet!  we  will  not  part 

Henceforth,  if  death  be  not  division ; 

If  so,  the  dead  feel  no  contrition. 

But  wilt  thou  hear,  since  last  we  parted 

All  that  has  left  me  broken-hearted  ? 

ROSALIND. 

Yes,  speak.    The  faintest  stars  are  scarcely  shorn 
Of  their  thin  beams  by  that  delusive  mom 
Which  sinks  again  in  darkne.ss,  like  the  light 
Of  early  love,  soon  lost  in  total  night. 


Alas !  Italian  winds  are  mild. 

But  my  bosom  is  cold — wintry  cold — 

AVhen  the  warm  airw  eaves,  among  the  fresh  leaves, 

Soft  music,  my  poor  brain  is  wild. 

And  I  am  weak  like  a  nursling  child, 

Though  my  soul  with  grief  is  gray  and  old. 

EOSALIXD. 

Weep  not  at  thine  own  words,  tho'  they  must  make 
Me  weep.    What  is  thy  tale  ? 

HELEN. 

I  fear  't  will  shake 
Thy  gentle  heart  with  tears.    Thou  well 
Rememberest  when  we  met  no  more, 
And,  though  I  dwelt  with  Lionel, 
That  friendless  caution  pierced  me  sore 
AVith  grief;  a  wound  my  spirit  bore 
Indignantly,  but  when  he  died 
With  liim  lay  dead  both  hope  and  pride. 

Alas!  all  hope  is  buried  now. 
But  then  men  dream'd  the  aged  earth 
Was  laboring  in  that  mighty  birth, 
Which  many  a  poet  and  a  sage 
Has  aye  foreseen — the  happy  age 
Wlien  truth  and  love  shall  dwell  below 
Among  the  works  and  ways  of  men  ; 
Wliich  on  this  world  not  power  but  will 
Even  now  is  wanting  to  fulfil. 

Among  mankind  what  thence  befell 
Of  strife,  how  vain,  is  known  too  well  ; 
When  liberty's  dear  psean  fell 
'Mid  murderous  howls.    To  Lionel, 
Though  of  great  wealth  and  lineage  high, 
Yet  through  those  dungeon  w'alls  there  came 
Thy  thrilling  hght,  O  Liberty! 
And  as  the  meteor's  midnight  flame 
Startles  the  dreamer,  sunlike  truth 
Flash'd  on  his  visionary  youth. 
And  fill'd  him,  not  with  love,  but  faith, 
And  hope,  and  courage  mute  in  death ; 
For  love  and  life  in  him  were  twins. 
Born  at  one  birth :  in  every  other 
First  life  llien  love  its  course  begins. 
Though  they  be  children  of  one  mother ; 
And  so  through  this  dark  world  they  fleet 
Divided,  till  in  death  they  meet : 
3  A 


But  he  loved  all  things  ever.    Then 

He  pass'd  atnid  the  strife  of  men. 

And  stood  at  the  throne  of  armed  power 

Pleading  for  a  world  of  woe  : 

Secure  as  one  on  a  rock-built  tower 

O'er  the  wrecks  which  the  surge  trails  to  and  fro, 

'Mid  the  passions  wild  of  human-kind 

He  stood,  like  a  spirit  calming  them; 

For,  it  was  said,  his  words  could  bind 

Like  music  the  lull'd  crowd,  and  stem 

That  torrent  of  unquiet  dream 

Which  mortals  truth  and  reason  deem, 

But  is  revenge  and  fear,  and  pride. 

Joyous  he  was ;  and  liope  and  peace 

On  all  who  heard  him  did  abide, 

Raining  like  dew  from  his  sweet  talk, 

As  where  the  evening  star  may  walk 

Along  the  brink  of  the  gloomy  seas, 

Liquid  mists  of  splendor  quiver. 


His  very  gestures  toucli'd  to  tears 

The  unpersuaded  tyrant,  never 

So  moved  before  :  his  presence  stung 

The  torturers  with  their  victim's  pain, 

And  none  knew  how  ;  and  through  their  earS; 

The  subtle  witchcraft  of  his  tongue 

Unlock'd  the  hearts  of  those  who  keep 

Gold,  the  world's  bond  of  slavery. 

Men  vvonder'd,  and  some  sneer'd  to  see 

One  sow  what  he  could  never  reap  : 

For  he  is  rich,  they  said,  and  young. 

And  might  drink  (rom  the  depths  of  luxury. 

If  he  seeks  fame,  fame  never  crown'd 

The  champion  of  a  trampled  creed: 

If  he  seeks  power,  power  is  enthroned 

'Mid  ancient  rights  and  wrongs,  to  feed 

Which  hungry  wolves  with  j)raise  and  spoil 

Those  who  would  sit  near  power  must  toil; 

And  such,  there  sitting,  all  may  see. 

What  seeks  he  ?  All  that  others  seek 

He  casts  away,  like  a  vile  weed 

Which  the  sea  casts  unreturningly. 

That  poor  and  hungry  men  should  break 

The  laws  which  wreak  them  toil  and  scorn, 

We  understand  ;  but  Lionel 

We  Icnow  is  rich  and  nobly  born. 


So  wonder'd  they ;  yet  all  men  loved 
Young  Lionel,  though  few  approved ; 
All  but  the  priests,  whose  hatred  fell 
Like  the  unseen  blight  of  a  smiling  day. 
The  withering  honey-dew,  which  clings 
Under  the  bright  green  buds  of  May, 
Whilst  they  unfold  their  emerald  wings  : 
For  he  made  verses  wild  and  queer 
On  the  strange  creeds  priests  hold  so  dear. 
Because  they  bring  them  land  and  gold. 
Of  devils  and  saints  and  a'l  such  gear. 
He  made  tales  which  whoso  heard  or  read 
Would  laugh  till  he  were  almost  dead. 
So  this  grew  a  proverb :  "  Don't  get  old 
Till  Lionel's  '  banquet  in  hell'  you  hear. 
And  then  you  will  laugh  yourself  yoimg  again." 
So  the  priests  hated  him,  and  he 
Repaid  their  hate  with  cheerful  glee. 
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154 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Ah,  smiles  and  jojance  quickly  died, 

For  public  hope  grew  pale  and  dim 

(n  an  alter'd  time  and  tide, 

And  in  its  wasting  vvither"d  him. 

As  a  summer  flower  that  blows  too  soon 

Droops  in  the  smile  of  the  waning  moon, 

\Vhen  it  scatters  through  an  April  night 

The  frozen  dews  of  wrinkling  blight. 

None  now  hoped  more.    Gray  Power  was  seated 

Safely  on  her  ancestral  throne ; 

And  Faith,  the  Python,  undefeated, 

Even  to  its  blood-stain'd  steps  dragg'd  on 

Her  foul  and  wounded  train,  and  men 

Were  trampled  and  deceived  again, 

And  words  and  shows  again  could  bind 

The  wailing  tribes  of  human-kind 

In  scorn  and  famine.    Fire  and  blood 

Raged  round  the  raging  multitude, 

To  fields  remote  by  tyrants  sent 

To  be  the  scorned  instrument 

With  which  they  drag  from  mines  of  gore 

The  chains  their  slaves  yet  ever  wore  ; 

And  in  the  streets  men  met  each  other, 

And  by  old  altars  and  in  halls. 

And  smiled  again  at  festivals. 

But  each  man  found  in  his  heart's  brother 

Cold  cheer;  for  all,  though  half  deceived. 

The  outworn  creeds  again  believed, 

And  the  same  round  anew  began. 

Which  the  weary  world  yet  ever  ran. 


Many  then  wept,  not  tears,  but  ga\l 

Within  their  hearts,  like  drops  which  fall 

Wasting  the  fountain-stone  away. 

And  in  that  dark  and  evil  day 

Did  all  desires  and  thoughts,  that  claim 

Men's  care — ambition,  friendship,  fame, 

Love,  hope,  though  hope  was  now  despair — 

Indue  the  colors  of  this  change. 

As  from  the  all-surroimding  air 

The  earth  takes  hues  obscure  and  strange, 

When  storm  and  earthquake  linger  there. 


And  so,  my  friend,  it  then  befell 
To  many,  most  to  Lionel, 
Whose  hope  was  like  the  life  of  youth 
Within  him,  and  when  dead,  became 
A  spirit  of  unresting  flame. 
Which  goaded  him  in  his  distress 
Over  the  world's  vast  wilderness. 
Three  years  he  left  his  native  land. 
And  on  the  fourth,  when  he  return'd. 
None  knew  him :  he  was  stricken  deep 
With  some  disease  of  mind,  and  tum'd 
Into  aught  unlike  Lionel. 
On  him,  on  whom,  did  he  pause  in  sleep, 
Serenest  smiles  were  wont  to  keep, 
And,  did  he  wake,  a  winged  band 
Of  bright  persuasions,  which  had  fed 
On  his  sweet  lips  and  liquid  eyes. 
Kept  their  swift  pinions  half  outspread, 
To  do  on  men  his  least  command  ; 
On  him,  whom  once  'twas  paradise 
Even  to  behold,  now  misery  lay: 
In  his  own  heart  'twas  merciless, 


To  all  things  else  none  may  express 
Its  innocence  and  tenderness. 

'Twas  said  that  he  had  refuge  sought 

In  love  from  his  unquiet  thought 

In  distant  lands,  and  been  deceived 

By  some  strange  show ;  for  there  were  found, 

Blotted  with  tears  as  those  relieved 

By  their  own  words  are  wont  to  do. 

These  mournful  verses  on  the  ground, 

By  all  who  read  them  blotted  too. 

"  How  am  I  changed !  my  hopes  were  once  like  fire 
I  loved,  and  I  believed  that  life  was  love. 
How  am  I  lost !  on  wings  of  swift  desire 
Among  Heaven's  winds  my  spirit  once  did  move 
I  slept,  and  silver  dreams  did  aye  inspire 
My  liquid  sleep.    I  woke,  and  did  approve 
All  nature  to  my  heart,  and  thought  to  make 
A  paradise  of  earth  for  one  sweet  sake. 

"  I  love,  but  I  believe  in  love  no  more  : 
I  feel  desire,  but  hope  not.    O,  from  sleep 
Most  vainly  must  my  weary  brain  implore 
Its  long-lost  flattery  now.    I  wake  to  weep. 
And  sit  through  the  long  day  gnawing  the  core 
Of  my  bitter  heart,  and,  like  a  miser,  keep, 
Since  none  in  what  I  feel  take  pain  or  pleasure 
To  ray  own  soul  its  self-consuming  treasure  " 

He  dwelt  beside  me  near  the  sea  ; 
And  oft  in  evening  did  we  meet. 
When  the  waves,  beneath  the  starlight,  flee 
O'er  the  yellow  sands  with  silver  feet. 
And  talk'd.    Our  talk  was  sad  and  sweet. 
Till  slowly  from  his  mien  there  pass'd 
The  desolation  which  it  spoke  ; 
And  smiles, — as  when  the  lightning's  blast 
Has  parch'd  some  Heaven-delighting  oak, 
.  The  next  spring  shows  leaves  pale  and  rare. 
But  like  flowers  delicate  and  fair. 
On  its  rent  boughs, — again  array'd 
His  countenance  in  tender  light : 
His  words  grew  subtle  fire,  which  made 
The  air  his  hearers  breathed  dehght : 
His  motions,  like  the  winds,  were  free, 
Which  bend  the  bright  grass  gracefully. 
Then  fade  away  in  circlets  faint: 
And  winged  Hope,  on  which  upborne 
His  soul  seem'd  hovering  in  his  eyes, 
Like  some  bright  spirit  newly-born 
Floating  amid  the  sunny  skies. 
Sprang  forth  from  his  rent  heart  anew. 
Yet  o'er  his  talk,  and  looks,  and  mien, 
Tempering  their  loveliness  loo  keen. 
Past  woe  its  shadow  backward  threw, 
Till  like  an  exhalation,  spread 
From  flowers  half  drunk  with  evening  dew. 
They  did  become  infectious  :  sweet 
And  subtle  mists  of  sense  and  thought; 
Which  wrapt  us  soon,  when  we  might  meet. 
Almost  from  our  own  looks  and  aught 
The  wide  world  holds.    And  so,  his  mind 
Was  heal'd,  while  mine  grew  sick  with  fear  • 
For  ever  now  his  health  declined. 
Like  some  frail  bark  which  cannot  bear 
The  impulse  of  an  alter'd  wind, 

402 


ROSALIND  AND  HELEN. 


155 


Though  prosperous ;  and  my  heart  grew  full 

'Mid  its  new  joj-  of  a  new  care  : 

For  his  cheek  became,  not  pale,  but  fair, 

As  rose-o'ershadow'd  lilies  are  ; 

And  soon  his  deep  and  sunny  hair, 

In  this  alone  less  beautiful. 

Like  grass  in  tombs  grew  wild  and  rare. 

The  blood  in  his  translucent  veins 

Beat,  not  like  animal  life,  but  love 

Seem'd  now  its  sullen  springs  to  move. 

When  life  had  fail'd,  and  all  its  pains ; 

And  sudden  sleep  would  seize  him  oft 

Like  death,  so  calm,  but  that  a  tear, 

His  pointed  eye-lashes  between, 

Would  gather  in  the  light  serene 

Of  smiles,  whose  lustre  bright  and  soft 

Beneath  lay  undulating  there. 

His  breath  was  like  inconstant  flame, 

As  eagerly  it  went  and  came  ; 

And  I  hung  o'er  him  in  his  sleep. 

Till,  like  an  image  in  the  lake 

Which  rains  disturb,  my  tears  would  break 

The  shadow  of  that  slumper  deep  ; 

Then  he  would  bid  me  not  to  weep, 

And  say  with  flattery  false,  yet  sweet, 

That  death  and  he  could  never  meet, 

If  I  would  never  part  with  him. 

And  so  we  loved,  and  did  unite 

All  that  in  us  was  yet  divided  : 

For  when  he  said,  that  many  a  rite, 

By  men  to  bind  but  once  provided. 

Could  not  be  shared  by  him  and  me. 

Or  they  would  Itill  him  in  their  glee, 

I  shudder'd,  and  then  laughing  said, 

"  We  will  have  rites  our  faith  to  bind, 

But  our  church  shall  be  the  starry  night, 

Our  altar  the  grassy  earth  outspread, 

And  our  priest  the  muttering  wind." 

'Twas  sunset  as  I  spoke :  one  star 

Had  scarce  burst  forth,  when  from  afar 

The  ministers  of  misrule  sent, 

Seized  upon  Lionel,  and  bore 

His  chain'd  limbs  to  a  dreary  tower, 

In  the  midst  of  a  city  vast  and  wide. 

For  he,  they  said,  from  his  mind  had  bent 

Against  their  gods  keen  blasphemy. 

For  wliich,  though  his  soul  must  roasted  be 

In  hell's  red  lakes  immortally, 

Yet  even  on  earth  must  he  abide 

The  vengeance  of  their  slaves — a  trial, 

I  think,  men  call  it.     What  avail 

Are  prayers  and  tears,  which  chase  denial 

From  the  fierce  savage,  nursed  in  hate  ? 

What  the  knit  soul  that  pleading  and  pale 

Makes  wan  the  quivering  cheek,  which  late 

It  painted  with  its  own  delight  ? 

We  were  divided.     As  I  could, 

I  stiU'd  the  tingling  of  my  blood, 

And  follow'd  him  in  their  despite, 

As  a  widow  follows,  pale  and  wild, 

ITie  murderers  and  corse  of  her  only  child  ; 

And  when  we  came  to  the  prison  door, 

And  I  pray'd  to  share  his  dungeon  floor 

With  prayers  that  rarely  have  been  spurn'd, 

And  when  men  drove  me  forth,  and  I 


Stared  with  blank  frenzy  on  the  sky, 

A  farewell  look  of  love  he  turn'd, 

Half  calming  me  ;  then  gazed  awhile. 

As  if  through  that  black  and  massy  pile, 

And  through  the  crowd  around  him  there. 

And  through  the  dense  and  murky  air, 

And  the  throng'd  streets,  he  did  espy 

What  poets  know  and  prophesy  ; 

And  said,  with  voice  that  made  them  shiver 

And  clung  like  music  in  my  brain, 

And  which  the  mute  walls  spoke  again 

Prolonging  it  with  deepen'd  strain — 

"  Fear  nil  the  tyrants  shall  rule  for  ever, 

Or  the  priests  of  the  bloody  faith  ; 

They  stand  on  the  brink  of  that  mighty  river, 

Whose  waves  they  have  tainted  with  death : 

It  is  fed  from  the  depths  of  a  thousand  dells. 

Around  them  it  foams,  and  rages,  and  swells, 

And  their  swords  and  their  sceptres  I  floating  866, 

Like  wrecks  in  the  surge  of  eternity." 

I  dwelt  beside  the  prison-gate. 

And  the  strange  crowd  that  out  and  in 

Pass'd,  some,  no  doubt,  with  mine  own  fate, 

Might  have  fretted  me  with  its  ceaseless  din, 

But  the  fever  of  care  was  louder  within. 

Soon,  but  too  late,  in  penitence 

Or  fear,  his  foes  released  him  thence  : 

I  saw  his  thin  and  languid  form, 

A^  leaning  on  the  jailer's  arm, 

Whose  harden'd  eyes  grew  moist  the  while, 

To  meet  his  mute  and  faded  smile. 

And  hear  his  words  of  kind  farewell, 

He  totter'd  forth  from  his  damp  cell. 

Many  had  never  wept  before. 

From  whom  fast  tears  then  gush'd  and  fell : 

Many  will  relent  no  more. 

Who  sobb'd  like  infants  then  ;  ay,  all 

Who  throng'd  the  prison's  stony  hall. 

The  nders  or  the  slaves  of  law, 

Felt  with  a  new  surprise  and  awe 

That  they  were  human,  till  strong  shame 

Made  them  again  become  the  same. 

The  prison  blood-hounds,  huge  and  grLra, 

From  human  looks  the  infection  caught. 

And  fondly  crouch'd  and  fawn'd  on  him  ; 

And  men  have  heard  the  prisoners  say, 

Who  in  their  rotting  dungeons  lay, 

That  from  that  hour,  tliroughout  one  day, 

The  fierce  despair  and  hate  which  kept 

Their  trampled  bosoms  almost  slept : 

When,  like  twin  vultures,  they  hung  feeding 

On  each  heart's  wound,  wide  torn  and  bleeding, 

Because  their  jailers'  rule,  they  thought. 

Grew  merciful,  like  a  parent's  sway. 

I  know  not  how,  but  we  were  free  : 
And  Lionel  sate  alone  with  me. 
As  the  carriage  drove  through  the  streets  apaco 
And  we  look'd  upon  each  other's  face  ; 
And  the  blood  in  our  fingers  intertwined 
Ran  like  the  thoughts  of  a  single  mind, 
As  the  swift  emotions  went  and  came 
Through  the  veins  of  each  united  frame. 
So  through  the  long  lone  streets  vi'e  past 
Of  the  million-peopled  city  vast ; 
403 


156 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Which  is  that  desert,  where  each  one 

Seeks  his  mate  yet  is  alone, 

Beloved  and  sought  and  mourn'd  of  none  ; 

Until  the  clear  blue  sky  was  seen, 

And  the  grassy  meadows  bright  and  green. 

And  then  I  sunk  in  his  embrace. 

Inclosing  there  a  mighty  space 

Of  love  :  and  so  we  travell'd  on 

By  woods,  and  fields  of  yellow  flowers. 

And  towns,  and  villages,  and  towers. 

Day  after  day  of  happy  hours. 

It  was  the  azure  time  of  June, 

When  the  skies  are  deep  in  the  stainless  noon. 

And  the  warm  and  fitful  breezes  shake 

The  fresh  green  leaves  of  the  hedge-row  brier, 

And  there  were  odors  then  to  make 

The  very  breath  we  did  respire 

A  liquid  element,  whereon 

Our  spirits,  lilie  deUghted  things 

That  walk  the  air  on  subtle  wings. 

Floated  and  mingled  far  away, 

'JVlid  the  warm  winds  of  the  sunny  day. 

And  when  the  evening  star  came  forth 

Above  the  curve  of  the  new-bent  moon. 

And  light  and  sound  ebb'd  from  the  earth. 

Like  the  tide  of  the  full  and  weary  sea 

To  the  depths  of  its  own  tranquillity. 

Our  natures  to  its  own  repose 

Did  the  earth's  breathless  sleep  attune : 

Like  flowers,  which  on  each  other  close 

Their  languid  leaves  when  daylight's  gone, 

We  lay,  till  new  emotions  came, 

Which  soem'd  to  make  each  mortal  frame 

One  soul  of  interwoven  flame,      ^ 

A  life  in  life,  a  second  birth 

In  worlds  diviner  far  than  earth, 

Which,  like  two  strains  of  harmony 

That  mingle  in  the  silent  sky, 

Then  slowly  disunite,  past  by 

And  left  the  tenderness  of  tears, 

A  soft  oblivion  of  all  fears, 

A  sweet  sleep  :  so  we  travell'd  on 

Till  we  came  to  the  home  of  Lionel, 

Among  the  mountains  wild  and  lone. 

Beside  tlie  hoary  western  sea, 

Which  near  the  verge  of  the  echoing  shore 

The  massy  forest  shadow'd  o'er. 

The  ancient  steward,  with  hair  all  hoar, 

As  we  alighted,  wept  to  see 

His  master  changed  so  fearfully  ; 

And  the  old  man's  sobs  did  waken  me 

From  my  dream  of  unremaining  gladness; 

The  truth  flash'd  o'er  me  hke  quick  madness 

When  I  look'd,  and  saw  that  there  was  death 

On  Lionel :  yet  day  by  day 

He  lived,  till  fear  grew  hope  and  faith, 

And  in  my  soul  I  dared  to  say, 

Nothing  so  bright  can  pass  away : 

Death  is  dark,  and  foul,  and  dull, 

But  he  is — O  how  beautiful ! 

Yet  day  by  day  he  grew  more  weak. 

And  his  sweet  voice,  when  he  might  speak, 

Which  ne'er  was  loud,  became  more  low ; 

And  the  hght  which  flash'd   through  his  waxen 

cheek 
Grew  faint,  as  the  rose-like  hues  which  flow 


From  sunset  o'er  the  Alpine  snow: 

And  death  seem'd  not  like  death  in  him. 

For  the  spirit  of  life  o'er  every  limb 

Linger'd,  a  mist  of  sense  and  thought. 

When  the  summer  wind  faint  odors  brought 

From  mountain  flowers,  even  as  it  pass'd 

His  cheek  would  change,  as  the  noonday  sea 

Which  the  dying  breeze  swept  fitfully. 

If  but  a  cloud  the  sky  o'ercast, 

You  might  see  his  color  come  and  go. 

And  the  softest  strain  of  music  made 

Sweet  smiles,  yet  sad,  arise  and  fade 

Amid  the  dew  of  his  tender  eyes : 

And  the  breath,  with  intermitting  flow. 

Made  his  pale  lips  quiver  and  part. 

You  might  hear  the  beatings  of  his  heart. 

Quick,  but  not  strong ;  and  with  my  tresses 

When  oft  he  playfully  would  bind 

In  the  bovvers  of  mossy  lonelinesses 

His  neck,  and  win  me  so  to  mingle 

In  the  sweet  depth  of  woven  caresses, 

And  our  faint  limbs  were  intertwined, 

Alas !  the  unquiet  life  did  tingle 

From  mine  own  heart  through  every  vein, 

Like  a  captive  in  dreams  of  liberty. 

Who  beats  the  walls  of  his  stony  cell. 

But  his,  it  seem'd  already  free. 

Like  the  shadow  of  fire  surrounding  me ! 

On  my  faint  eyes  and  limbs  did  dwell 

That  spirit  as  it  pass'd,  till  soon. 

As  a  frail  cloud  wandering  o'er  the  moon. 

Beneath  its  light  invisible, 

Is  seen  when  it  folds  its  gray  wings  again 

To  alight  on  midnight's  dusky  plain, 

I  lived  and  saw,  and  the  gathering  soul 

Pass'd  from  beneath  that  strong  control, 

And  I  fell  on  a  life  which  was  sick  with  fear 

Of  all  the  woe  that  now  I  bear. 


Amid  a  bloomless  myrtle  wood. 
On  a  green  and  sea-girt  promontory, 
Not  far  from  Avhere  we  dwelt,  there  stood 
In  record  of  a  sweet  sad  story. 
An  altar  and  a  temple  bright 
Circled  by  steps,  and  o'er  the  gale 
Was  sculptured,  "  To  Fidelity  ;" 
And  in  the  shrine  an  image  sate. 
All  veil'd  :  but  there  was  seen  the  light 
Of  smiles,  which  faintly  could  express 
A  mingled  pain  and  tenderness 
Through  that  ethereal  drapery. 
The  left  hand  held  the  head,  the  right- 
Beyond  the  veil,  beneath  the  skin, 
You  miglit  see  the  nerves  quivering  within- 
Was  forcing  the  point  of  a  barbed  dart 
Into  its  side-convulsing  heart. 
An  unskill'd  hand,  yet  one  inform'd 
With  genius,  had  the  marble  warm'd 
With  that  pathetic  life.     This  tale 
It  told :  A  dog  had  from  the  sea. 
When  the  tide  was  raging  fearfully, 
Dragg'd  Lionel's  mother,  weak  and  pale. 
Then  died  beside  her  on  the  sand. 
And  she  that  temple  tlience  had  plann'd : 
But  it  was  Lionel's  own  hand 
Had  wrought  the  image.     Each  new  moon 
404 


ROSALIND  AND  HELEN. 


157 


That  lady  did,  in  this  lone  fane, 

The  rites  of  a  rehgion  sweet, 

^Vhose  god  was  in  her  heart  and  brain : 

The  seasons'  loveliest  flowers  were  strewn 

On  the  marble  floor  beneath  her  feet, 

And  she  brought  crowns  of  sea-buds  white, 

Whose  odor  is  so  sweet  and  faint. 

And  weeds,  like  branching  chrysolite, 

Woven  in  devices  fine  and  quaint, 

And  tears  from  her  brown  eyes  did  stain 

The  altar  :  need  but  look  upon 

That  dying  statue,  fair  and  wan. 

If  tears  should  cease,  to  weep  again  : 

And  rare  Arabian  odors  came. 

Through  the  myrtle  copses  steaming  thence 

From  the  hissing  frankincense, 

Whose  smoke,  wool-white  as  ocean  foam, 

Hung  in  dense  flocks  beneath  the  dome, 

That  ivory  dome,  whose  azure  night 

With  golden  stars,  like  heaven,  was  bright 

0"er  the  split  cedars'  pointed  flame : 

And  the  lady's  harp  would  kindle  there 

The  melody  of  an  old  air. 

Softer  than  sleep ;  the  villagers 

Mixt  their  religion  up  with  hers, 

And  as  they  listen'd  round,  shed  tears. 


One  eve  he  led  me  to  this  fane : 

Daylight  on  its  last  purple  cloud 

Was  lingering  gray,  and  soon  her  strain 

The  nightingale  began;  now  loud, 

Climbing  in  circles-^  the  windless  sky, 

Now  dying  music  ;  suddenly 

'Tis  scatter'd  in  a  thousand  notes. 

And  now  to  the  hush'd  ear  it  floats 

Like  field-smells  knowTi  in  infancy, 

Then  failing,  soothes  the  air  again. 

We  sate  within  that  temple  lone, 

Pavilion'd  round  wilh  Parian  stone  : 

His  mother's  harp  stood  near,  and  oft 

I  had  awaken'd  music  soft 

Amid  its  wires  :  the  nightingale 

Was  pausing  in  her  heaven-taught  tale  : 

"  Now  drain  the  cup,"  said  Lionel, 

"  Which  the  poet-bird  has  crown'd  so  well 

With  the  wine  of  her  bright  and  liquid  song ! 

Heardst  thou  not  sweet  words  among 

That  heaven-resounding  minstrelsy! 

Heardst  thou  not,  that  those  who  die 

Awake  in  a  world  of  ecslasy  ? 

That  love,  when  limbs  are  interwoven. 

And  sleep,  when  the  n*iglil  of  life  is  cloven. 

And  thought,  to  the  world's  dim  boundaries  cling- 

ingi 
And  music,  when  one  beloved  is  singing, 
Is  death  ?  Let  us  drain  right  joyously 
The  cup  which  the  sweet  bird  fills  for  me  " 
He  paused,  and  to  my  lips  he  bent 
His  own:  like  spirit  liis  words  went 
Through  all  my  limbs  wilh  the  speed  of  fire ; 
And  his  keen  eyes,  glittering  through  mine, 
Fill'd  me  wilh  the  flame  divine. 
Which  in  their  orbs  was  burning  far. 
Like  the  light  of  an  unmeasured  star, 
In  the  sky  of  midnight  dark  and  deep : 
Yes,  'twas  his  soul  that  did  inspire 
Sounds,  which  my  skill  could  ne'er  awaken. 


And  first,  I  felt  my  fingers  sweep 

The  harp,  and  a  long  quivering  cry 

Burst  from  my  lips  in  symphony: 

The  dusk  and  solid  air  was  shaken, 

As  swift  and  swifter  the  notes  came 

From  my  touch,  that  wander'd  like  quick  flame, 

And  from  my  bosom,  laboring 

With  some  unutterable  thing  : 

The  awful  sound  of  my  own  voice  made 

My  faint  lips  tremble,  in  some  mood 

Of  wordless  thought  Lionel  stood 

So  pale,  that  even  beside  his  cheek 

The  snowy  column  from  its  shade 

Caught  whiteness  :  yet  his  countenance 

Raised  upward,  burn'd  with  radiance 

Of  spirit-piercing  joy,  whose  light, 

Like  the  moon  struggling  through  the  night 

Of  whirlwind-rifted  clouds,  did  break 

With  beams  that  might  not  be  confined. 

I  paused,  but  soon  his  gestures  Idndled 

New  power,  as  by  the  moving  wind 

The  waves  are  lifted,  and  my  song 

To  low  soft  notes  now  changed  and  dwindled, 

And  from  the  twinkling  wires  among. 

My  languid  fingers  drew  and  flung 

Circles  of  life-dissolving  sound, 

Yet  faint :  in  aery  rings  they  bound 

My  Lionel,  who,  as  eveiy  strain 

Grew  fainter  but  more  sweet,  his  mien 

Sunk  with  ihe  sound  relaxedly ; 

And  slowly  now  he  turn'd  to  me, 

As  slowly  faded  from  his  fiice 

That  awful  joy :  with  looks  serene 

He  was  soon  dra^\Ti  to  my  embrace. 

And  my  wild  song  then  died  away 

In  murmurs :  words,  I  dare  not  say 

We  mix'd,  and  on  his  lips  mine  fed 

Till  they  melhought  felt  still  and  cold : 

"  What  is  it  with  thee,  love  ?"  I  said ; 

No  word,  no  look,  no  motion !  yes. 

There  was  a  change,  but  spare  to  guess. 

Nor  let  that  momenfs  hope  be  told. 

I  look'd,  and  knew  that  he  was  dead, 

And  fell,  as  ihe  eagle  on  the  plain 

Falls  when  lite  deserts  her  brain, 

And  the  mortal  lightning  is  veil'd  again. 


O  that  I  were  now  dead  !  but  such 
Did  they  not,  love,  demand  loo  much 
Those  dying  murmurs  ?  He  forbad. 
O  that  I  once  again  were  mad  ! 
And  yet,  dear  Rosalind,  not  so. 
For  I  would  live  to  share  thy  w-oe. 
Sweet  boy:  did  I  forget  thee  too? 
Alas,  we  know  not  what  we  do 
When  we  speak  words. 


No  memory  mora 
Is  in  my  mind  of  that  sea-shore. 
Madness  came  on  me,  and  a  troop 
Of  misty  shapes  did  seem  to  sit 
Beside  me,  on  a  vessel's  poop. 
And  the  clear  north  wind  was  driving  it. 
Then  I  heard  strange  tongues,  and  saw  strange 

flowers, 
And  the  stars  methought  grew  unlike  outb, 
53  405 


158 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  the  azure  sky  and  the  stormless  sea 

Made  me  beheve  that  I  had  died, 

And  waked  in  a  world,  which  was  to  me 

Drear  hell,  thongh  heaven  to  all  beside. 

Then  a  dead  sleep  fell  on  my  mind. 

Whilst  animal  life  many  long  years 

Had  rescued  from  a  chasm  of  tears ; 

And  when  I  woke,  I  wept  to  find 

That  the  same  lady,  bright  and  wise, 

With  silver  locks  and  quick  brown  eyes, 

The  mother  of  my  Lionel, 

Had  tended  me  in  my  distress, 

And  died  some  months  before.     Nor  less 

Wonder,  but  far  more  peace  and  joy 

Brought  in  that  hour  my  lovely  boy  ; 

For  through  that  trance  my  soul  had  well 

The  impress  of  thy  being  kept  ; 

And  if  I  waked,  or  if  I  slept, 

No  doubt,  though  memory  faithless  be, 

Thy  image  ever  dwelt  on  me  ; 

And  thus,  O  Lionel !  like  thee 

Is  our  sweet  child.     'Tis  sure  most  strange 

I  knew  not  of  so  great  a  change. 

As  that  which  gave  him  birth,  who  now 

Is  all  the  solace  of  my  woe. 

That  Lionel  great  wealth  had  left 
By  will  to  me,  and  that  of  all 
The  ready  lies  of  law  bereft. 
My  child  and  me  might  well  befall. 
But  let  me  think  not  of  the  scorn. 
Which  from  the  meanest  I  have  borne. 
When,  for  my  child's  beloved  sake, 
I  mix'd  with  slaves,  to  vindicate 
The  very  laws  themselves  do  make : 
Let  me  not  say  scorn  is  my  fate. 
Lest  I  be  proud,  suffering  the  same 
With  those  who  live  in  deathless  fame. 

She  ceased. — "  Lo,  where  red  morning  through  the 

woods 
Is  burning  o'er  the  dew  !"  said  Rosalind. 
And  with  these  words  they  rose,  and  towards  the  flood 
Of  the  blue  lake,  beneath  the  leaves  now  wind 
With  equal  steps  and  fingers  intertwined  : 
Thence  to  a  lonely  dwelling,  where  the  shore 
Is  shadowed  with  rocks,  and  cypresses 
Cleave  with  their  dark-green  cones  the  silent  skies. 
And  with  their  shadows  the  clear  depths  below, 
And  where  a  little  terrace,  from  its  bowers 
Of  blooming  myrtle  and  faint  lemon-flowers, 
Scatters  its  sense-dissolving  fragrance  o'er 
The  liquid  marble  of  the  windless  lake ; 
And  where  the  aged  forest's  limbs  look  hoar. 
Under  the  leaves  which  their  green  garments  make. 
They  come :  't  is  Helen's  home,  and  clean  and  white. 
Like  one  which  tyrants  spare  on  our  own  land 
In  some  such  solitude,  its  casements  bright 
Shone  through  their  vine-leaves  in  the  morning  sun, 
And  even  within  'twas  scarce  like  Italy. 
And  when  she  saw  how  all  things  there  were  plann'd, 


As  in  an  English  home,  dim  memory 
Disturb'd  poor  Rosalind  :  she  stood  as  one 
Whose  mind  is  where  his  body  cannot  be. 
Till  Helen  led  her  where  her  child  yet  slept. 
And  said,  "  Observe,  that  brow  was  Lionel's, 
Those  lips  were  his,  and  so  he  ever  kept 
One  arm  in  sleep,  pillowing  his  head  with  it. 
You  cannot  see  his  eyes,  they  are  two  wells 
Of  liquid  love :  let  us  not  wake  him  yet." 
But  Rosalind  could  bear  no  more,  and  wept 
A  shower  of  burning  tears,  which  fell  upon 
His  face,  and  so  his  opening  lashes  shone 
With  tears  imlike  his  own,  as  he  did  leap 
In  sudden  wonder  from  his  innocent  sleep 


So  Rosalind  and  Helen  lived  together 

Thenceforth,  changed  in  all  else,  yet  friends  again. 

Such  as  they  were,  when  o'er  the  mountain  heather 

They  wander'd  in  their  youth,  through  sun  and  rain. 

And  after  many  years,  for  human  things 

Change  even  like  the  ocean  and  the  wind. 

Her  daughter  was  restored  to  Rosalind, 

And  in  their  circle  thence  some  visitings 

Of  joy  'raid  their  new  calm  would  intervene: 

A  lovely  child  she  was,  of  looks  serene. 

And  motions  which  o'er  things  indifferent  shed 

The  grace  and  gentleness  from  whence  they  came. 

And  Helen's  boy  grew  with  her,  and  they  fed 

From  the  same  flowers  of  thought,  imtil  each  mind 

Like  springs  which  mingle  in  one  flood  became. 

And  in  their  luiion  soon  their  parents  saw 

The  shadow  of  the  peace  denied  to  them. 

And  Rosalind, — for  when  the  living  stem 

Is  canker'd  in  its  heart,  the  tree  must  fall, — 

Died  ere  her  time ;  and  with  deep  grief  and  awe 

The  pale  survivors  follow'd  her  remains 

Beyond  the  region  of  dissolving  rains. 

Up  the  cold  mountain  she  was  wont  to  Call 

Her  tomb ;  and  on  Chiavenna's  precipice 

They  raised  a  pyramid  of  lasting  ice. 

Whose  poiishM  sides,  ere  day  had  yet  begun. 

Caught  the  first  glow  of  the  unrisen  sun, 

The  last,  vvhen  it  had  sunk;  and  through  the  night 

The  charioteers  of  Arctos  wheeled  round 

Its  glittering  point,  as  seen  from  Helen's  home. 

Whose  sad  inhabitants  each  year  would  come. 

With  willing  steps  climbing  that  rugged  height. 

And  hang  long  locks  of  hair,  and  garlands  bound 

With  amaranth  flowers,  which,  in  the  clime's  despite, 

Fill'd  the  frore  air  With  unaccuslom'd  light: 

Such  flowers,  as  in  the  wintry  memory  bloom 

Of  one  friend  left,  adorn'd  that  frozen  tomb. 


Helen,  whose  spirit  was  of  softer  mould, 
Whose  sufferings  too  were  less,  death  slowlier  leo 
Into  the  peace  of  his  dominion  cold : 
She  died  among  her  kindred,  being  old. 
And  know,  that  if  love  die  not  in  the  dead 
As  in  the  living,  none  of  mortal  kind 
Are  blest,  as  now  Helen  and  Rosalind. 
406 


ADONAIS. 


159 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  JOHN  KEATS. 


Nvv  Si  -Savoiv  XdjjLVdi  caTTtpos  iv  (j>diixivot;. 

Plato. 


PREFACE. 


^apfiaKov  !fK9c,  BfbJV,  ttoti  (t6v  trr6ita,  tpapftaKov  eiSeg, 
nu{  Tcv  To'ts  p^rtXtiriTi  TroTtSpajxe,  KoiiK  ly\vKdv9ri ; 
Ti's  be  jjpords  toctcoutov  avdftcpoi,  rj  Ktpdaai  roi, 
"H  SoZvai  \a\iovTi  to  OdpjiaKov ;   CKi^vytv  (pSdv. 

MoscHUS,  Epitaph.  Bion. 


It  is  my  intention  to  subjoin  to  the  London  edition  of 
this  poem,  a  criticism  upon  the  claims  of  its  lamented 
object  to  be  cla.ssed  among  the  writers  of  the  highest 
genius  ■vvho  have  adorned  our  age.  My  known  re- 
pugnance to  the  narrow  principles  of  taste  on  which 
several  of  his  earlier  compositions  were  modelled, 
prove,  at  least,  that  I  am  an  impartial  judge.  I  con- 
sider the  fragment  of  Hyperion  as  second  to  nothing 
that  was  ever  produced  by  a  writer  of  the  same 
years, 

John  Keats  died  at  Rome,  of  a  consumption,  in  his 

twenty-fourth  year,  on  the  of 1821  ; 

and  was  buried  in  the  romantic  and  lonely  cemetery 
of  the  Protestants  in  that  city,  under  the  pyramid 
which  is  the  tomb  of  Cestius,  and  the  massy  walls 
and  towers,  now  mouldering  and  desolate,  which 
formed  the  circuit  of  ancient  Rome.  The  cemetery 
is  an  open  space  among  the  ruins,  covered  in  winter 
with  violets  and  daisies.  It  might  make  one  in  love 
with  death,  to  think  that  one  should  be  buried  in 
so  sweet  a  place. 

The  genius  of  the  lamented  person  to  whose  mem- 
ory I  have  dedicated  these  unworthy  verses,  was  not 
less  delicate  and  fragile  than  it  was  beautiful ;  and 
where  canker-worms  abound,  what  wonder,  if  its 
young  flower  was  blighted  in  the  bud  ?  The  savage 
criticism  on  his  Endymion,  which  appeared  in  the 
Quarterly  Review,  produced  the  most  violent  effect 
on  his  susceptible  mind  ;  the  agitation  thus  origin- 
ated ended  in  the  rupture  of  a  blood-vessel  in  the 
lungs  ;  a  rapid  consumption  ensued,  and  the  succeed- 
ing acknowledgments  from  more  candid  critics,  of  the 
true  greatness  of  his  powers,  were  inefTectual  to  heal 
the  wound  thus  wantonly  inflicted. 

It  may  be  well  said  that  these  wretched  men  know 
not  what  they  do.  They  scatter  their  insults  and  their 
slanders  without  heed  as  to  whether  the  poisoned 
shaft  lights  on  a  heart  made  callous  by  many  blows, 
or  one,  like  Keats's,  composed  of  more  penetrable 
stuff  One  of  iheir  associates  is,  to  my  knowledge, 
a  most  b.Tse  and  unprincipled  calumniator.  As  to 
"  Endymion,"  was  it  a  poem,  whatever  might  be  its 
defects,  to  be  treated  contemptuously  by  those  who 
had  celebrated  with  var-ous  degrees  of  complacency 


and  panegyric,  "  Paris,"  and  "  Woman,"  and  a  '•  S)rri 
an  Tale,"  and  a  long  list  of  the  illustrious  obscure  ? 
Are  these  the  men,  who  in  their  venal  good-nature, 
presumed  to  draw  a  parallel  between  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Milman  and  Lord  Byron  ?  What  gnat  did  they  strain 
at  here,  after  having  swallowed  all  those  camels? 
Against  what  woman  taken  in  adultery,  dares  the 
foremost  of  these  literary  prostitutes  to  cast  his  oppro- 
brious stone  ?  Miserable  man !  you,  one  of  the 
meanest,  have  wantonly  defaced  one  of  the  noblest 
specimens  of  the  workmanship  of  God.  Nor  shall 
it  be  your  excuse,  that,  murderer  as  you  are,  you 
have  spoken  daggers,  but  used  none. 

The  circumstances  of  the  closing  scene  of  poor 
Keats's  life  were  not  made  known  to  me  until  the 
Elegy  was  ready  for  the  press.  I  am  given  to  un- 
derstand that  the  wound  which  his  sensitive  spirit 
had  received  from  the  criticism  of  Endymion,  was 
exasperated  by  the  bitter  sense  of  unrequited  beaie- 
fits ;  the  poor  fellow  seems  to  have  been  hooted 
from  the  stage  of  life,  no  less  by  those  on  whom  he 
had  wasted  the  promise  of  his  genius,  than  those  on 
whom  he  had  lavished  his  fortune  and  his  care.  He 
was  accompanied  to  Rome,  and  attended  in  his  last 
illness,  by  Mr.  Severn,  a  young  artist  of  the  highest 
promise,  who,  I  have  been  informed,  "  almost  risked 
his  own  life,  and  sacrificed  every  prospect  to  unwearied 
attendance  upon  his  dying  friend."  Had  I  known  these 
circumstances  before  the  completion  of  my  poem,  I 
should  have  been  tempted  to  add  my  feeble  tribute 
of  applause  to  the  more  solid  recompense  which  the 
virtuous  man  finds  in  the  recollection  of  his  own  mo- 
tives. Mr.  Severn  can  dispense  with  a  reward  from 
"  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of."  His  conduct  is 
a  golden  augury  of  the  success  of  his  future  career  — 
may  the  unextinguished  Spirit  of  his  illustrious  friend 
animate  the  creations  of  his  pencil,  and  plead  against 
Oblivion  for  his  name  ! 


ADONAIS. 


I. 

I  WEEP  for  Adoxais — he  is  dead  ! 
O,  weep  for  Adonais  I  though  our  tears 
Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear  a  head  " 
And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all  years 
To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure  compeers, 
And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow;  say — with  mo 
Died  Adonais  ! — till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity  I 

407 


160 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


II. 

Where  wert  thou,  mighty  Mother,  when  he  lay, 
When  thy  Son  lay,  pierced  by  the  shaft  which  flies 
In  darkness  ?  where  was  lorn  Urania 
Wlien  Adonais  died  ?  With  veiled  eyes, 
'Mid  list'ning  Echoes,  in  her  Paradise 
She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamor'd  breath. 
Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies, 
With  which,  like  flowers  that  mock  the  corse  be- 
neath. 
He  had  adorn'd  and  hid  the  coming  bulk  of  death. 

III. 

O,  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead  ! 
Wake,  melancholy  Mother,  wake  and  weep ! 
Yet  wherefore  ?  Quench  within  their  burning  bed 
Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart  keep, 
Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining  sleep ; 
For  he  is  gone,  where  all  things  wise  and  fair 
Descend  :^-oh,  dream  not  that  the  amorous  Deep 
Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air ; 
Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs  at  our 
despair. 

IV. 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again ! 
Lament  anew,  Urania  ! — He  died. 
Who  was  the  Sire  of  an  immortal  strain. 
Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  when  his  country's  pride, 
The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide. 
Trampled  and  moek'd  with  many  a  lothed  rite 
Of  lust  and  blood  ;  he  went,  unterrified. 
Into  the  gulf  of  death ;  but  his  clear  sprite 
Yet  reigns  o'er  earth ;  the  third  among  the  sons  of 
light. 


Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew! 
Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to  climb  ; 
And  happier  they  their  happiness  who  knew. 
Whose  tapers  yet  burn  through  that  night  of  time 
In  which  sUns  perish'd  ;  others  more  sublime. 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or  God, 
Have  sunk,  extinct  in  their  refulgent  prime  ; 
And  some  ynt  live,  treading  the  thorny  road. 
Which  leads,  through  toil  and  hate,  to  Fame's  serene 
abode. 

VI. 
But  now,  thy  youngest,  dearest  one,  has  perish'd, 
The  nursling  of  thy  widowhood,  who  grew, 
Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden  cherish'd. 
And  fed  with  true-love  tears,  instead  of  dew  ; 
Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  rmew  ! 
Thy  extreme  hope,  the  loveliest  and  the  last. 
The  bloom,  whose  petals  nipt  bef(>re  they  blew 
Died  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is  waste ; 
The  broken  lily  lies — the  storm  is  overpast. 

VII. 

To  that  high  Capital,  where  kingly  Death 
Keeps  his  pale  court  in  beauty  and  decay, 
He  came  ;  and  bought,  with  price  of  purest  breath, 
A  grave  among  the  eternal. — Come  away! 
Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian  day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof!  while  still 
He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay ; 
Awake  him  not!  surely  he  takes  his  fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all  ill. 


VIII. 
He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more  ! — 
Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads  apace 
The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the  door 
Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 
His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling-place  ; 
The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and  awe 
Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  slie  to  deface 
So  fair  a  pre)',  till  darkness,  and  the  law 
Of  change,  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal  curtain 
draw. 

IX. 
O,  weep  for  Adonais ! — The  quick  Dreams, 
The  passion-winged  Ministers  of  thought. 
Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  living  streams 
Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he  taught 
The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander  not, — 
Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to  brain. 
But  droop  there,  whence  they  sprung  ;  and  mourn 

their  lot 
Round  the  cold  heart,  where,  after  their  sweet 
pain. 
They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  or  find  a  home  again. 


And  one  with  trembling  hand  clasps  his  cold  head, 
And  fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings,  and  cries 
"  Our  love,  our  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not  dead  , 
See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint  eyes. 
Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there  lies 
A  tear  some  dream  has  loosen'd  from  his  brain." 
Lost  Angel  of  a  ruin'd  Paradise, 
She  knew  not  't  was  her  own ;  as  with  no  stain 
She  faded,  lik«  a  cloud  which  had  outwept  its  rain. 

XI. 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 
Wash'd  his  light  limbs,  as  if  embalming  them ; 
Another  dipt  her  profuse  locks,  and  threw 
The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem. 
Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  begem ; 
Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 
Her  bow  .and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 
A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more  weak ; 
And  dull  the  barbed  fire  against  his  frozen  cheek. 

XII. 
Another  Splendor  on  his  mouth  alit. 
That  mouth,  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw  the 

breath 
Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the  guarded  wit, 
And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  beneath 
With  lightning  and  with  music  :  the  damp  death 
Quench'd  its  caress  upon  his  icy  lips  ; 
And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 
Of  moonlight  vapor,  which  the  cold  night  clips. 
It  flash'd  through  his  pale  limbs,  and  pass'd  to  its 

eclipse. 

XIII. 

And  others  came,^Desires  and  Adorations, 
Winged  Persuasions  and  veil'd  Destinies, 
Splendors,  and  Glooms,  and  glimering  Incarnations 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twilight  Phantasies  ; 
And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 
And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by  the  gleam 
Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes, 
Came  in  slow  pomp ; — the  moving  pomp  might 
seem 
Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal  stream. 
408 


ADONAIS. 


161 


XIV. 
All  he  had  loved,  and  moulded  into  thought, 
From  shape,  and  hue,  and  odor,  and  sweet  sound, 
Lamented  Adonais.    Morning  sought 
Her  eastern  watch-tower,  and  her  hair  unbound. 
Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn  the  ground, 
Dimm'd  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day ; 
Afar  the  melancholy  thunder  moan'd, 
Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  laj', 
And  the  wild  winds  flew  round,  sobbing  in  their  dismay. 

XV. 

Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  mountains, 
And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remember'd  lay. 
And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or  fountains, 
Or  amorous  birds  perch"d  on  the  young  green  spray, 
Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing  day  ; 
Since  she  can  mimic  not  liis  lips,  more  dear 
Than  those  for  whose  disdain  siie  pined  away 
Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds : — a  drear 
Murmur,  between  their  songs,  is  all  the  woodmen 
hear. 

XVI. 
Grief  made  the  young  Spring  wild,  and  she  threw 

down 
Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn  were. 
Or  they  dead  leaves ;  since  her  delight  is  flown 
For  whom  should  she  have  w  aked  the  sullen  year 
To  Phrebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear, 
Nor  to  himself  Karcissus,  as  to  both 
Thou  Adonais :  wan  they  stood  and  sere 
Amid  the  drooping  comrades  of  their  youth, 
With  dew  all  turn'd  to  tears ;  odor,  to  sighing  ruth. 

XVII. 

Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale 
Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melodious  pain ; 
Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 
Heaven,  and  could  nourish  in  the  sun's  domain 
Her  mighty  j-outh  with  morning,  doth  complain, 
Soaring-  and  screaming  round  her  empty  nest, 
As  Albion  wails  for  thee :  the  curse  of  Cain 
Light  on  his  head  who  pierced  thy  innocent  breast, 
A  nd  scared  the  angel  soul  that  was  its  earthly  guest ! 


XVIII. 
Ah  woe  is  me !    Winter  is  come  and  gone, 
But  grief  returns  with  the  revolving  year; 
The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous  tone ; 
The  anls,  the  bees,  the  swallows  reappear ; 
Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead  Season's  bier; 
The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake, 
And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and  brere, 
And  the  green  lizard,  and  the  golden  snake, 
1  <ke  tmimprison'd  flames,  out  of  their  trance  awake. 

XIX. 

Through  wood  and  stream,  and  field  and  hill  and 

Ocean, 
A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth's  heart  has  burst. 
As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and  motion. 
From  the  great  morning  of  the  world  when  first 
God  dawn'd  on  Chaos ;  in  its  stream  immersed, 
The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer  light; 
All  baser  tilings  pant  with  life's  sacred  thirst; 
Difliuse  themselves ;  and  spend  in  love's  dehght, 
''^bfc  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed  might.        | 
3B 


XX. 

The  leprous  corpse,  loiicli'd  by  this  spirit  tender, 
Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath ; 
Like  incarnations  of  tiie  stars,  when  splendor 
Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine  death. 
And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes  beneath  ; 
Naught  we  know,  dies.  Shall  that  alone  which  knows 
Be  as  a  sword  consumed  before  the  slieath 
By  sightless  lightning  ? — the  intense  atom  glows 
A  moment,  then  is  quench'd  in  a  most  cold  repose. 

XXI. 

Alas !   that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be, 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been. 
And  grief  itself  be  mortal !    Woe  is  me  ! 
VVlience  are  we,  and  why  are  we  ?  of  what  scene 
The  actors  or  spectators  ?  Great  and  mean 
Meet  mass'd  in  death,  who  lends  what  life  must 

borrow. - 
As  long  as  sides  are  blue,  and  fields  are  green, 
Evening  must  usher  night,  night  urge  the  morrow 
Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year  wake  year 

to  sorrow. 

XXII. 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more ! 
"  Wake  thou,"  cried  Misery,  "  childless  Mother,  rise 
Out  of  thy  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy  heart's  core, 
A  wound  more  fierce  than  his  with  tears  and  sighs." 
And  all  the  Dreams  that  watch'd  Urania's  eyes, 
And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sister's  song 
Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried:  "Arise!" 
Swift  as  a  Thought  by  the  snake  Memory  stung, 
From  her  ambrosial  rest  the  fading  Splendor  sprung 

xxin. 

She  rose  like  an  autumnal  Night,  that  springs 
Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and  drear 
The  golden  Day,  which,  on  eternal  wings. 
Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier, 
Had  left  the  Earth  a  corpse.    Sorrow  and  fear 
So  struck,  so  roused,  so  wrapt  Urania ; 
So  sadden'd  round  her  like  an  atmosphere 
Of  stormy  mist ;  so  swept  her  on  her  way. 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adonais  lay. 

XXIV. 

Out  of  her  secret  Paradise  she  sped. 

Through  camps  and  cities,  rough  with  stone  and  steel, 

And  human  hearts,  w^hich  to  her  aery  tread 

Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible 

Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er  they  fell : 

And  barbed  tongues,  and  thoughts  more  sharp  than 

they. 
Rent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could  repel. 
Whose  sacred  blood,  liiie  the  young  tears  of  May, 
Paved  with  eternal  flowers  that  undeserving  way. 

XXV. 

In  the  death-chamber  for  a  moment  Death, 
Sliamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living  Might, 
Blush 'd  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 
Revisited  those  lips,  and  life's  pale  light 
Flash'd  through  those  limbs,  so  late  her  dear  delight 
"  Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  comfortless, 
As  silent  hghtning  leaves  the  starless  night! 
Leave  me  not!"  cried  Urania:  her  distress 
Roused  Death :  Death  rose  and  smiled,  and  met  her 
vain  caress. 

409 


162 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXVI. 
"  Stay  yet  awhile  !  speak  to  me  once  again ,' 
Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live  ; 
And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning  brain 
Tliat  word,  that  kiss  shall  all  thoughts  else  survive, 
With  food  of  saddest  memor}'  kept  alive, 
J\ovv  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part 
Of  thee,  my  Adonais !  I  would  give 
All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art  I 
But  I  am  chain'd  to  Time,  and  cannot  thence  depart! 

XXVII. 
"  O  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert, 
Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths  of  men 
Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  though  mighty  heart 
Dare  the  unpastured  dragon  in  his  den  ? 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh !  where  was  then 
Wisdom  the  mirror'd  shield,  or  scorn  the  spear? 
Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  whe|i 
Thy  spirit  should  have  fill'd  its  crescent  sphere, 
Themonstersoflife's  waste  had  fled  from  thee  like  deer. 


XXVIII. 

"  The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue  ; 
The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the  dead  ; 
The  vultures,  to  the  conqueror's  banner  true, 
Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has  fed. 
And  whose  wings  rain  contagion  ; — how  they  fled. 
When,  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow, 
The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped 
And  smiled  ! — The  spoilers  tempt  no  second  blow. 
They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn  them  as  they  go. 

XXIX. 

"  The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  reptiles  spawn ; 
He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 
Is  gather'd  into  death  without  a  dawn, 
And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again ; 
So  is  it  in  the  world  of  living  men : 
A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  delight 
Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven,  and  when 
It  sinks,  the  swarms  that  dimm'd  or  shared  its  liglit 
Leave  to  its  kindred  lamps  the  spirit's  awful  night." 

XXX. 

Thus  ceased  she :  and  the  mountain  shepherds  came, 
Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles  rent ; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternitj',  whose  fame 
Over  his  living  head  like  Heaven  is  bent, 
An  early  but  enduring  monument. 
Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his  song 
In  sorrow  ;  from  her  wiles  lerne  sent 
The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong. 
And  love  taught  grief  to  fall  hke  music  from  his  tongue. 

XXXI. 

'Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one  frail  Form, 
A  phantom  among  men  ;  companionless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm 
Whose  thunder  is  its  knell ;  he,  as  I  guess, 
Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveUness, 
ActBBon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilderness. 
And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged  way. 
Pursued,  like  raging  hounds,  their  father  and  their  prey. 


XXXII. 

A  pard-like  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift — 
A  Love  in  desolation  mask'd  ; — a  Power 
Girt  round  with  weakness  ; — it  can  scarce  uplift 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour ; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A  breaking  billow; — even  whilstwe  speak 
Is  it  not  broken  ?    On  the  withering  flower 
The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly :  on  a  cheek 
The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the  heart  may 
break. 

XXXIII. 

His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  over-blown, 
And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and  blue ; 
And  a  light  spear  topp'd  with  a  cypress  cone. 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy-tresses  grew 
Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday  dew, 
Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 
Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasp'd  it;  of  that  crew 
He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart ; 
A  herd-abandon'd  deer,  struck  by  the  hunter's  dart 

XXXIV. 

All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 

Smiled  through  their  tears;  well  knew  that  gentle 

band 
Who  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own, 
As  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land 
He  sang  new  sorrow ;  sad  Urania  scann'd 
The  Stranger's  mien,  and  murmur'd:  ''Who  art  thou?" 
He  answer'd  not,  but  with  a  sudden  hand 
Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined  brow, 
Which  was  like  Cain's  or  Christ's, — Oh!  that  it  should 

be  so! 

XXXV. 

What  softer  voice  is  hushed  o'er  the  dead  ? 
Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle  thrown  ? 
What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  wliite  death-bed, 
In  mockery  of  monumental  stone. 
The  heavy  heart  heaving  without  a  moan  ? 
If  it  be  He,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise. 
Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honor'd  the  departed  one  ; 
Let  me  not  vex,  with  inharmonious  sighs. 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacrifice. 

XXXM. 

Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison — oh ! 
What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could  crovwi 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draught  of  woe  ? 
The  nameless  worm  would  now  itself  disown : 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate,  and  wrong, 
But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast  alone, 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song, 
Wliose  master's  hand  is  cold,  whose  silver  lyre  unstrung 

XXXVII. 
Live  thou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame ! 
Live !  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from  me, 
Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remember'd  name ! 
But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be  I 
And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom,  when  thy  fangs  o'erflow  : 
Remorse  and  Self  contempt  shall  cling  to  thee ; 
Hot  Shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow. 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou  shalt — as  now. 
410 


ADONAIS. 


1G3 


XXXVIII. 
Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far  from  these  carrioii-kites  that  scream  below ; 
He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  Ihe  enduring  dead  ; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now. — 
Dust  to  the  dust!  hut  the  pure  spirit  shall  flow 
Back  lo  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  glow 
Througli  time  and  change,  unquenchably  the  same, 
U'hilst  tliy  cold  embers  choke  the  sordid  hearth  of 
shame. 

XXXIX. 

Peace  !  peace  !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep — 

He  hath  awakeu'd  from  the  dream  of  life — 

'Tis  we,  who,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 

Wilh  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife, 

And  in  mad  trance,  strike  with  our  spirit's  knife 

Invulnerable  nothings — We  decay 

Like  corpses  in  a  charnel ;  fear  and  grief 

Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 

And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within  our  living 
clay. 

XL. 
He  has  outsoar'd  the  shadow  of  our  night ; 
Envy  and  calumny,  and  hate  and  pain. 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again ; 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray  in  vain ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn, 

With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 

XLI. 

He  lives,  he  wakes — 'tis  Death  is  dead,  not  he  ; 
Mourn  not  for  Adonais. — Thou  yoimg  Dawn 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendor,  for  from  thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone ; 
Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan  ! 
Cease  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and  thou  Air, 
Which  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf  hadst  tlirown 
O'er  the  abandon'd  Earth,  now  leave  it  bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on  its  despair! 

XLII. 

He  is  made  one  wilh  ZSature :  there  is  heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird  ; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone, 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own ; 
Wiiich  wields  tlie  world  wilh  never-wearied  love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 

XLIII. 
He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely  :  he  doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compelling 

there 
All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear ; 
Torturing  th'  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its  flight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear; 
And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
from  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the  Heaven's  light. 


XLIV. 
The  splendors  of  the  firnianicnt  of  time 
May  be  eclii).-:cd,  but  are  oxtinguish'd  not , 
Like  stars  lo  ihcir  appointed  height  they  climb, 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  \\hich  cannot  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil.     When  lofly  thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and  stormy 
air. 

XLV. 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfiU'd  ronown 
Rose  from  their  ihrones  built  beyond  mortal  thought. 
Far  in  the  Unapparent.     Chatterton 
Rose  pale,  his  solemn  agony  had  not 
Yet  faded  from  him  ;  Sidney,  as  he  fought 
And  as  he  fell,  and  as  he  lived  and  loved. 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot, 
Arose  ;  and  Lucan,  by  his  death  approved  : 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing  reproved. 

XLVI. 
And  many  more,  whose  names  on  earth  are  dark. 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark. 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
"  Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,"  they  ciy, 
"  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has  long 
Swung  blind  in  unasccnded  majesty, 
Silent  alone  amid  a  Heaven  of  Song. 
Assume    thy    winged    throne,    thou  Vesper   of  our 
throng !" 

XLVII. 

Wlio  mourns  for  Adonais  ?  oh  come  forth, 
Fond  wretch !  and  know  thyself  and  him  aright. 
Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pendulous  Earth 
As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious  might 
Satiate  the  void  circumference  :  then  shrink 
Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and  night ; 
And  keep  thy  heart  light,  lest  it  make  thee  sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee  to  the 
brink. 

XLVIII. 

Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre, 
O,  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy :  'tis  naught 
That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 
Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have  wrought ; 
For  such  as  he  can  lend, — they  borrow  not 
Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world  their  prey; 
And  he  is  gather'd  to  the  kings  of  thought 
Who  waged  contention  with  their  lime's  decay, 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass  away. 

XLIX. 

Go  thou  to  Rome, — at  once  the  Paradise, 
The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness; 
And  where  its  wrecks  like  sliatter'd  mountains  riso. 
And  flowering  weeds,  and  fragrant  copses,  dress 
The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness, 
Pass,  till  Ihe  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access. 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead, 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is  spread 
411 


164 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  gray  walls  moulder  round,  on  which  dull  Time 
Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand  ; 
And  one  keen  pyramid  wilh  wedge  sublime, 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  plann'd 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  dolh  stand 
Like  flame  transform'd  to  marble ;  and  beneath, 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitch'd  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp  of  death, 
Welcoming  him  we  lose  wilh  scarce  extinguish'd 
breath. 

LI. 

Here,  pause :  these  graves  are  all  too  young  as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrows  whicli  consign'd 
Its  charge  to  each ;  and  if  the  seal  is  set. 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind. 
Break  it  not  thou  !  too  surely  shall  thou  find 
Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  retumest  home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.     From  the  world's  bitter  wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become  ? 

LTI. 

The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass ; 
Heaven's  light  for  ever  shines.  Earth's  shadows  fly ; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-color'd  glass, 
Stains  the  while  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — Die, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  wijh  that  which  thou  dost  seek! 
P'oUow  where  all  is  fled ! — Rome's  azure  sky. 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words,  are  weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to  speak. 


LIII. 

Why  linger,  why  turn  back,-  why  shrink,  my  Heart 
Thy  hopes  are  gone  before  :  from  all  things  here 
They  have  departed  ;  thou  should.st  now  depart  I 
A  light  is  pass'd  from  the  revolving  year. 
And  man,  and  woman ;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 
The  soft  sky  smiles, — the  low  wind  whispers  neai 
'Tis  Adonais  calls!  oh,  hasten  thilher, 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death   can  join  to 
gether. 

LIV. 

That  Light  whose  smiles  kindle  the  Universe, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move 
That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea, 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst ;  now  beams  on  me, 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 

LV. 

The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 
Descends  on  me  ;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given ; 
The  massy  earth  and  spliered  skies  are  riven  : 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar  ; 
Whilst  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  Heaven 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  th6  Eternal  are. 


^pipmtMliion ; 


VERSES  ADDRESSED  TO  THE  NOBLE  AND  UNFORTUNATE  LADY  EMILIA  V- 
NOW  IMPRISONED  IN  THE  CONVENT  OF — . 


L'  anima  amante  si  slancia  fuori  del  creato,  e  si  crea  nell'  infinite  un  Mondo  tutto  per  essa, 
diverse  assai  da  questo  oscuro  e  pauroso  raratro. — Her  own  Words. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

(BY  A  FRIEND  OF  THE  AUTHOR.) 


The  writer  of  the  following  Lines  died  at  Florence, 
as  he  was  preparing  for  a  voyage  to  one  of  the  wild- 
est of  the  Sporades,  which  he  liad  bought,  and  where 
he  had  fitted  up  the  ruins  of  an  old  building,  and 
where  it  was  his  hope  lo  liave  realized  a  scheme  of 
life,  suited  perhaps  to  tliat  liappier  and  better  world 

■  of  which  he  is  now  an  inhabitant,  but  hardly  praeti- 
<;able  in  this.  His  life  was  singular ;  less  on  account 
of  the  romantic  vicissitudes  which  diversified  it,  than 
the  ideal  tinge  which  it  received  from  his  own  char- 
acter and  feelings.  The  present  Poem,  like  the  Vita 
Nuova  of  Dante,  is  sufllcienlly  intelligible  to  a  cer- 

■  lain  class  of  readers  without  a  matter-of-fact  history 


of  the  circumstances  to  which  it  relates ;  and  U>  a 
certain  other  class  it  must  ever  remain  incompreiirn- 
sible,  from  a  defect  of  a  Common  organ  of  perception 
for  the  ideas  of  which  it  treats.  Not  but  that,  "  gran 
vergogna  sarebbe  a  colui,  che  rimasse  cosa  sotto  veste 
di  figura,  o  di  colore  rettorico:  e  domandato  non  sa- 
pesse  denudare  le  sue  parole  da  cotal  veste,  in  guisa 
che  avessero  verace  intendimento." 

The  present  Poem  appears  to  have  been  Intended 
by  the  Writer  as  the  dedication  to  some  longer  one. 
The  stanza  prefixed  to  the  Poem  is  ahnost  a  litera 
translation  from  Dante's  famous  Canzone, 

Voi,  ch'  intendendo,  il  terzo  ciel  niovete,  etc. 

The  presumptuous  application  of  the  concluding  line.s 
to  his  own  composition  will  raise  a  smile  at  the  ex- 
pense of  my  unfortunate  friend :  be  it  a  smile  not  of 
contempt,  but  pity.  S. 

412 


EPIPSYCHIDION. 


165 


EPIPSYCHIDION. 


My  Song,  I  fear  that  thou  wilt  find  but  few 
Who  tilly  shall  conceive  thy  reasoiunj;. 
Of  such  hard  matter  dost  thou  entertain  ; 
Whence,  if  hy  misadventure,  chance  should  bring 
Thee  to  base  company  (as  chance  may  do). 
Quite  unaware  of  what  thou  dost  contain, 
I  prithee,  comfort  thy  sweet  self  again. 
My  last  delight !  tell  them  that  they  are  dull. 
And  bid  them  own  that  thou  drt  beautiful. 


Sweet  Spirit !  Sister  of  that  orphan  one, 
Whose  empire  is  tlie  name  ihoii  weepest  on, 
In  my  heart's  temple  I  suspend  to  thee 
These  votive  wreaths  of  wither'd  memory. 

Poor  captive  bird  !  who,  from  thy  narrow  cage, 
Poiirest  such  music,  that  it  might  assuage 
The  rugged  hearts  of  those  who  prison'd  thee, 
Were  they  not  deaf  to  all  sweet  melody ; 
This  song  shall  be  thy  rose :  its  petals  pale 
Are  dead,  indeed,  my  adored  Nightingale! 
But  soft  and  fragrant  is  the  faded  blossom, 
And  it  has  no  thorn  left  to  wound  thy  bosom. 

High,  spirit-winged  Heart !  who  dost  for  ever 
Beat  thine  unfeeling  bars  with  vain  endeavor. 
Till  those  bright  plumes  of  thougiit,  in  which  array'd 
It  over-soared  this  low  and  worldly  shade, 
Lie  shatter'd  ;  and  thy  panting,  wounded  breast 
Stains  with  dear  blood  its  unmaternal  nest ! 
I  weep  vain  tears:  blood  would  less  bitter  be, 
Yet  poiir'd  forth  gladlier,  could  it  profit  thee. 

Seraph  of  Heaven!  too  gentle  to  be  human. 
Veiling  beneath  that  radiant  form  of  Woman 
All  that  is  insupportable  in  thee 
Of  light,  and  love,  and  immortality  ! 
Sweet  Benediction  in  the  eternal  curse ! 
Veil'd  Glory  of  this  lampless  Universe ! 
Thou  Moon  beyond  the  clouds  !    Thou  living  Form 
Among  the  Dead  !  Thou  Star  above  the  Storm  I 
Thou  Wonder,  and  thou  Beauty,  and  thou  Terror ! 
Thou  Harmony  of  Nature's  art  I  Thou  Mirror 
In  whom,  as  in  the  splendor  of  the  Sun, 
All  shapes  look  glorious  which  thou  gazest  on ! 
Ay,  even  the  dim  words  which  obscure  thee  now 
Flash,  lightning-like,  with  unaccustom'd  glow  ; 
I  pray  thee  that  thou  blot  from  this  sad  song 
All  of  its  much  mortality  and  wrong, 
With  those  clear  drops,  which  start  like  sacred  dew 
From  the  twin  lights  tiiy  sweet  soul  darkens  through, 
Weeping,  tdl  sorrow  becomes  ecstasy  : 
Then  smile  on  it,  so  that  it  may  not  die. 

I  never  thought  before  my  death  to  see 
Youth's  vision  thus  made  perfect.    Emily, 
I  love  thee ;  though  the  world  by  no  thin  name 
Will  hide  that  love,  from  its  unvalued  shame, 
Would  we  two  had  been  twins  of  the  same  mother! 
Or,  that  the  name  my  heart  lent  to  another 
Could  be  a  sister's  bond  for  her  and  thee. 
Blending  two  beams  of  one  eternity ! 


Yet  were  one  lawful  and  the  other  true. 

These  names,  though  dear,  could  paint  not,  as  is  due. 

How  beyond  refuge  1  am  thine.    Ah  me! 

I  am  not  thine :  I  am  a  part  of  Ihee. 


Sweet  Lamp !  my  moth-like  Muse  has  burnt  its  wings, 
Or,  like  a  dying  swan  who  soars  and  sings, 
Young  Love  should  teach  Time,  in  his  own  gray  style, 
All  that  thou  art.    Art  thou  not  void  of  guile, 
A  lovely  soul  form'd  to  be  blest  and  bless  ? 
A  well  of  seal'd  and  secret  happiness, 
Whose  waters  like  blithe  liglit  and  music  arc, 
\'anquishing  dissonance  and  gloom  ?  A  Star 
Which  moves  not  in  the  moving  Heavens  alone? 
A  smile  amid  dark  frowns?  a  gentle  tone 
Amid  rude  voices  ?  a  beloved  light  ? 
A  Solitude,  a  Refuge,  a  Delight  ? 
A  lute,  which  those  whom  love  has  taught  to  play 
Make  music  on,  to  soothe  the  roughest  day. 
And  lull  fond  grief  asleep?  A  buried  treasure? 
A  cradle  of  young  thoughts  of  wingless  pleasure  ? 
A  violet-shrouded  grave  of  Woe  ? — I  measure 
The  world  of  fancies,  seeking  one  like  thee. 
And  find — alas !  mine  own  infirmity. 


She  met  me,  Stranger,  upon  life's  rough  way, 
And  lured  me  towards  sweet  Death :  as  Night  by  Day 
Winter  by  Spring,  or  Sorrow  by  swift  Hope, 
Led  into  light,  life,  peace.    An  antelope. 
In  the  suspended  impulse  of  its  lightness. 
Were  less  ethereally  light :  the  brightness 
Of  her  divinest  presence  trembles  through 
Her  limbs,  as  underneath  a  cloud  of  dew 
Embodied  in  the  windless  Heaven  of  June, 
Amid  the  splendor-winged  stars,  the  Moon 
Burns,  inextinguishably  beautiful  : 
And  from  her  lips,  as  from  a  hyacinth  full 
Of  honey-dew,  a  liquid  murmur  drops, 
Killing  the  sense  with  passion ;  sweet  a.s  stops 
Of  planetary  music  heard  in  trance. 
In  her  mild  lights  the  starry  spirits  dance. 
The  sunbeams  of  those  wells  which  ever  leap 
Under  the  lightnings  of  the  soul — too  deep 
For  the  brief  fathom-line  of  thought  or  sense. 
The  glory  of  her  being,  issuing  thence, 
Stains  the  dead,  blank,  cold  air  with  a  warm  shade 
Of  unentangled  intermixture,  made 
By  Love,  of  light  and  motion :  one  intense 
Diffusion,  one  serene  Omnipresence, 
Whose  flowing  outlines  mingle  in  their  flowing 
Around  her  cheeks  and  utmost  fingers  glowing 
With  the  unintermitted  blood,  which  there 
Quivers  (as  in  a  fleece  of  snow-like  air 
The  crimson  pulse  of  living  morning  quiver). 
Continuously  prolong'd,  and  ending  never, 
Till  they  are  lost,  and  in  that  Beauty  furl'd 
Which  penetrates  and  clasps  and  fills  the  world ; 
Scarce  visible  from  extreme  loveliness. 
■Warm  fragrance  seems  to  fall  from  her  light  dresij^ 
And  her  loose  hair;  and  where  some  heavy  tress 
The  air  of  her  own  speed  has  disentwined, 
The  sweetness  seems  lo  satiate  the  faint  wind  ; 
And  in  the  soul  a  wild  odor  is  felt. 
Beyond  the  sense,  like  fiery  dews  that  melt 

Into  the  bosom  of  a  frozen  bud 

See  where  she  stands  !  a  mortal  shape  endued 
With  love  and  life,  and  light  and  deity, 
54  413 


166 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  motion  which  may  change  but  cannot  die ; 
An  image  of  some  bright  Eternity  ; 
A  shadow  of  some  golden  dream;  a  Splendor 
Leavhig  the  third  sphere  pilotless;  a  tender 
Reflection  of  the  eternal  Moon  of  Love, 
Under  whose  motions  life's  dull  billows  move; 
A  Metaphor  of  Spring  and  Youth  and  Morning; 
A  Vision  like  incarnate  April,  warning. 
With  smiles  and  tears,  Frost  the  Anatomy 
Into  his  summer  grave. 


Ah,  woe  is  me ! 
What  have  I  dared  ?  where  am  I  lifted  ?  how 
Shall  I  descend,  and  perish  not  ?  I  know 
That  Love  makes  all  things  equal :  I  have  heard 
By  mine  own  heart  this  joyous  truth  averr'd : 
The  spirit  of  the  worm  beneath  the  sod. 
In  love  and  worship  blends  itself  with  God 

Spouse!  Sister!  Angel !   Pilot  of  the  Fate 
Whose  course  has  been  so  starless !  O  too  late 
Beloved  !  O  too  soon  adored,  by  me ! 
For  in  the  fields  of  immortality 
My  spirit  should  at  first  have  worshipp'd  thine, 
A  divine  presence  in  a  place  divine ; 
Or  should  have  moved  beside  it  on  this  earth, 
A  shadow  of  that  substance,  from  its  birth ; 
But  not  as  now  : — I  love  thee  ;  yes,  I  feel 
That  on  the  fountain  of  my  heart  a  seal 
Is  set,  to  keep  its  waters  pure  and  bright 
For  thee,  since  in  those  lears  thou  hast  delight. 
We — are  we  not  form'd,  as  notes  of  music  are, 
For  one  another,  though  dissimilar; 
Such  difference  without  discord,  as  can  make 
Those  sweetest  sounds,  in  which  all  spirits  shake 
As  trembling  leaves  in  a  continuous  air  >. 


Thy  wisdom  speaks  in  me,  and  bids  me  dare 
Beacon  the  rocks  on  which  high  hearts  are  wreckt. 
I  never  was  attach'd  to  that  great  sect, 
Whose  doctrine  is,  that  each  one  should  select 
Out  of  the  crowd  a  mistress  or  a  friend. 
And  all  the  rest,  though  fair  and  wise,  commend 
To  cold  oblivion,  though  it  is  in  tlie  code 
Of  modern  morals,  and  the  beaten  road 
Which  those  poor  slaves  with  weary  footsteps  tread, 
Who  travel  to  their  home  among  the  dead 
By  the  broad  highway  of  the  world,  and  so 
With  one  chain'd  friend,  perhaps  a  jealous  foe, 
The  dreariest  and  the  longest  journey  go. 

True  Love  in  this  differs  from  gold  and  clay, 
That  to  divide  is  not  to  take  away. 
Love  is  like  understanding,  that  grows  bright, 
Gazing  on  many  truths;  'tis  like  thy  light, 
Imagination !  which  from  earth  and  sky, 
And  from  the  depths  of  human  phantasy, 
As  from  a  thousand  prisms  and  mirrors,  fills 
The  Universe  with  glorious  beams,  and  kills 
Error,  the  worm,  with  many  a  sunlike  arrow 
Of  its  reverberated  lightning.     Narrow 
The  heart  that  loves,  the  brain  that  contemplates. 
The  life  that  wears,  the  spirit  that  creates 
One  object,  and  one  form,  and  builds  thereby 
A  sepulchre  for  its  Eternity. 


Mind  from  its  object  differs  most  m  this : 
Evil  from  good  ;  miserj'  from  happiness ; 
The  baser  from  the  nobler ;  the  impure 
And  frail,  from  what  is  clear  and  must  endure. 
If  you  divide  suffering  and  drass,  you  may 
Diminish  till  it  is  consumed  away ; 
If  you  divide  pleasure  and  love  and  thought. 
Each  part  exceeds  the  whole  ;  and  we  know  not 
How  much,  while  any  yet  remains  unshared. 
Of  pleasure  may  be  ga,in'd,  of  sorrow  spared  : 
This  truth  is  that  deep  well,  whence  sages  draw 
The  unenvied  light  of  hope  ;  the  eternal  law 
By  which  those  live,  to  whom  this  world  of  life 
Is  as  a  garden  ravaged,  and  \\hose  strife 
Tills  for  the  promise  of  a  later  birth 
The  wilderness  of  this  Elysian  earth. 


There  was  a  Being  whom  my  spirit  oft 
Met  on  its  vision'd  wanderings,  far  aloft. 
In  the  clear  golden  prime  of  my  youth's  dawn, 
Upon  the  fairy  isles  of  sunny  lawn. 
Amid  the  enchanted  mountains,  and  the  caves 
Of  divine  sleep,  and  on  the  air-like  waves 
Of  wonder-level  dream,  \\hose  tremulous  floor 
Paved  her  light  steps ; — on  an  imagined  shore. 
Under  the  gray  beak  of  some  promontory 
She  met  me,  robed  in  sucli  exceeding  glory. 
That  I  beheld  her  not.    In  solitudes 
Her  voice  came  to  me  through  the  whispering  woods. 
And  from  the  fountsiins,  and  the  odors  deep 
Of  flowers,  which,  like  lips  murmuring  in  their  sleep 
Of  the  sweet  kisses  which  had  lull'd  them  there, 
Breathed  but  of  her  to  the  enamor'd  air ; 
And  from  the  breezes,  whether  low  or  loud, 
And  from  the  rain  of  every  passing  cloud. 
And  from  the  singing  of  the  summer-birds. 
And  from  all  sounds,  all  silence.    In  the  words 
Of  antique  verse  and  high  romance, — in  form, 
Sound,  color — in  whatever  checks  that  Storm 
Which  with  the  shatter'd  present  chokes  the  past; 
And  in  that  best  philosoph)',  whose  taste 
Makes  this  cold  common  hell,  our  life,  a  doom 
As  glorious  as  a  fiery  martyrdom  ; 
Her  Spirit  was  the  harmony  of  truth. — 


Then,  from  the  caverns  of  my  dreamy  youth 
I  sprang,  as  one  sandall'd  with  plumes  of  fire. 
And  towards  the  loadstar  of  my  one  desire, 
I  flitted,  like  a  dizzy  moth,  whose  flight 
Is  as  a  dead  leafs  in  the  owlet  light. 
When  it  would  seek  in  Hesper's  setting  sphere 
A  radiant  death,  a  fiery  sepulchre. 
As  if  it  were  a  lamp  of  earthly  flame. — 
But  She,  whom  prayers  or  tears  then  could  not  tame^J 
Past,  like  a  God  throned  on  a  winged  planet, 
Whose  burning  plumes  to  tenfold  swiftness  fan  it. 
Into  the  dreary  cone  of  our  life's  shade ; 
And  as  a  man  with  mighty  loss  dismay 'd, 
I  would  have  follow'd,  though  the  grave  between 
Yawn'd  like  a  gulf  whose  spectres  are  unseen  : 
When  a  voice  said: — "  O  Thou  of  hearts  the  weakest, 
The  phantom  is  beside  thee  whom  thou  seekest." 
Then  I — "where?"  the  world 's  echo  answer'd  "vvliere!' 
And  in  that  silence,  and  in  my  despair, 
I  question'd  every  tongueless  wind  that  flew 
Over  my  tower  of  mourning,  if  it  knew 
414 


EPIPSYCHIDION. 


167 


Wliithcr  'twas  fled,  this  soul  out  of  my  soul  ; 

And  murmur'd  names  and  spells  which  have  control 

Over  the  sightless  tyrants  of  our  fate  ; 

But  neither  prayer  nor  verse  could  dissipate 

The  night  whicli  closed  on  her ;  nor  uncreate 

Thai  world  within  tliis  Cliaos,  mine  and  me, 

Of  which  she  was  the  veiFd  Divinity, 

.  The  world  I  say  of  thoughts  that  worshipp'd  her : 
And  therefore  1  went  forth,  with  hope  and  fear 
And  every  gentle  passion  sick  to  death, 
Feeding  my  course  with  expectation's  breath, 
Into  the  wintry  forest  of  our  life  ; 
And  struggling  through  its  error  with  vain  strife, 
And  stumbling  in  my  weakness  and  my  haste. 
And  half  bewilder'd  by  new  forms,  I  past 
Seeking  among  those  untaught  foresters 
If  I  could  find  one  form  resembling  hers, 

•  In  which  she  might  have  mask'd  herself  from  me. 
There, — One,  whose  voice  was  venom'd  melody 
Sate  by  a  well,  under  blue  nightshade  bowers; 
The  breath  of  her  false  mouth  was  like  faint  flowers, 
Per  touch  was  as  electric  poison, — flame 
Out  of  her  looks  into  my  vitals  came. 
And  from  her  living  cheeks  and  bosom  flew 
A  kindling  air,  which  pierced  like  honey-dew 
Into  the  core  of  my  green  heart,  and  lay 
Upon  its  leaves ;  until,  as  hair  grown  gray 
O'er  a  yoimg  brow,  they  hid  its  imblown  prime 
Willi  ruuis  of  unseasonable  time. 


In  many  mortal  forms  I  rashly  sought 
The  shadow  of  that  idol  of  mj'  thought. 
And  some  were  fair — but  beauty  dies  away : 
Others  were  wise — but  honey'd  words  betray : 
And  One  Was  true — oh  !  why  not  true  to  me  ? 
Then,  as  a  hunted  deer  that  could  not  flee, 
I  lurii'd  upon  my  thoughts,  and  stood  at  bay. 
Wounded  and  weak  and  panting ;  the  cold  day 
Trembled,  (or  pity  of  my  strife  and  pain. 
When,  hke  a  noonday  dawn,  there  shone  again 
Deliverance.    One  stood  on  my  path  who  seem'd 
As  like  the  glorious  shape  which  I  had  dream'd, 
As  is  the  Moon,  whose  changes  ever  run 
Into  themselves,  to  the  eternal  Sun ; 
The  cold  chaste  Moon,  the  Queen  of  Heaven's  bright 

isles, 
Wlio  makes  all  beautiful  on  which  she  smiles. 
That  wandering  shrine  of  soft  yet  icy  flame. 
Which  ever  is  transform'd,  yet  still  the  same, 
And  warms  not  but  illumines.    Yoimg  and  fair 
As  the  descended  Spirit  of  that  sphere. 
She  hid  me,  as  the  Moon  may  hide  the  night 
From  its  own  darkness,  until  all  was  bright 
Between  the  Heaven  and  Earth  of  my  calm  mind, 
And,  as  a  cloud  charioted  by  the  wind. 
She  led  me  to  a  cave  in  that  wild  place, 
And  sate  beside  me,  with  her  downward  face 
Illumining  my  slumbers,  like  the  Moon 
Waxing  and  waning  o'er  Endymion. 
And  I  was  laid  asleep,  spirit  and  limb. 
And  all  my  being  became  bright  or  dim 
As  the  M<X)n's  image  in  a  summer  sea. 
According  as  she  smiled  or  frown'd  on  me; 
And  there  I  lay,  withm  a  chaste  cold  bed : 
Alas,  I  then  was  nor  alive  nor  dead : — 
For  at  her  silver  voice  came  Death  and  Life, 
Unmindful  each  of  their  accustom'd  strife. 


.Mask'd  like  twin  babes,  a  sister  and  a  brother, 
The  wandering  ho)>es  of  one  abandon 'd  mother, 
-And  through  the  cavern  without  wings  they  flew. 
.A.nd  cried  "  Away,  he  is  not  of  our  crew." 
I  wept,  and  though  it  be  a  dream,  I  weep. 


What  storms  then  shook  the  ocean  of  my  sleep, 
Blotting  that  Moon,  whose  pale  and  waning  lips 
Then  shrank  as  in  the  sickness  of  eclipse  ; — 
Aitd  how  my  soul  was  as  a  lampless  sea. 
And  who  was  then  its  Tempest ;  and  when  She, 
The  Planet  of  that  hour,  was  qucnch'd,  what  frost 
Crept  o'er  those  waters,  till  from  coast  to  coast 
The  moving  billows  of  my  being  fell 
Into  a  death  of  ice,  immovable ; — 
And  then — what  earthquakes  made  it  gape  and  split, 
Tiie  white  Aloon  smiling  all  the  while  on  it. 
These  words  conceal : — If  not,  each  word  would  be 
The  key  of  stanchless  tears.    Weep  not  for  me . 


At  length,  into  the  obscure  Forest  came 
The  Vision  I  had  sought  through  grief  and  shame. 
Athwart  that  wintry  wilderness  of  thorns 
Flash'd  fi-om  her  motion  splendor  like  the  Mom's, 
And  from  her  presence  life  was  radiated 
Through  the  gray  earth  and  branches  bare  and  dead. 
So  that  her  way  was  paved,  and  roof'd  above. 
With  flowers  as  soft  as  thoughts  of  budding  love ; 
And  music  from  her  respiration  spread 
Like  light, — all  other  sounds  were  penetrated 
By  the  small,  still,  sweet  spirit  of  that  sound, 
So  that  the  savage  winds  hung  mute  around ; 
And  odors  warm  and  fresh  fell  from  her  hair. 
Dissolving  the  dull  cold  in  the  froze  air : 
Soft  as  an  Incarnation  of  the  Sun, 
W^len  light  is  changed  to  love,  this  glorious  One 
Floated  into  the  cavern  where  I  lay. 
And  call'd  my  Spirit,  and  ihe  dreaming  clay 
Was  lifted  by  the  thing  that  dream'd  below 
As  smoke  by  fire,  and  in  her  beauty's  glow 
I  stood,  and  felt  the  dawn  of  my  long  night 
Was  penetrating  me  with  living  light: 
I  knew  it  was  the  Vision  veil'd  from  me 
So  many  years — that  it  was  Emily. 

Twin  Spheres  of  light  who  rule  this  passive  Earth 
This  world  of  love,  this  me ;  and  into  birth 
Awaken  all  its  fruits  and  flowers,  and  dart, 
Magnetic  might  into  its  central  heart ; 
And  lift  its  billows  and  its  mists,  and  guide 
By  everlasting  laws,  each  wind  and  tide 
To  its  fit  cloud,  and  its  a|)pointed  cave  ; 
And  lull  its  storms,  each  in  the  craggy  grave 
WHiich  was  its  cradle,  luring  to  faint  bowers 
The  armies  of  the  rainbow-winged  showers , 
And,  as  those  married  lights,  which  from  the  towers 
Of  Heaven  look  forth  and  fold  the  wandering  globe 
In  liquid  sleep  and  splendor,  as  a  robe; 
And  all  their  many-mingled  influence  blend 
If  equal,  yet  unlike,  to  one  sweet  end  ; — 
So  ye,  bright  regents,  with  alternate  sway 
Govern  my  sphere  of  being,  night  and  day ! 
Thou,  not  disdaining  even  a  borrow'd  might ; 
Thou,  not  eclipsing  a  remoter  light ; 
And,  through  the  shadow  of  the  seasons  three. 
From  Spring  to  Autumn's  sere  maturity, 
415 


im. 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Light  it  into  the  Winter  of  the  tomb, 

Where  it  may  ripen  to  a  brighter  bloom. 

Thou  too,  O  Comet  beautiful  and  fierce ! 

Who  drew  the  heart  of  this  frail  Universe 

Towards  thine  own ;  till  \\reck'd  in  that  convulsion, 

Alternating  attraction  an'i  repulsion. 

Thine  went  astray  and  (hat  was  rent  in  twain ; 

Oh,  float  into  our  azure  heaven  again ! 

Be  there  love's  folding-star  at  thy  return ; 

The  living  Sun  will  teed  thee  from  its  urn 

Of  golden  fire ;  the  Moon  will  veil  her  horn 

In  thy  last  smiles ;  adoring  Even  and  Morn 

Will  worship  thee  with  incense  of  calm  breath 

And  lights  and  shadows ;  as  the  star  of  Death 

And  Birth  is  worshipp'd  by  those  sisters  wild 

Call'd  Hope  and  Fear — upon  the  heart  are  piled 

Their  oflerings, — of  this  sacrifice  divine 

A  World  shall  be  the  altar. 


Lady  mine. 
Scorn  not  these  flowers  of  thought,  the  fading  birth 
Which  from  its  heart  of  hearts  that  plant  puts  forth 
Whose  fruit,  made  perfect  by  thy  sunny  eyes, 
Will  be  as  of  the  trees  of  Paradise. 


The  day  is  come,  and  thou  wilt  fly  with  me. 
To  whatsoe'er  of  dull  mortality 
Is  mine,  remain  a  vestal  sister  still ; 
To  the  intense,  the  deep,  the  imperishable, 
Not  mine  but  me,  henceforth  be  thou  united 
Even  as  a  bride  delighting  and  delighted. 
The  hour  is  come : — the  destined  Star  has  risen 
Which  shall  descend  upon  a  vacant  prison. 
The  walls  are  high,  the  gates  are  strong,  thick  set 

The  sentinels but  true  love  never  yet 

Was  thus  constrain'd  :  it  overleaps  all  lence  : 
Like  lightning,  with  invisible  violence 
Piercing  its  continents  ;  like  Heaven's  free  breath, 
Which  he  who  grasps  can  hold  not ;  liker  Death, 
Who  rides  upon  a  thought,  and  makes  his  way 
Through  temple,  tower,  and  palace,  and  the  array 
Of  arms  :  more  strength  has  love  than  he  or  they  ; 
For  it  can  burst  his  charnel,  and  make  free 
The  limbs  in  chains,  the  heart  in  agony, 
The  soul  in  dust  and  chaos. 


Emily, 
A  ship  is  floating  in  the  harbor  now, 
A  wind  is  hovering  o'er  the  mountain's  brow  ; 
There  is  a  path  on  the  sea's  azure  floor. 
No  keel  has  ever  plow'd  that  path  before ; 
The  halcyons  brood  around  the  foamless  isles  ; 
The  treacherous  Ocean  has  forsworn  its  wiles ; 
The  merry  mariners  are  told  and  free : 
Say,  my  heart's  sister,  wilt  thou  sail  with  me  ? 
Our  bark  is  as  an  albatross,  whose  nest 
Is  a  far  Eden  of  the  purple  East ; 
And  we  between  her  wings  will  sit,  while  Night 
And  Day,  and  Storm,  and  Calm,  pursue  their  flight, 
Our  ministers,  along  the  boundless  Sea, 
Treading  each  other's  heels,  unheededly. 
It  is  an  isle  under  Ionian  skies, 
Beautiful  as  a  wreck  of  Paradise, 


And,  for  the  harbors  are  not  safe  and  good, 
This  land  would  have  remain'd  a  solitude 
But  for  some  pastoral  people  native  there. 
Who  from  the  Elysian,  clear,  and  golden  air 
Draw  the  last  spirit  of  the  age  of  gold. 
Simple  and  spirited  ;  innocent  and  bold. 
The  blue  ^gean  girds  this  chosen  home. 
With  ever-changing  sound  and  light  and  foam, 
Kissing  the  sifted  sands,  and  caverns  hoar  ; 
And  all  the  winds  wandering  along  the  shore 
Undulate  with  the  undulating  tide  : 
There  are  thick  Woods  where  sylvan  forms  abide; 
And  many  a  fountain,  rivulet,  and  pond,     • 
As  clear  as  elemental  diamond. 
Or  serene  morning  air ;  and  far  beyond. 
The  mossy  tracks  made  by  the  goats  and  deer 
(Which  the  rough  shepherd  treads  but  once  a  year), 
Pierce  info  glades,  caverns,  and  bowers,  and  halls 
Built  round  with  ivy,  which  the  waterfalls 
Illumining,  vvilh  sound  that  never  fails, 
Accompany  the  noonday  nightingales  ; 
And  all  the  place  is  peopled  with  sweet  airs  ; 
The  light  clear  element  which  the  isle  wears 
Is  heavy  with  the  scent  of  lemon-flowers, 
Which  floats  like  mist  laden  with  unseen  showers, 
And  falls  upon  the  eyelids  like  faint  sleep  ; 
And  from  the  moss,  violets  and  jonquils  peep, 
And  dart  their  arrowy  odor  through  the  brain 
Till  you  might  faint  with  that  delicious  pain. 
And  every  motion,  odor,  beam  and  tone. 
With  that  deep  music  is  in  unison : 
Which  is  a  soul  within  the  soul — they  seem 
Like  echoes  of  an  antenatal  dream. — 
It  is  an  isle  'twixt  Heaven,  Air,  Earth,  and  Sea, 
Cradled,  and  hung  in  clear  tranquiHity ; 
Bright  as  that  wandering  Eden  Lucifer, 
Wash'd  by  the  soft  blue  Oceans  of  young  air. 
It  is  a  favor'd  place.    Famine  or  Blight, 
Pestilence,  War  and  Earthquake,  never  light 
Upon  its  mountain-peaks ;  blind  vultures,  they 
Sail  onward  far  upon  their  fataf  way  : 
The  winged  storms,  chanting  their  thunder-psalm 
To  other  lands,  leave  azure  chasms  of  calm 
Over  this  isle,  or  weep  themselves  in  dew, 
From  which  its  fields  and  woods  ever  renew 
Their  green  and  golden  immortality. 
And  from  the  sea  there  rise,  and  from  the  sky 
There  fall,  clear  exhalations,  soft  and  bright, 
Veil  after  veil,  each  hiding  some  delight, 
Which  Sun  or  Moon  or  Zephyr  draw  aside, 
Till  the  isle's  beauty,  like  a  naked  bride 
Glowing  at  once  with  love  and  loveliness, 
Blushes  and  trembles  at  its  own  excess : 
Yet,  like  a  buried  lamp,  a  Soul  no  less 
Burns  in  the  heart  of  this  delicious  isle 
An  atom  of  th'  Eternal,  whose  own  smile 
Unfolds  itself,  and  may  be  felt,  not  seen. 
O'er  the  gray  rocks,  blue  waves,  and  forests  green, 
Filling  their  bare  and  void  interstices. — 
But  the  chief  marvel  of  the  wilderness 
Is  a  lone  dwelling,  built  by  whom  or  how 
None  of  the  rustic  island-people  know ; 
'T  is  not  a  tower  of  strength,  though  with  its  height 
It  overtops  the  woods ;  but,  for  delight, 
Some  wise  and  tender  Ocean-King,  ere  crime 
Had  been  invented,  in  the  world's  young  prime, 
Rear'd  it,  a  wonder  of  that  simple  time 
416 


EPIPSYCHIDION. 


169 


An  envy  of  the  isles,  a  pleasure-house 
Made  sacred  to  his  sister  and  his  spouse. 
It  scarce  seems  now  a  Wreck  of  human  art, 
But,  as  it  were,  Titanic ;  in  the  heart 
Of  Earth  having  assumed  its  form,  then  grown 
Out  of  the  mountains,  from  the  living  stone, 
Lifting  itself  in  caverns  light  and  high  : 
For  all  the  antique  and  learned  imagery 
Has  been  erased,  and  in  the  place  of  it 
The  i\y  and  the  wild-vine  interknit 
The  volumes  of  their  many  twining  stems ; 
Parasite  flowers  illume  with  dewy  gems 
The  lampless  halls,  and  when  they  fade,  the  sky 
Peeps  through  their  winter-woof  of  tracery 
With  moonlight  patches,  or  star  atoms  keen. 
Or  fragments  of  the  day's  intense  serene ; — 
Working  mosaic  on  their  Parian  floors. 
■And,  day  and  night,  aloof,  from  the  high  towers 
And  terraces,  the  Earth  and  Ocean  seem 
To  sleep  in  one  another's  arms,  and  dream 
Of  waves,  flowers,  clouds,  woods,  rocks,  and  all  that 

we 
Read  in  their  smiles,  and  call  reality. 

This  isle  and  house  are  mine,  and  I  have  vow'd 
Thee  to  be  lady  of  the  solitude. — 
And  I  have  tilted  up  some  chambers  there, 
Looking  towards  the  golden  Eastern  air. 
And  level  with  the  living  winds,  which  flow 
Like  waves  above  the  living  waves  below. — 
I  have  sent  books  and  music  there,  and  all 
Those  instruments  with  which  high  spirits  call 
The  future  from  its  cradle,  and  the  past 
Out  of  ils  grave,  and  make  the  present  last 
In  thoughts  and  joys,  which  sleep,  but  cannot  die, 
Folded  within  their  own  eternity. 
Our  simple  life  wants  little,  and  true  taste 
Hires  not  the  pale  drudge  Luxury,  to  waste 
The  scene  it  would  adorn ;  and  therefore  still. 
Nature,  with  all  her  children,  haunts  the  hill. 
The  ringdove,  in  the  embowering  ivy,  yet 
Keeps  up  her  love-lament,  and  the  owls  flit 
Round  the  evening  tower,  and  the  young  stars  glance 
Between  the  quick  bats  in  their  twilight  dance  ; 
The  spotted  deer  bask  in  the  fresh  moonlight 
Belbre  our  gate,  and  the  slow,  silent  night 
Ls  measured  by  the  pants  of  their  calm  sleep. 
Be  this  our  home  in  life,  and  when  years  heap 
Their  wiiher'd  hours,  like  leaves,  on  our  decay, 
Let  us  become  the  over-hanging  day. 
The  living  soul  of  this  Elysian  isle. 
Conscious,  inseparable,  one.     Meanwhile 
We  two  will  rise,  and  sit,  and  walk  together, 
Under  the  roof  of  blue  Ionian  weather. 
And  wander  in  the  meadows,  or  ascend 
The  mossy  mountains,  where  the  blue  heavens  bend 
With  lightest  winds,  to  touch  their  paramour ; 
Or  linger,  where  the  pebble-paven  shore, 
Under  the  quick,  faint  kisses  of  the  sea, 
Trembles  and  sparkles  as  with  ecstasy, — 


Possessing  and  possest  by  all  that  is 

Within  that  calm  circumference  of  bliss. 

And  by  each  other,  till  to  love  and  live 

Be  one : — or,  at  the  noontide  hour,  arrive 

Where  some  old  cavern  hoar  seems  yet  to  keep 

The  moonlight  of  the  expired  night  asleep, 

Through  which  the  awakcn'd  day  can  never  peep ; 

A  veil  for  our  seclusion,  close  as  Night's, 

Where  secure  sleep  may  kill  thine  innocent  lights ; 

Sleep,  the  fresh  dew  of  languid  love,  the  rain 

Whose  drops  quench  kisses  till  they  bum  again. 

And  we  will  talk,  until  thought's  melody 

Become  too  sweet  for  utterance,  and  it  die 

In  words,  to  live  again  in  looks,  which  dart 

With  thrilling  tone  into  the  voi'^elcss  heart, 

Harmonizing  silence  without  a  sound. 

Our  breath  shall  intermix,  our  bosoms  bound. 

And  our  veins  beat  together;  and  our  lips. 

With  other  eloquence  than  words,  eclipse 

The  soul  that  burns  between  them ;  and  the  wells 

Which  boil  under  our  being's  inmost  cells, 

The  fountains  of  our  deepest  life,  shall  be 

Confused  in  passion's  golden  purity. 

As  mountain-springs  under  the  morning  Sun. 

We  shall  become  the  same,  we  shall  be  one 

Spirit  within  two  frames,  oh  !  wherefore  two  ? 

One  passion  in  twin-hearts,  which  grows  and  grew, 

Till,  like  two  meteors  of  expanding  flame, 

Those  spheres  instinct  with  it  become  the  same. 

Touch,  mingle,  are  transfigured  ;  ever  still 

Burning,  yet  ever  inconsumable  : 

In  one  another's  substance  finding  food, 

Like  flames  too  pure  and  light  and  unimbued 

To  nourish  their  bright  lives  with  baser  prey, 

Which  point  to  Heaven  and  cannot  pass  away  : 

One  hope  within  two  wills,  one  will  beneath 

Two  overshadowing  minds,  one  life,  one  death. 

One  Heaven,  one  Hell,  one  immortality. 

And  one  annihilation.     Woe  is  me ! 

The  winged  words  on  which  my  soul  would  pierce 

Into  the  height  of  love's  rare  Universe, 

Are  chains  of  lead  around  its  flight  of  fire. — 

I  pant,  I  sink,  I  tremble,  I  expire  ! 


Weak  verses,  go,  kneel  at  your  Sovereign's  feet, 
And  say : — "  We  are  the  masters  of  thy  slave  ; 
Wliat  wouldest  thou  with  us  and  ours  and  thine  ?" 
Then  call  your  sisters  from  Oblivion's  cave. 
All  singing  loud  :  "  Love's  very  pain  is  sweet. 
But  its  reward  is  in  the  world  divine 
Which,  if  not  here,  it  builds  beyond  the  grave." 
So  shall  ye  live  when  I  am  there.     Then  haste 
Over  the  hearts  of  men,  until  ye  meet 
Marina,  Vanna,  Primus,  and  the  rest. 
And  bid  them  love  each  other  and  be  blest 
And  leave  the  troop  which  errs,  and  which  reproves, 
And  come  and  be  my  guest, — for  I  am  Love's. 
417 


3C 


170 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  LYRICAL  DRAMA. 


MANT2  EIM'  ESeAilN  ArflNflN. 

OEdip.   Colon. 


TO  HIS  EXCELLENCY  PRINCE  ALEXANDER  MAVROCORDATO, 

I,ATE  SECRETARY  FOR  FOREIGN  AFFAIRS  TO  THE  HOSPODAR  OF  WALLACHIA, 

THE  DRAMA  OF  HELLAS 

IS    INSCRIBED    AS    AN    IMPERFECT    TOKEN    OF    THE    ADMIRATION,    SYMPATHY,    AND    FRIENDSHIP    OF 

Pisa,  November  1,  1821.  ^        THE  AUTHOR 


PREFACE. 


The  poem  of  Hellas,  written  at  the  suggestion  of 
the  events  of  the  moment,  is  a  mere  improvise,  and 
derives  its  interest  (should  it  be  found  to  possess  any) 
solely  from  the  intense  sympathy  which  the  Author 
feels  with  the  cause  he  would  celebrate. 

The  subject  in  its  present  state  is  insusceptible  of 
being  treated  otherwise  than  lyrically,  and  if  I  have 
called  this  poem  a  drama  from  ihe  circumstance  of 
its  being  composed  in  dialogue,  the  license  is  not 
greater  than  that  which  has  been  assumed  by  other 
poets,  who  have  called  their  productions  epics,  only 
because  tjiey  have  been  divided  into  twelve  or  twenty- 
four  books. 

Tiie  Persee  of  ^Eschylus  afforded  me  the  first  model 
of  my  conception,  although  the  decision  of  the  glori- 
ous contest  now  waging  in  Greece  being  yet  suspend- 
ed, forbids  a  catastrophe  parallel  to  the  return  of 
Xerxes  and  the  desolation  of  the  Persians.  I  have, 
therefore,  contented  myself  with  exhibiting  a  series 
of  lyric  pictures,  and  with  having  wrought  upon  the 
curtain  of  futurity,  which  falls  upon  the  unfinished 
scene,  such  figures  of  indistinct  and  visionary  dehnea- 
lion  as  suggest  the  final  triumph  of  the  Greek  cause 
as  a  portion  of  the  cause  of  civilization  and  social 
improvement. 

The  drama  (if  drama  it  must  be  called)  is,  however, 
so  inartificial  that  I  doubt  whether,  if  recited  on  the 
Thespian  wagon  to  an  Athenian  village  at  the  Diony- 
siaca,  it  would  have  obtained  the  prize  of  the  goat. 
I  shall  bear  whh  equanimity  any  punishment  greater 
than  the  loss  of  such  a  reward  which  the  Aristarchi 
of  the  hour  may  think  fit  to  inflict. 

The  only  goat-song  which  I  liavfe  yet  attempted 
has,  I  confess,  in  spite  of  the  unfavorable  nature  of 
the  subject,  received  a  greater  and  a  more  valuable 
portion  of  applause  than  I  expected,  or  than  it  de- 
served. 

Common .  fame  is  the  only  authority  which  I  can 
allege  for  the  details  which  form  the  basis  of  the  poem, 
and  I  must  trespass  upon  the  forgiveness  of  my  read- 
ers for  the  display  of  newspaper  erudition  to  which 
I  have  been  reduced.  Undoubtedly,  until  the  con- 
clusion of  the  war,  it  will  be  impossible  to  obtain 
an  account  of  it  sufficiently  authentic  for  historical 
materials ;  but  poets  have  their  privilege,  and  it  is 
unquestionable  that  actions  of  the  m.ost  exalted  cour- 


age have  been  performed  by  the  Greeks — that  they 
have  gained  more  than  one  naval  victory,  and  that 
their  defeat  in  Wallachia  was  signalized  by  circum- 
stances of  heroism  more  glorious  even  than  victory. 

The  apathy  of  the  rulers  of  the  civilized  world,  to 
the  astonishing  circumstances  of  the  descendants  of 
that  nation  to  which  they  owe  their  civilization — 
rising  as  it  were  from  the  ashes  of  their  ruin,  is  some- 
thing perfectly  inexplicable  to  a  mere  spectator  of 
the  shows  of  this  mortal  scene.  We  are  all  Greeks. 
Our  laws,  our  literature,  our  religion,  our  arts,  have 
their  root  in  Greece.  But  for  Greece — Home  the 
instructor,  the  conqueror,  or  the  metropolis  of  our  an- 
cestors, would  have  spread  no  illumination  with  her 
arms,  and  we  might  still  have  been  savages  and  idol- 
aters ;  or,  what  is  worse,  might  have  arrived  at  such 
a  stagnant  and  miserable  state  of  social  institution  as 
China  and  Japan  possess. 

The  human  form  and  the  human  mind  attained  to 
a  perfection  in  Greece  which  has  impressed  its  image 
on  those  faultless  productions  whose  very  fragments 
are  the  despair  of  modern  art,  and  has  propagated 
impulses  wliich  cannot  cease,  through  a  thousand 
channels  of  manifest  or  imperceptible  operation,  to 
ennoble  and  delight  mankind  until  the  extinction  of 
the  race. 

The  modem  Greek  is  the  descendant  of  those 
glorious  beings  whom  the  imagination  almost  refuses 
to  figure  to  itself  as  belonging  to  our  kind ;  and  he 
inherits  much  of  their  sensibility,  iheir  rapidity  of 
conception,  their  enthusiasm,  and  their  courage.  If 
in  many  instances  he  is  degraded  by  moral  and  politi- 
cal slavery  to  the  practice  of  the  basest  vices  it  en- 
genders, and  that  below  the  level  of  ordinary  degra- 
dation ;  let  us  reflect  that  the  corruption  of  the  best 
produces  the  worst,  and  that  habits  which  subsist 
only  in  relation  to  a  peculiar  state  of  social  institu- 
tion may  be  expected  to  cease,  as  soon  as  that  rela- 
tion is  dissolved.  In  fact,  the  Greeks,  since  the  ad- 
mirable novel  of  "  Anastalius"  could  have  been  a 
faithful  picture  of  their  manners,  have  undergone  most 
important  changes.  The  flov^er  of  their  youth,  re- 
turning to  their  country  from  the  universities  of  Italy, 
Germany  and  France,  have  communicated  to  their 
fellow-citizens  the  latest  results  of  that  social  per- 
fection of  which  their  ancestors  were  the  original 
source.  The  university  of  Chios  contained  before 
the  breaking  out  of  the  revolution  eight  hundred 
418 


HELLAS. 


171 


gtudents,  and  among  ihein  several  Germans  and 
Americans.  Tlie  munificence  and  energy  of  many 
of  the  Greek  princes  and  mercliants,  directed  to  the 
renovation  of  their  country  with  a  spirit  and  a  wis- 
dom vvhicii  has  few  examples,  is  above  all  praise. 

The  English  permit  their  own  oppressors  to  act 
according  to  their  natural  sympathy  with  the  Turkish 
tyrant,  and  to  brand  upon  their  name  the  indelible 
blot  of  an  alliance  with  the  enemies  of  domestic 
happiness,  of  Christianity  and  civilization. 

Russia  desires  to  possess,  not  to  liberate  Greece  ; 
and  is  contented  to  see  the  Turks,  its  natural  ene- 
mies, and  the  Greeks,  its  intended  slaves,  enfeeble 
each  other,  until  one  or  both  fall  into  its  net.  The 
wise  and  generous  policy  of  England  would  have 
consisted  in  establishing  the  independence  of  Greece 
and  in  maintaining  it  both  against  Russia  and  the 
Turk ; — but  when  was  the  oppressor  generous  or 
just? 

The  Spanish  Peninsula  is  already  free.  France  is 
tranquil  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  partial  exemption 
from  the  abuses  which  its  unnatural  and  feeble  gov- 
ernment is  vainly  attempting  to  revive.  The  seed 
of  blood  and  misery  has  been  sown  in  Italy,  and  a 
more  vigorous  race  is  arising  to  go  forth  to  the  har- 
vest. The  world  waits  only  the  news  of  a  revolution 
of  Germany,  to  see  the  tyrants  who  have  pinnacled 
themselves  on  its  supineness  precipitated  into  the  ruin 
from  which  they  shall  never  arise.  Well  do  these 
destroyers  of  mankind  know  their  enemy,  when  lliey 
impute  the  insurrection  in  Greece  to  the  same  spirit 
before  which  they  tremble  throughout  the  rest  of 
Europe ;  and  that  enemy  well  knows  the  power  and 
cunning  of  its  opponents,  and  watches  the  moment 
of  their  approaching  weakness  and  inevitable  divis- 
ion, to  wrest  tlie  bloody  sceptres  from  their  grasp. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 


Mahmud. 

Hassan. 

Daood. 

Ahasuerus,  a  Jew. 

Chorus  of  Greek  captive  Women. 

Messengers,  Slaves,  and  Attendants. 


Scene, — Constantinople. 
Time, — Sunset. 


HELLAS. 


Scene,  a  Terrace  on  tlie  Seraglio. 

Mahmud  {sleeping),  an  Indian  Slave  silting  beside  his 
Couch. 

CHORUS  OF  GREEK  CAPTI\T:  WOMEN. 

We  strew  these  opiate  flowers 

On  thy  restless  pillow, — 
They  were  stript  from  Orient  bowers, 
By  the  Indian  billow. 
Be  thy  sleep 
Calm  and  deep, 
Like  theirs  who  fell — not  ours  who  ween ! 


Away,  unlovely  dreams ! 

Away,  false  shapes  of  sleep : 
Be  his,  as  Heaven  seems, 

Clear,  bright  and  deep ! 
Soft  as  love  and  calm  as  death, 
Sweet  as  a  summer-night  without  a  breath. 


Sleep,  sleep!  our  song  is  laden 

With  the  soul  of  slumber; 
It  was  sung  by  a  Samian  maiden, 
Whose  lover  was  of  the  number 
Who  now  keep 
That  calm  sleep 
Whence  none  may  wake,  where  none  shall  weep. 

INDIAN. 

I  touch  thy  temples  pale ! 

I  breathe  my  soul  on  thee  ! 
And  could  my  prayers  avail, 
All  my  joy  should  be 
Dead,  and  I  would  live  to  weep. 
So  thou  mightst  win  one  hour  of  quiet  sleep. 


Breathe  low,  low, 
The  spell  of  the  mighty  mistress  now ! 
When  conscience  lulls  her  sated  snake. 
And  Tyrants  sleep,  let  Freedom  wake. 
Breathe  low,  low. 
The  words  which,  like  secret  fire,  shall  flow 
Through  the  veins  of  the  frozen  earth — low,  low 

SEMICHORUS  I. 

Life  may  change,  but  it  may  fly  not ; 
Hope  may  vanish,  but  can  die  not ; 
Truth  be  veil'd,  but  still  it  burneth ; 
Love  repulsed,— but  it  retumeth ! 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

Yet  were  life  a  charnel,  where 
Hope  lay  coffin'd  with  despair; 
Yet  were  truth  a  sacred  lie. 
Love  were  lust — 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

If  Liberty 
Lent  not  life  its  soul  of  light, 
Hope  its  iris  of  delight, 
Truth  its  prophet's  robe  to  wear. 
Love  its  power  to  give  and  bear. 


In  the  great  morning  of  the  world, 
The  spirit  of  God  with  might  unfurl'd 
The  flag  of  Freedom  over  Chaos, 

And  all  its  banded  anarchs  fled, 
Like  vultures  frighted  from  I  mans, 

Before  an  earlliquakc's  tread — 
So  from  Time's  tempestuous  dawn 
Freedom's  splendor  burst  and  shone: — 
Thermopylae  and  Marathon 
Caught,  like  mountains  beacon-lighted. 

The  springing  fire. — The  winged  gloiy 
On  Philippi  half-alighted. 

Like  an  eagle  on  a  promontory. 
419 


IT2 


SHELLE  TS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Its  unwearied  wings  could  fan 
The  quencliless  ashes  of  Milan.* 
From  age  to  age,  from  man  to  man 

It  lived  ;  and  lit  from  land  to  land 

Florence,  Albion,  Switzerland : 
Then  night  fell ;  and  as  from  night 
Reassuming  fiery  flight, 
From  the  West  swift  Freedom  came, 

Against  the  course  of  Heaven  and  doom 
A  second  sun  array'd  in  flame; 

To  burn,  to  kindle,  to  illume, 
From  far  Atlantis  its  young  beams 
Chased  the  shadows  and  the  dreams. 
France,  with  all  her  sanguine  steams, 

Hid,  but  quench'd  it  not;  again 

Through  clouds  its  shafts  of  glory  rain 

From  utmost  Germany  to  Spain. 
As  an  eagle  fed  with  morning 
Scorns  the  embattled  tempest's  warning, 
When  she  seeks  her  airy  hanging 

In  the  mountain  cedar's  hair, 
And  her  brood  expect  the  clanging 

Of  her  wings  through  the  wild  air, 
Sick  with  famine — Freedom  so 
To  what  of  Greece  remaineth  now 
Returns  ;  her  hoary  ruins  glow 
Like  orient  mountains  lost  in  day ; 

Beneath  the  safety  of  her  wings 
Her  renovated  nurslings  play. 

And  in  the  naked  lightnings 
Of  truth  they  purge  their  dazzled  eyes. 
Let  Freedom  leave,  where'er  she  flies, 
A  desert,  or  a  Paradise  ; 

Let  the  beautiful  and  the  brave 

Share  her  glory,  or  a  grave. 

SEMICHORUS   I. 

With  the  gifts  of  gladness 
Greece  did  thy  cradle  strew. 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

With  the  tears  of  sadness 

Greece  did  thy  shroud  bedew. 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

With  an  orphan's  affection 

She  Ibllow'd  thy  bier  through  time ; 

SEMICHORUS    XI. 

And  at  thy  resurrection 

Reappearelh,  like  thou,  sublime ! 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

If  Heaven  should  resume  thee. 

To  Heaven  shall  her  spirit  ascend  ; 

SEMICHORUS    II. 

If  Hell  should  entomb  thee  ; 

To  Hell  shall  her  high  hearts  bend. 

SEMICHORUS    I. 

If  Annihilation — 


*  Milan  was  the  centre  of  the  resistance  of  the  Lombard 
league  against  the  Austrian  tyrant.  Frederic  Barbarossa 
burnt  the  city  to  the  ground,  but  liberty  lived  in  its  ashes, 
and  it  rose  like  an  exhalation  from  its  ruin. — See  Sis- 
MONDi's  " Histoirc3  des  Repuhlir/ues  Italiennes"  a  book 
which  has  done  much  towards  awakening  the  Italians  to 
an  imitation  of  their  great  ancestors. 


SEMICHORUS    II. 

Dust  let  her  glories  be : 
And  a  name,  and  a  nation 

Be  forgotten.  Freedom,  with  thee ! 

INDIAN. 

His  brow  grows  darker — breathe  not — move  not  • 
He  starts — he  shudders  ; — ye  that  love  not, 
With  your  panting  loud  and  fast 
Have  awalsen'd  him  at  last. 

MAHMUD  {starting  from  his  sleep). 
Man  the  Seraglio-guard !   make  fast  the  gate ! 
What !  from  a  cannonade  of  three  short  hours  ? 
'Tis  false!  that  breach  towards  the  Bosphorus 
Cannot  be  practicable  yet — Who  stirs  ? 
Stand  to  the  match ;  that  when  the  foe  prevails. 
One  spark  may  mix  in  reconciling  ruin 
The  conqueror  and  the  conquer'd !  Heave  the  tower 
Into  the  gap — wrench  off  the  roof 

Enter  Hassan. 

Ha!  what! 
The  truth  of  day  lightens  upon  my  dream. 
And  I  am  Mahmud  still. 


Is  strangely  moved. 


HASSAN. 

Your  Sublime  Highness 


MAHMUD. 

'  The  times  do  cast  strange  shadows 
On  those  who  watch  and  who  must  rule  iheir  course, 
Lest  they,  being  first  in  peril  as  in  glory. 
Be  whelm'd  in  the  fierce  ebb: — and  these  are  of  them. 
Thrice  has  a  gloomy  vision  haunted  me 
As  thus  from  sleep  into  the  troubled  day ; 
It  shakes  me  as  the  tempest  shakes  the  sea. 
Leaving  no  figure  upon  memory's  glass. 
Would  that — no  matter.  Thou  didst  say  thou  knewest 
A  Jew,  whose  spirit  is  a  chronicle 
Of  strange  and  secret  and  forgotten  things. 
I  bade  thee  summon  him: — 'tis  said  his  tribe 
Dream,  and  are  wise  interpreters  of  dreams. 


The  Jew  of  whom  I  spake  is  old, — so  old 
He  seems  to  have  outlived  a  world's  decay; 
The  hoary  mountains  and  the  wrinkled  ocean 
Seem  younger  still  than  he ; — ^his  hair  and  beard 
Are  whiter  than  the  tempest-sifted  snow ; 
His  cold  pale  limbs  and  pulseless  arteries 
Are  like  the  fibres  of  a  cloud  instinct 
With  light,  and  to  the  soul  that  quickens  them 
Are  as  the  atoms  of  the  mountain-drift 
To  the  winter  wind : — but  from  his  eye  looks  forth 
A  life  of  unconsumed  thought,  which  pierces 
The  present,  and  the  past,  and  the  to-come. 
Some  say  that  this  is  he  whom  the  great  prophet 
Jesus,  the  son  of  Joseph,  for  his  mockery 
Mock'd  with  the  curse  of  immortality. 
Some  feign  that  he  is  Enoch  ;  others  dream 
He  was  pre-adamite,  and  has  survived 
Cycles  of  generation  and  of  ruin. 
The  sage,  in  truth,  by  dreadful  abstinence 
And  conquering  penance  of  the  mutinous  flesh, 
Deep  contemplation,  and  unwearied  study. 
In  years  outstrelch'd  beyond  the  date  of  man. 
May  have  obtain'd  to  sovereignly  and  science 

420 


HELLAS. 


173 


Over  those  strong  and  secret  things  and  thoughts 
Which  others  fear  and  know  not. 


I  would  talk 


With  this  old  Jew. 


Thy  will  is  even  now 
Made  kno\\Ti  to  him,  where  he  dwells  in  a  sea-cavern 
'Rlid  the  Demonesi,  less  accessible 
Than  thou  or  God !  He  who  would  question  hira 
Must  sail  alone  at  sunset,  where  the  stream 
Of  ocean  sleeps  around  those  fbamless  isles 
When  the  young  moon  is  westering  as  now, 
And  evening  airs  wander  upon  the  wave  ; 
And  when  the  pines  of  that  bee-pasturing  isle, 
Green  Erebinthus,  quench  the  fiery  shadow 
Of  his  gilt  prow  within  the  sapphire  water; 
Then  must  the  lonely  helmsman  cry  aloud, 
Ahasuerus  !  and  the  caverns  round 
Will  answer,  Ahasuerus !  If  his  prayer 
Be  granted,  a  faint  meteor  will  arise. 
Lighting  him  over  Marmora,  and  a  wind 
Will  rush  out  of  the  sighing  pine-forest, 
And  with  the  wind  a  storm  of  harmony 
Unutterably  sweet,  and  pilot  him 
Through  the  soft  twilight  to  the  Bosphorus  : 
Thence,  at  the  hour  and  place  and  circumstance 
Fit  for  the  matter  of  their  conference, 
The  Jew  appears.    Few  dare,  and  few  who  dare, 
Win  the  desired  communion — but  that  shout 
Bodes [A  shout  without. 

MAHMUD. 

Evil,  doubtless ;  like  all  human  soimds. 
Let  me  converse  with  spirits. 

H.\SSAN. 

That  shout  again ! 

MAHMUD. 

This  Jew  whom  thou  hast  summon'd — 


Will  be  here — 

MAHMUD. 

When  the  omnipotent  hour,  to  which  are  yoked 
He,  I,  and  all  things,  shall  compel — enough. 
Silence  those  mutineers — thai  drunken  crew 
That  crowd  about  the  pilot  in  the  storm. 
Ay !  strike  the  foremost  shorter  by  a  head  ! 
They  weary  me,  and  I  have  need  of  rest. 
Kings  are  like  stars — they  rise  and  set,  they  have 
The  worship  of  the  world,  but  no  repose. 

[Exeunt  severalhj. 

CHORUS.* 

Worlds  on  worlds  are  rolling  ever 

From  creation  to  decay, 
Like  the  bubbles  on  a  river. 

Sparkling,  bursting,  borne  away ; 
But  they  are  still  immortal 
Who,  through  birth's  orient  portal, 


•  The  popular  notions  of  Christianity  arc  represented  in  this 
chorus  as  true  in  their  relation  to  the  worship  they  superseded, 
and  that  which  in  all  probability  they  will  supersede,  without 
considering  their  merits  in  a  relation  more  universal.  The  first 
stanza  contrasts  the  immortality  of  the  living  and  tliinking 
beings  which  inhabit  the  planets,  and,  to  use  a  common  and 
inadequate  phrase,  clothe  them-selves  in  matter,  with  the  tran- 
sience of  the  noblest  manifestations  of  the  e.\ternal  world. 

The  concluding  verse  indicates  a  progressive  state  of  raore 


And  Death's  dark  chasm  hurrying  to  and  fro, 

Clothe  their  unceasing  flight 

In  the  brief  dust  and  light 
Gather'd  around  their  chariots  as  they  go  • 

New  shapes  they  still  may  weave. 

New  Gods,  new  laws  receive  ; 
Bright  or  dim  are  they,  as  the  robes  they  last 
On  Death's  bare  ribs  had  cast. 

A  power  from  the  unknown  God  ; 
A  Promethean  conqueror  came; 
Like  a  triumphal  patii  he  trod 
The  thorns  of  death  and  shame. 
A  mortal  shape  to  him 
Was  like  the  vapor  dim 
Which  the  orient  planet  animates  with  light; 
Hell,  Sin  and  Slavery  came. 
Like  blood-hounds  mild  and  tame. 
Nor  prey'd  until  their  lord  had  taken  flight. 
The  moon  of  Mahomet 
Arose,  and  it  shall  set : 
While  blazon'd  as  on  Heaven's  immortal  noon 
The  cross  leads  generations  on. 

Swift  as  the  radiant  shapes  of  sleep 

From  one  whose  dreams  are  paradise. 
Fly  when  the  fond  wretch  wakes  to  weep. 
And  day  peers  forth  with  her  blank  eyes .' 
So  fleet,  so  faint,  so  fair, 
The  powers  of  earth  and  air 
Fled  from  the  folding-star  of  Bethlehem : 
Apollo,  Pan,  and  Love, 
And  even  Olympian  Jove 
Grew  weak,  for  killing  Truth  had  glared  on  then 
Our  hills,  and  seas,  and  streams. 
Dispeopled  of  their  dreams. 
Their  waters  turn'd  to  blood,  their  dew  to  tears, 
Wail'd  for  the  golden  years. 

Enter  Mahmud,  HASSA^,  Dagod,  and  others. 


More  gold  ?  our  ancestors  bought  gold  with  victory 
And  shall  I  sell  it  for  defeat  ? 

DAOOD. 

The  Janizars 
Clamor  for  pay. 

MAHMUD. 

Go !  bid  them  pay  themselves 
With  Christian  blood  !    Are  there  no  Grecian  virgins 


or  less  exalted  existence,  according  to  the  degree  of  perfection 
which  every  distinct  intelligence  may  have  attained.  Let  it  noJ 
be  supposed  that  I  mean  to  dogmatize  upon  a  subject  concern- 
ing which  all  men  are  equally  ignorant,  or  that  1  think  the 
Gordian  knot  of  the  origin  of  evil  can  be  disentangled  by  that 
or  any  similar  assertions.  The  received  hypothesis  of  a  Being 
resembling  men  in  the  moral  attributes  of  his  nature,  having 
called  us  out  of  non-existence,  and  after  inflicting  on  us  the 
misery  of  the  commission  of  err<ir,  should  superadd  that  of  the 
punishment  and  the  privations  consiriucnt  upon  it,  still  would 
remain  inexplicable  and  incredible.  'I'bat  lliero  is  a  true  solu- 
tion of  the  riddle,  and  that  in  our  present  state  that  solution  is 
unattainable  by  us,  are  propositions  which  may  be  regarded' as 
equally  certain  ;  meanwhile,  as  it  is  the  province  of  the  poet  to 
attach  himself  to  those  ideas  which  exalt  and  ennoble  humanity, 
let  l)im  be  permitted  to  have  conjertured  the  condition  of  that 
futurity  towards  which  we  are  all  impelled  by  an  inextinguish- 
able thirst  for  immortality.  Until  better  arguments  can  be  pro- 
duced than  sophisms  which  disgrace  the  cause,  this  desire  itself 
must  remain  the  strongest  and  the  only  presumption  that  eter- 
nity is  the  inheritance  of  every  thinking  being. 
55  421 


171 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Whose  shrieks  and  spasms  and  tears  they  may  enjoy  ? 

No  infidel  children  to  impale  on  spears  ? 

]Vo  hoary  priests  after  that  patriarch* 

Who  bent  the  curse  against  his  country's  heart, 

Which  clove  his  own  at  last  ?  Go !  bid  them  kill : 

Blood  is  the  seed  of  gold. 

DAOOD. 

It  has  been  sown, 
And  yet  the  harvest  to  the  sickle-men 
Is  as  a  grain  to  each. 

MAHMUD. 

Then,  take  this  signet  : 
Unlock  the  seventh  chamber,  in  which  lie 
The  treasures  of  victorious  Solyman. 
An  empire's  spoils  stored  for  a  day  of  ruin — 
O  spirit  of  my  sires!  is  it  not  come? 
The  prey-birds  and  the  wolves  are  gorged  and  sleep, 
But  these,  who  spread  their  feast  on  the  red  earth, 
Hunger  for  gold,  which  fdls  not. — See  them  fed ; 
Then  lead  them  to  the  rivers  of  fresh  death. 

[Exil  Daood. 
Oh !  miserable  dawn,  after  a  night 
More  glorious  than  the  day  which  it  usurp'd  ! 
O,  failh  in  God !  O,  power  on  earth  I  O,  word 
Of  the  great  Prophet,  whose  overshadowing  wings 
Durken'd  the  thrones  and  idols  of  the  west. 
Now  bright ! — For  thy  sake  cursed  be  the  hour. 
Even  as  a  father  by  an  evil  child. 
When  the  orient  moon  of  Islam  roll'd  in  triumph 
From  Caucasus  to  white  Ceraunia ! 
Ruin  above,  and  anarchy  belov?  ; 
Terror  without,  and  treachery  within  ; 
The  chalice  of  destruction  full,  and  all 
^^hirstillg  to  drink;  and  who  among  us  dares 
To  dash  it  from  his  lips  ?  and  where  is  Hope  ? 

HASSA>f. 

The  lamp  of  our  dominion  still  rides  high; 
One  God  is  God — Mahomet  is  his  Prophet. 
Four  hundred  thousand  Moslems,  from  the  limits 
Of  utmost  Asia  irresistibly 
Throng,  like  full  clouds  at  the  Sirocco's  cry. 
But  not  hke  them  to  weep  their  strength  in  tears ; 
They  have  destroying  lightning,  and  their  step 
Wakes  earthquake,  to  consume  and  overwhelm, 
And  reign  in  ruin.    Phrygian  Olympus, 
Tymolus,  and  Latmos,  and  Mycale,  roughen 
With  horrent  arms,  and  lofty  ships,  even  now, 
Like  vapors  anchor'd  to  a  mountain's  edge. 
Freighted  with  fire  and  whirlwind,  wait  at  Scala 
The  convoy  of  the  ever-veering  wind. 
Samos  is  drunk  with  blood ; — the  Greek  has  paid 
Brief  victory  with  swift  loss  and  long  despair. 
The  false  Moldavian  serfs  fled  fast  and  far 
When  the  fierce  shout  of  Allah-illah-Allah ! 
Rose  like  the  war-cry  of  the  northern  wind, 
Which  kills  the  sluggish  clouds,  and  leaves  a  flock 
Of  wild  swans  struggling  with  the  naked  storm. 
■  So  were  the  lost  Greeks  on  the  Danube's  day! 


*  The  Greek  Patriarch,  after  having  been  compelled  to  ful- 
minate an  anathema  against  the  insurgents,  was  put  to  death 
1  by  the  Turks. 

Fortunately  the  Greeks  have  been  taught  that  they  cannot 
buy  security  by  degradation,  and  the  Turks,  though  equally 
cruel,  are  less  cunning  than  the  smooth-faced  tyrants  of  Europe. 

As  to  the  anathema,  his  Ilohness  miaht  as  well  have  thrown 
his  mitre  at  Mount  Athos,  for  any  eftect  that  it  produced.  The 
chiefs  of  the  Greeks  are  almost  all  men  of  comprehension  and 
enlightensd  views  on  religion  and  politics. 


If  night  is  mule,  yet  the  returning  sun 

Kindles  the  voices  of  the  morning  birds ; 

Nor  at  tliy  bidding  less  exultingly 

Than  birds  rejoicing  in  the  golden  day. 

The  anarchies  of  Africa  unleash 

Their  tempest-winged  cities  of  the  sea. 

To  speak  in  thunder  to  the  rebel  world. 

Like  sidphurous  clouds  half-shatter'd  by  the  storm 

They  sweep  the  pale  yEgean,  while  the  Queen 

Of  Ocean,  bound  ujxin  her  island  throne. 

Far  in  the  west  sits  mourning  that  her  sons. 

Who  frown  on  Freedom,  spare  a  smile  for  thee : 

Russia  still  hovers,  as  an  eagle  might 

Within  a  cloud,  near  which  a  kite  and  crane 

Hang  tangled  in  inextricable  fight. 

To  stoop  upon  the  victQr ; — for  she  fears 

The  name  of  Freedom,  even  as  she  hates  thine  , 

But  recreant  Austria  loves  thee  as  the  grave 

Loves  pestilence,  and  her  slow  dogs  of  war, 

Flesh'd  with  the  chase,  come  up  from  Italy, 

And  howl  upon  their  limits ;  for  they  see 

The  panlher  Freedom  fled  to  her  old  cover 

'Mid  seas  and  mountains,  and  a  mightier  brood 

Crouch  around.  What  anarch  wears  a  crown  or  Ti-lie, 

Or  bears  the  sword,  or  grasps  the  key  of  gold, 

Whose  friends  are  not  thy  friends,  whose  foes  th_/  fo&-i? 

Our  arsenals  and  our  armories  are  full ; 

Our  forts  defy  assaults;  ten  thousand  cannon 

Lie  ranged  upon  the  beach,  and  hour  by  hour 

Their  earth-convulsing  wheels- affright  the  city; 

The  galloping  of  fiery  steeds  makes  pale 

The  Christian  merchant,  and  the  yellow  Jew 

Hides  his  hoard  deeper  in  the  faithless  earth. 

Like  clouds,  and  like  the  shadows  of  the  clouds 

Over  the  hills  of  Anatolia, 

Swift  in  wide  troops  the  Tartar  chivalry 

Sweep ; — the  far-flashing  of  their  starry  lances 

Reverberates  the  dying  light  of  day. 

We  have  one  God,  one  King,  one  Hope,  one;  Law 

But  many-headed  Insurrection  stands 

Divided  in  itself,  and  soon  must  fall. 


Proud  words,  when  deeds  come  short,  are  seasonable 
Look,  Hassan,  on  yon  crescent  moon,  emblazon'd 
Upon  that  shatter'd  flag  of  fiery  cloud 
Which  leads  the  rear  of  the  departing  day, 
Wan  emblem  of  an  empire  fading  now ! 
See  how  it  trembles  in  the  blood-red  air. 
And  like  a  mighty  lamp  whose  oil  is  spent. 
Shrinks  on  the  horizon's  edge,  while,  from  above. 
One  star  with  insolent  and  victorious  light 
Hovers  above  its  fall,  and  with  keen  beams, 
Like  arrows  through  a  fainting  antelope, 
Strikes  its  weak  form  to  death. 


Renews  itself— 


Even  as  that  moon 


MAHMUD. 

Shall  we  be  not  renew'd ' 
Far  other  bark  than  ours  were  needed  now 
To  stem  the  torrent  of  descending  time  : 
The  spirit  that  lifts  the  slave  before  its  lord 
Stalks  through  the  capitals  of  armed  kings, 
And  spreads  his  ensign  in  the  wilderness; 
Exults  in  chains  ;  and  when  the  rebel  falls, 
Cries  like  the  blood  of  Abel  from  the  dust; 
422 


HELLAS. 


175 


And  the  inheritors  of  earth,  like  beasts 
When  earthquaive  is  unleash'd,  with  idiot  fear 
Cower  in  their  kingly  dens — as  I  do  now. 
i  Wliat  were  Defeat,  when  Vicloiy  must  appal  ? 
Or  Danger,  when  Security  looks  jiale  ? 
How  said  tlie  messenger — who  from  the  fort 
Ishnded  in  the  Danube,  saw  the  battle 
Of  Bucharest? — that — 

HASSAN. 

Ibrahim's  scimitar 
Drew  with  its  gleam  swift  victory  from  heaven, 
To  burn  before  him  in  the  night  of  battle — 
A  Ught  and  a  destruction. 

MAHMUD. 

Ay !  the  day 
Was  ours  ;  but  how  ? — 

HASSAN. 

The  light  Wallacliians, 
The  Amaut,  Servian,  and  Albanian  alhes, 
Fled  from  the  glance  of  our  artillery 
Almost  before  the  thunder-stone  alit ; 
One-half  the  Grecian  army  made  a  bridge 
Of  safe  and  slow  retreat,  with  Moslem  dead ; 
The  other — 

MAHMUD. 

Speak — tremble  not — 

HASSAN. 

Islanded 
By  victor  myriads,  form'd  in  hollow  square 
With  rough  and  stedfast  front,  and  thrice  flung  back 
The  deluge  of  our  foaming  cavalry  ; 
Thrice  their  keen  wedge  of  battle  pierced  our  lines 
Our  baffled  army  trembled  lLl\e  one  man 
Before  a  host,  and  gave  them  space ;  but  soon. 
From  the  surrounding  hills,  the  batteries  blazed, 
Rneading  them  down  with  fire  and  iron  rain. 
Yet  none  approach'd ;  till,  like  a  field  of  com 
Under  the  hook  of  the  swart  sickle-man. 
The  bands  inlrench'd  in  mounds  of  Turkish  dead 
Grew  weak  and  few — Then  said  the  Pacha,  "  Slaves, 
Render  yourselves  I — They  have  abandon'd  you — 
What  hope  of  refuge,  or  retreat,  or  aid  ? 
We  grant  your  lives." — "  Grant  that  which  is  thine 

own," 
Cried  one,  and  fell  upon  his  sword  and  died ! 
Another — "(lod,  and  man,  and  liope  abandon  me; 
But  I  to  them  and  to  myself  remain 
Constant ;" — he  bow'd  his  head,  and  his  heart  burst. 
A  third  excJaim'd,  "  There  is  a  refuge,  tyrant. 
Where  thou  darest  not  pursue,  and  canst  not  harm, 
Shoiddst  thou  pursue;  there  we  shall  meet  again." 
Then  held  his  breath,  and,  afier  a  l)rief  spasm, 
The  indignant  spirit  cast  iis  mortal  garment 
Among  the  slain — dead  earth  upon  the  earth! 
So  these  survivors,  each  by  different  ways. 
Some  strange,  all  sudden,  none  dishonorable, 
Met  in  triumphant  death;  and  when  our  army. 
Closed  in,  while  yet  in  wonder,  and  awe,  and  shame, 
Held  back  the  base  hyenas  of  the  battle 
That  feed  upon  the  dead  and  fly  the  living. 
One  rose  out  of  iho  chaos  of  the  slain ; 
And  if  it  were  a  corpse  vvhidi  some  dead  spirit 
Of  the  old  saviors  of  the  land  we  rule 
Had  lifted  in  its  anger,  wandering  by; 
Of  if  there  burri'd  within  the  dying  man 
Unquenchable  disdain  of  death,  and  faith 
Creating  what  it  feign'd ; — I  cannot  tell. 


But  he  cried,  "  Phantoms  of  the  free,  we  come ! 

Anmes  of  the  Eternal,  ye  who  strike 

To  dust  the  citadels  of  sanguine  kings. 

And  shake  the  souls  throned  on  their  stony  hearts, 

And  thaw  their  frost-work  diadems  like  dew! — 

O  ye  wlio  float  around  this  clime,  and  weave 

The  garment  of  the  glory  whicii  it  wears. 

Whose  fame,  though  earth  betray  the  dust  it  clasp'd 

Lies  sepulchred  in  moninncnlal  though' ! 

Progenitors  of  ail  that  yet  is  great. 

Ascribe  to  your  bright  senate,  O  accept 

In  your  higli  ministrations,  us,  your  sons — 

Us  first,  and  the  fnore  glorious  yet  to  come ! 

And  ye,  weak  conquerors !   giants  v^ho  look  pale 

Wlien  the  crush'd  woini  rebels  beneath  your  tread-  ■ 

The  vultures,  and  the  dogs,  your  pensioners  tame. 

Are  overgorged  ;  but,  like  oppressors,  slill 

They  crave  the  relic  of  destruction's  feast. 

The  exhalations  and  the  thirsty  winds 

Are  sick  with  blood  ;  the  dew  is  foul  with  death — 

Heaven's   light   is   quench'd   in   slaughter:    Thus 

where'er 
Uf)on  your  camps,  cities,  or  towers,  or  fleets. 
The  obscene  birds  the  reeking  remnants  cast 
Of  these  dead  limbs  upon  your  streams  and  mountains, 
Upon  your  fields,  your  gardens,  and  your  house-tops 
Where'er  the  viinds  shall  creep,  or  the  clouds  fly, 
Or  the  dews  fall,  or  the  angry  sun  look  down 
With  poison'd  light — Famine,  and  Pestilence, 
And  Panic,  shall  wage  war  upon  our  side  ! 
Nature  from  all  her  boundaries  is  moved 
Against  ye :  Time  has  found  ye  light  as  foam. 
The  Earth  rebels ;  and  Good  and  Evil  stake 
Their  empire  o'er  the  unborn  world  of  men 
On  this  one  cast — but  ere  the  die  be  thrown, 
The  renovated  genius  of  our  race. 
Proud  umpire  of  this  impious  game,  descends 
A  seraph-winged  Victory,  bestriding 
The  tempest  of  the  Omnipotence  of  God, 
Which  sweeps  all  things  to  their  appointed  doom, 
And  you  to  Oblivion  ! " — More  he  would  have  saidc 
But— 

MAHMUD. 

Died — as  thou  shouldst  ere  thy  lips  had  painted 
Their  ruin  in  the  hues  of  our  success. 
A  rebel's  crime,  gilt  with  a  rebel's  tongue  I 
Your  heart  is  Greek,  Hassan. 

HASSAN. 

It  may  be  so  : 
A  spirit  not  my  own  wrench'd  me  within, 
And  I  have  spoken  words  I  fear  and  hale ; 
Yet  would  I  die  for — 

MAHMUD. 

Live  !  O  live  !  outlive 
Me  and  this  siiddng  empire: — but  the  fleet — 


HASSAN. 


Alas! 


MAHMUD. 

The  fleet  which,  like  a  flock  of  clouds 
Chased  by  the  wind,  llies  the  insurgent  banner ; 
Our  winged  castles  from  tlieir  merchant  ships! 
Our  myriads  before  their  weak  pirate  bands ! 
Our  arms  before  their  chains !    Our  years  of  empire 
Before  their  centuries  of  servile  fear! 
Death  is  awake !    Repulsed  on  the  waters, 
They  ovvTi  no  more  the  thunder-bearing  banner 
423 


176 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS, 


Of  Mahmud ;  but  like  hounds  of  a  base  breed, 
Gorge  from  a  stranger's  hand,  and  rend  their  master. 

HASSAN. 

Latmos,  and  Ampelos,  and  Phanae,  saw 
The  wreck — 

MAHMUD. 

The  caves  of  the  Icarian  isles 
Howl  each  to  the  other  in  loud  mockery, 
And  with  the  tongue  as  of  a  thousand  echoes 
First  of  the  sea-convulsing  fight — and  then — 
Thou  darest  to  speak — senseless  are  the  mountains ; 
Interpret  thou  their  voice ! 

HASSAN. 

My  presence  bore 
A  part  in  that  day's  shame.    The  Grecian  fleet 
Bore  down  at  day-break  from  the  North,  and  hung, 
As  multitudinous  on  the  ocean  line 
As  cranes  upon  the  cloudless  Thracian  wind. 
Our  squadron,  convoying  ten  thousand  men, 
Was  stretching  towards  Nauplia  when  the  battle 
Was  kindled. — 

First  through  the  hail  of  our  artillery 
The  agile  Hydriote  barks  with  press  of  sail 
Dash'd : — ship  to  ship,  cannon  to  cannon,  man 
To  man  were  grappled  in  the  embrace  of  wac 
Inextricable  but  by  death  or  victory. 
The  tempest  of  the  raging  fight  convulsed 
To  its  crystalline  depths  that  stainless  sea. 
And  shook  heaven's  roof  of  golden  morning  clouds 
Poised  on  an  hundred  azure  mountain-isles. 
In  the  brief  trances  of  the  artillery. 
One  cry  from  the  destroy'd  and  the  destroyer 
Rose,  and  a  cloud  of  desolation  wrapt 
The  unforeseen  event,  till  the  north  wind 
Sprung  from  the  sea,  lifting  the  heavy  veil 
Of  battle-smoke — then  victory — victory! 
For,  as  we  thought,  three  frigates  from  Algiers 
Bore  down  from  Naxos  to  our  aid,  but  soon 
The  abhorred  cross  glimmer'd  behind,  before. 
Among,  aroimd  us ;  and  that  fatal  sign 
Dried  with  its  beams  the  strength  of  Moslem  hearts. 
As  the  sun  drinks  the  dew. — What  more  ?  We  fled ! 
Our  noonday  path  over  the  sanguine  foam 
Was  beacon'd,  and  the  glare  struck  the  sun  pale 
By  our  consuming  transports :  the  fierce  light 
Made  all  the  shadows  of  our  sails  blood-red. 
And  every  countenance  blank.  Some  ships  lay  feeding 
The  ravening  fire  even  to  ihe  water's  level : 
Some  were  blown  up ;  some,  settling  heavily. 
Sunk ;  and  the  shrieks  of  our  companions  died 
Upon  the  wind,  that  bore  us  fast  and  far. 
Even  after  they  were  dead.  Nine  thousand  perish'd! 
We  met  the  vultures  legion'd  in  the  air. 
Stemming  the  torrent  of  the  tainted  wind : 
They,  screaming  from  the  cloudy  mountain  peak 
Stoop'd  through  the  sulphurous    battle-smoke,    and 

perch'd 
Each  on  the  weltering  carcass  that  we  loved, 
Like  its  ill  angel  or  its  damned  soul. 
Riding  upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 
We  saw  the  dog-fish  hastening  to  their  feast 
Joy  waked  the  voiceless  people  of  the  sea, 
And  ravening  famine  left  his  ocean-cave 
To  dwell  with  war,  with  us,  and  with  despair. 
We  met  night  three  hours  to  the  west  of  Patmos, 
And  with  night,  tempest — 


MAHMUD. 

Cease ! 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

MESSENGER. 

Your  Sublime  Highness, 
That  Christian  hound,  the  Muscovite  ambassador. 
Has  left  the  city.    If  the  rebel  fleet 
Had  anchor'd  in  the  port,  had  victory 
Crown'd  the  Greek  legions  in  the  hippodrome. 
Panic  were  tamer. — Obedience  and  mutiny, 
Like  giants  in  contention  planet-struck 
Stand  gazing  on  each  other.    There  is  peace 
In  Stamboul. — 

MAHMUD. 

Is  the  grave  not  calmer  still  ? 
Its  ruins  shall  be  mine. 

HASSAN.  ~       ' 

Fear  not  the  Russian ; 
The  tiger  leagues  not  with  the  stag  at  bay 
Against  the  hunter. — Cunning,  base,  and  cruel. 
He  crouches,  watching  till  the  spoil  be  won. 
And  must  be  paid  for  his  reserve  in  blood. 
After  the  war  is  fought,  yield  the  sleek  Russian 
That  which  thou  canst  not  keep,  his  deserved  portion 
Of  blood,  which  shall  not  flow  through  streets  and  fields 
Rivers  and  seas,  hke  that  which  we  may  win. 
But  stagnate  in  the  veins  of  Christian  slaves ! 

Enter  Second  Messenger. 

SECOND  messenger. 

Nauplia,  Tripolizzi,  Mothon,  Athens, 

Navarin,  Artas,  Mowenbasia, 

Corinth  and  Thebes  are  carried  by  assault  ; 

And  every  Islamite  who  made  his  dogs 

Fat  with  the  flesh  of  Galilean  slaves, 

Pass'd  at  the  edge  of  the  sword :  the  lust  of  blood 

Which  made  our  warriors  drunk,  is  quench'd  in  death, 

But  like  a  fiery  plague  breaks  out  anew. 

In  deeds  which  make  the  Christian  cause  look  jXilo 

In  its  own  light.    The  garrison  of  Patras 

Has  store  but  for  ten  days,  nor  is  there  hope 

But  from  the  Briton :  at  once  slave  and  tyratit. 

His  wishes  still  are  weaker  than  his  fears ; 

Or  he  would  sell  what  faith  may  yet  remain 

From  the  oaths  broke  in  Genoa  and  in  Not  vuy  : 

And  if  you  buy  him  not,  your  treasury 

Is  empty  even  of  promises — his  own  coin. 

The  freedman  of  a  western  poet  chief* 

Holds  Attica  with  seven  thousand  rebels, 

And  has  beat  back  the  Pacha  of  Negropont , 

The  aged  AH  sits  in  Yanina, 

A  crownless  metaphor  of  empire  ; 

His  name,  that  shadow  of  his  wither'd  rright, 

Holds  our  besieging  army  like  a  sp'jll 

In  prey  to  famine,  pest,  and  mutiny : 

He,  bastion'd  in  his  citadel,  looks  forth 

Joyless  upon  the  sapphire  lake  th-it  mirrors 

The  ruins  of  the  city  where  he  leign'd 

Childless  and  sceptreless.    Tfie  Greek  has  reap'd 

The  costly  harvest  his  own  bio  td  matured. 


\ 


*  A  Greek  who  had  been  Lord  Byion'a  servant  commanded 
the  insurgents  in  Attica.  This  Greek,  Lord  Byron  informs  me, 
though  a  poet  and  an  enthusiastic  patriot,  gave  him  rather  thu 
idea  of  a  timid  and  unenterprising  person.  It  appears  that  cir- 
cumstances make  men  what  they  are,  and  that  we  all  contain 
the  germ  of  a  degree  of  degradation  or  of  greatness,  whose 
connexion  with  our  character  is  determined  by  events. 
424 


i 


HELLAS. 


177 


Not  the  sower,  Ali — who  has  bougiit  a  truce 
From  Ypsilauli  with  ten  camel-loads 
Of  Indian  gold. 

Enter  a  Third  Messenger. 

MAHMUD. 

What  more  ? 

THIRD  MESSENGER. 

The  Christian  tribes 
Of  Lebanon  and  the  Syrian  wilderness 
Are  in  revolt ; — Damascus,  Hems,  Aleppo, 
Tremble  ; — the  Arab  menaces  Medina  ; 
The  Elhiop  has  intreneh'd  himself  in  Sennaar, 
And  keeps  the  Egyptian  rebel  well  employ 'd  : 
Who  denies  homage,  claims  investiture 
As  price  of  tardy  aid.     Persia  demands 
The  cities  on  the  Tigris,  and  the  Georgians 
Refuse  their  living  tribute.     Crete  and  Cyprus, 
Like  mountain-twins  that  from  each  other's  veins 
Catch  the  volcano-fire  and  earthquake  spasm. 
Shake  m  the  general  fever.     Through  the  city, 
Like  birds  beibre  a  storm  the  santons  shriek, 
And  prophecyings  horrible  and  new 
Are  heard  among  the  crowd  ,■  that  sea  of  men 
Sleeps  on  the  wrecks  it  made,  breathless  and  still. 
A  Devise,  learn'd  in  the  koran,  preaches 
That  it  is  written  how  the  sins  of  Islam 
Must  raise  up  a  destroyer  even  now. 
The  Greeks  expect  a  Savior  from  the  west,* 
Who  shall  not  come,  men  say,  in  clouds  and  glory, 
But  in  the  omnipresence  of  that  spirit 
In  which  all  live  and  are.     Ominous  signs 
Are  blazon 'd  broadly  on  the  noonday  sky  ; 
One  saw  a  red  cross  stamp'd  upon  the  sun  ; 
It  has  rain'd  blood  ;  and  monstrous  births  declare 
The  secret  wrath  of  Nature  and  her  Lord. 
The  army  encamp'd  upon  the  Cydaris 
Was  roused  last  night  by  the  alarm  of  battle, 
And  saw  two  hosts  conflicting  in  the  air, — 
The  shadows  doubtless  of  the  unborn  time, 
Cast  on  the  mirror  of  the  night.     While  yet 
The  fight  hung  balanced,  there  arose  a  storm 
Which  swept  the  phantoms  from  among  the  stars. 
At  the  third  watch  the  spirit  of  the  plague 
Was  heard  abroad  flapping  among  the  tents : 
Those  who  relieved  watch  found  the  sentinels  dead. 
The  last  news  from  the  camp  is,  that  a  thousand 
Have  sicken'd,  and — 

Enter  a  Fourth  Messenger. 

MAH-MUD. 

And  thou,  pale  ghost,  dim  shadow 
Of  some  untimely  rumor,  speak  I 

FOURTH  MESSENGER. 

One  comes 
Fainting  with  toil,  cover'd  with  foam  and  blood; 
He  stood,  he  says,  upon  Clelonites' 
Promontorj',  which  o'erlooks  the  isles  that  groan 
Under  the  Briton's  frown,  and  all  their  waters 
Then  trembling  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon. 
When  as  the  wandering  clouds  unveil'd  or  hid 
Her  boundless  light,  he  saw  two  adverse  fleets 
Stalk  through  the  night  in  the  horizon's  glimmer, 


♦  It  13  reported  that  this  Messiah  had  arrived  at  a  sea- 
port near  Lacedamon  in  an  American  (trig.  Tlie  asso- 
ciation of  names  and  ideas  is  irresistibly  ludicrous,  but 
the  prevalence  of  such  a  rumor  strongly  marks  the  state 
of  popular  enthusiasm  in  Greece. 
3D 


Mingling  fierce  thunders  and  sulphureous  gleams. 
And  smoke  which  strangled  every  iiilant  wind 
That  soothed  the  silver  clouds  through  the  deep  air. 
At  length  the  battle  slept,  but  the  Sirocco 
Awoke,  and  drove  his  flock  of  thunder-clouds 
Over  the  sea-hori/on,  blotting  out 
All  objects — save  that  in  the  faint  mcxm-glimpse 
He  saw,  or  dream'd  he  saw  the  Turkish  admiral 
And  two  the  loftiest  of  our  ships  of  war. 
With  the  bright  image  of  the  queen  of  heaven, 
Who  hid,  perhaps,  her  face  for  grief,  reversed ; 
And  the  abhorred  cross — 

Enter  an  Attendant. 


The  Jew,  who- 


attendant. 

Your  Sublime  Highness, 


MAHMUp. 

Could  not  come  more  seasonably: 
Bid  him  attend.  I  '11  hear  no  more  !  too  long 
We  gaze  on  danger  through  the  mist  of  fear. 
And  multiply  upon  our  shatter'd  hopes 
The  images  of  ruin.     Come  what  will ! 
To-morrow  and  to-morrow  are  as  lamps 
Set  in  our  path  to  light  us  to  the  edge 
Through  rough  and  smooth  ;  nor  can  we  suffer  aught 
Which  he  inflicts  not  in  whose  hand  we  are.   [Exeunt 

SEMICHORUS  I. 

Would  I  were  the  winged  cloud 
Of  a  tempest  swift  and  loud ! 

I  would  scorn 

The  smile  of  morn 
And  the  wave  where  the  moon-rise  is  born ! 

I  would  leave 

The  spirits  of  eve 
A  shroud  for  the  corpse  of  the  day  to  weave 
From  others'  threads  than  mine  ! 
Bask  in  the  blue  noon  divine 

Who  would,  not  I. 

SEMICHORUS  II. 

Whither  to  fly  ? 

SEMICHORUS  I. 

Where  the  rocks  that  gird  the  .(Egean 
Echo  to  the  battle  psean 

Of  the  free — 

I  would  flee 
A  tempestuous  herald  of  victory  ! 

My  golden  rain 

For  the  Grecian  slain 
Should  mingle  in  tears  with  the  bloody  main ; 
And  my  solemn  thunder-knell 
Should  ring  to  the  world  the  passing-bell 

Of  tyranny  ! 

SEMICHORUS  II. 

Ah  king!  wilt  thou  chain 
The  rack  and  the  rain  ? 
Wilt  thou  fetter  the  lightnmg  and  hurricane  ? 
The  storms  are  free. 

But  we 

CHORUS.  ' 

O  Slavery!   thou  frost  of  the  world's  prime. 

Killing  its  flowers  and  leaving  its  thorns  bare 
Thy  touch  has  stamp'd  these  limbs  with  crime, 
These  brows  thy  branding  garland  bear ; 
But  the  free  heart,  the  impassive  soul. 
Scorn  thy  control  I 

425 


178 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


SEMICHORUS  I. 

Let  there  be  light !  said  Liberty  ; 
And  like  sunrise  from  the  sea, 
Athens  arose  ! — Around  her  bom. 
Shone,  like  mountains  in  the  morn, 
Glorious  states ; — and  are  they  now 
Ashes,  wrecks,  oblivion  ? 

SEMICHORUS  II. 

Go 
Where  Thermae  and  Asopus  swallow'd 

Persia,  as  the  sand  does  foam, 
Deluge  upon  deluge  follovv'd, 

Discord,  Macedon,  and  Rome :    . 
And,  lastly,  thou ! 

SEMICHORUS  I. 

Temples  and  towers, 
Citadels  and  marts,  and  they 

Who  live  and  die  there,  have  been  ours, 
And  may  be  thine,  and  must  decay  ; 

But  Greece  and  her  foundations  are 

Built  below  the  tide  of  war. 

Based  on  the  crystalline  sea 

Of  thought  and  its  eternity  ; 
Iler  citizens'  imperial  spirits 

Rule  the  present  from  the  past ; 
On  all  this  world  of  men  inherits 

Their  seal  is  set. 

SEMICHORUS  II. 

Hear  ye  the  blast, 
Whose  Orphic  thunder  thrilling  calls 
From  ruin  her  Titanian  walls  ? 
Whose  spirit  shakes  the  sapless  bones 

Of  Slavery  ?  Argos,  Corinth,  Crete, 
Hear,  and  from  their  mountain  thrones 

The  demons  and  the  nymphs  repeat 
The  harmony. 

SEMICHORUS  I. 

I  hear  !  I  hear ! 

SEMICHORUS  II. 

The  world's  eyeless  charioteer. 

Destiny,  is  hurrying  by  ! 
What  faith  is  crush'd,  what  empire  bleeds 
Beneath  her  earlhquake-footed  steeds  ? 
What  eagle-winged  victory  sits 
At  her  right  hand  ?  what  shadow  flits 
Before  ?  what  splendor  rolls  behind  ? 

Ruin  and  Renovation  cry, 
Who  but  we  ? 

SEMICHORUS  I. 

I  hear !  I  hear ! 
The  hiss  as  of  a  rushing  wind, 
The  roar  as  of  an  ocean  foaming. 
The  thunder  as  of  earthquake  coming, 

1  hear  !  I  hear  ! 
The  crash  as  of  an  empire  falling. 
The  shrieks  as  of  a  people  calling 
Mercy !  Mercy ! — How  they  thrill ! 
Then  a  shout  of  "  Kill !  kill !  kill ! " 
And  then  a  small  still  voice,  thus — 


SEMICHORUS  II. 


For 


Revenge  and  wrong  bring  forth  their  kind, 
The  foul  cubs  like  their  parents  are, 

Their  den  is  in  their  guilty  mind, 

And  Conscience  feeds  them  with  despair. 


SEMICHORUS  I. 

In  sacred  Athens,  near  the  fane 

Of  Wisdom,  Pity's  altar  stood  ; 
Serve  not  the  unknov\n  God  in  vain, 
But  pay  that  broken  shrine  again 

Love  for  hale,  and  teare  for  blood. 

Enter  Mahmud  and  Ahasuerus. 

M  AH. MUD. 

Tliou  art  a  man,  thou  sagest,  even  as  we — 

ahasuerus. 
No  more ! 

MAHMUD. 

But  raised  above  thy  fellow-men 
By  thought,  as  I  by  power. 

AHASUERUS. 

Thou  sayesi  so. 

MAHMUD. 

Thou  art  an  adept  in  the  difficult  lore 

Of  Greek  and  Frank  philosophy ;  thou  numberest 

The  flowers,  and  thou  measurest  the  stars ; 

Thou  severest  element  from  element; 

Thy  spirit  is  present  in  the  past,  and  sees 

The  birth  of  this  old  world  through  all  its  cycles 

Of  desolation  and  of  loveliness ; 

And  when  man  was  not,  and  how  man  became 

The  monarch  and  the  slave  of  this  low  sphere. 

And  all  its  narrow  circlas — it  is  flifloh. 

I  honor  thee,  and  would  be  what  thou  art 

Were  I  not  what  I  am  ;  but  the  unborn  hour. 

Cradled  in  fear  and  hope,  conflicting  storms. 

Who  shall  unveil  ?  Nor  thou,  nor  I,  nor  any 

Mighty  or  wise.     I  apprehend  not 

What  thou  hast  taught  me,  but  I  now  perceive 

That  thou  art  no  interpreter  of  dreams , 

Thou  dost  not  own  that  art,  device,  or  God, 

Can  make  the  future  present — let  it  come! 

Moreover,  thou  disdainest  us  and  ours  ; 

Thou  art  as  God,  whom  thou  conteniplatest. 

AHASUERUS. 

Disdain  thee  ? — not  the  worm  beneath  my  feet ! 

The  Fathomless  has  care  for  meaner  things 

Than  thou  canst  dream,  and    has  made    pride  for 

those 
Who  would  be  what  they  may  not,  or  would  seem 
That  which  they  are  not.     Sultan  I  talk  no  more 
Of  thee  and  me,  the  future  and  the  past; 
But  look  on  that  which  cannot  change^lhe  one 
The  unborn,  and  undying.     Earth  and  ocean, 
Space,  and  the  isles  of  life  or  light  tJiat  gem 
The  sapphire  floods  of  interstellar  air. 
This  firmament  pavilion'd  upon  chaos, 
With  all  its  cressets  of  immortal  fire. 
Whose  oiitwalls,  bastion'd  irapregnably 
Against  the  escape  of  boldest  thoughts,  repels  them 
As  Calpe  the  Atlantic  clouds — this  whole 
Of  suns,  and  worlds,  and  men,  and  beasts,  and  flowers 
With  all  the  silent  cr  tempestuous  workings 
By  which  tliey  have  been,  are,  or  cease  to  be. 
Is  but  a  vision ; — all  that  it  inherits 
Are  motes  of  a  sick  eye,  bubbles  and  dreams ; 
Thought  is  its  cradle  and  its  grave,  nor  less 
The  future  and  the  past  are  idle  shadows 
Of  thought's  eternal  flight — they  have  no  being; 
Naught  is  but  that  it  feels  itself  to  be. 

.MAHMUD. 

^Vhat  meanest  thou  ?  thy  words  stream  like  a  tempest 
Of  dazzling  mist  within  my  brain — they  shake 
426 


HELLAS. 


179 


The  earth  on  which  I  stantl,  and  hang  like  night 
On  Heaven  alxne  me.    What  can  they  avail  1 
They  cast  on  all  things,  surest,  brightest,  best, 
Doubt,  insecurily,  astonishment. 

AIIASUERUS. 

Mistake  me  not !  All  is  contain'il  in  each, 
Dodona's  lorest  to  an  acorn's  cup, 
Is  that  which  has  been  or  will  be,  to  that 
Which  is — the  absent  to  the  present.    Thonght 
Alone,  and  its  qnick  elements,  Will,  Passion, 
Reason,  Imagination,  caiuiot  die  ; 
They  are  what  that  which  lliey  regard  appears, 
The  stuff  whence  mutability  can  weave 
All  tliat  It  hath  dominion  o'er, — worlds,  worms. 
Empires,  and  superstitions.    What  has  thought 
To  do  with  time,  or  place,  or  circumstance  ? 
Wouldst  thou  behold  the  future? — ask  and  have! 
■  Knock  and  it  shall  be  open"d — look,  and  lo! 
The  coming  age  is  shadow'd  on  the  past 
As  on  a  glass. 

MAHMUD. 

Wild,  wilder  thoughts  convulse 
INIy  spirit — Did  not  Mahomet  the  Second 
Win  Stamboul  ? 

AHASUEEUS. 

Tliou  wouldst  ask  that  giant  spirit 
The  written  fortunes  of  thy  house  and  faith. 
ITiou  wouldst  cite  one  out  of  the  grave  to  tell 
How  what  was  born  in  blood  must  die. 


Have  power  on  me !  I  see- 


Thy  words 


AHASUEUU-:. 

What  hearest  thou  ? 


A  far  whisper 

Terrible  silence. 

AIIASUEnuS. 

What  succeeds  ? 

MAHMUD. 

The  sound 
As  of  the  asault  of  an  imperial  city, 
Tlie  hiss  of  inextinguishable  fire. 
The  roar  of  giant  cannon  ; — the  earthquaking 
Fall  of  vast  bastions  and  precipitous  towers, 
The  shock  of  crags  shot  from  strange  enginery. 
The  clash  of  wheels,  and  clang  of  armed  hoofs, 
And  crash  of  brazen  mail,  as  of  the  wreck 
Of  adamantine  mountains — the  mad  blast 
Of  trumpets,  and  the  neigh  of  raging  steeds. 
And  shrieks  of  women  w  hose  thrill  jars  the  blood, 
And  one  sweet  laugh,  most  horrible  to  hear, 
As  of  a  joyous  infant  waked  and  playing 
With  its<Jead  motlier's  breast;  and  now  more  loud 


•  For  the  vision  ofMahmud  of  the  taking  of  Constantinople 
in  1445.  see  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Human  Empire, 
vol.  xii.  p.  323. 

The  manner  of  the  invocation  of  the  spirit  of  Mahomet  the 
Second  will  be  censured  as  overdrawn.  I  could  easily  have 
made  the  .lew  a  resular  conjuror,  and  the  pbiuitoin  Bn  ordinary 

host.  1  have  preferred  to  represent  the  Jew  as  disclaimins  all 
pretension,  or  even  belief,  in  supernatural  ai-'ency,  and  as 
temptin?  Mahraud  to  that  state  of  mind  in  which  ideas  maybe 
supposed  to  assume  the  force  of  sensations,  through  the  con- 
fusion of  thought  wiih  the  objects  of  thought,  and  the  excess 
of  passion  animnlinir  the  creations  of  imagination. 

It  is  a  sort  of  nat-.iral  magic,  susceptible  of  bein?  exercised  in 
a  degree  by  any  one  who  should  have  made  himself  master  of 
the  secret  associations  uf  another's  thoughts. 


The  mingled  battle-cry — ha  !  hear  I  not 
Ev  tovtZ  VIK7,.    Allah,  Illah,  Allah! 

AIIASUERt:S. 

The  sulphurous  mist  is  raised — thou  see'st — 

MA  II. MID. 

A  chasm 

As  of  two  mountains,  in  llie  wall  of  Stamboul , 

And  in  that  ghastly  brcacli  the  Islamites, 

Like  giants  on  the  ruins  ol'  a  world. 

Stand  in  the  light  of  sunrise.    In  the  dust 

Glimmere  a  kingless  diadem,  and  one 

Of  regal  port  has  cast  himself  beneath 

The  stream  of  war.    .Vnoiher,  proudly  clad 

In  golden  arms,  spurs  a  Tartarian  barb 

Into  the  gap,  and  with  his  iron  mace 

Directs  the  torrent  of  ihat  tide  of  men, 

And  seems — he  is — Mahomet. 

AHASUEra'S. 

What  thou  seest 
Is  but  the  ghost  of  thy  forgotten  dream  ; 
A.  drearn  itself,  yet  less,  perhaps,  than  Ihat 
Thou  call'st  reality.    Thou  mayst  behold 
How  cities,  on  which  empire  sleeps  enthroned, 
Bow  their  tower'd  cresls  to  mutability. 
Poised  by  the  flood,  e'en  on  llie  height  thou  boldest 
Thou  mayst  now  learn  how  the  lull  tide  of  power 
Ebbs  to  its  depths. — Inheritor  of  gloiy. 
Conceived  in  darkness,  born  in  blood,  and  nouri.sh'd 
With  fears  and  toil,  thou  seest  the  mortal  throes 
Of  that  whose  birth  was  but  the  same.    The  Past 
Now  stands  before  thee  like  an  Incarnation 
Of  the  To-come  ;  yet  wouldst  thou  commune  with 
That  portion  of  thyself  which  was  ere  thou 
Didst  start  for  this  brief  race  whose  crown  is  death, 
Dissolve  with  that  strong  faith  and  fervent  passion 
Which  call'd  it  from  the  uncreated  deep. 
Yon  cloud  of  war,  with  its  tempestuous  phantoms 
Of  raging  death ;  and  draw  wilh  mighty  will 
The  imperial  shade  hither.  [Exit  Ahasueri;s. 

MAII.MUr). 

A  pproach ! 

rllA  NTO.M. 

I  come 
Thence  whither  thou  mu.^t  go!  The  grave  is  filter 
To  take  the  living,  than  give  up  the  dead  ; 
Yet  has  thy  faith  prevail'd,  and  I  am  here. 
The  heavy  fragments  of  the  jTowcr  which  fell 
When  I  arose,  like  shapeless  crags  and  clouds, 
Hang  round  my  throne  on  the  abyss,  and  voices 
Of  strange  lament  soothe  my  supreme  repose, 
Wailing  for  glory  never  to  relurn. — 
A  later  empire  nods  in  its  decay; 
The  autumn  of  a  greener  (iiitli  is  come. 
And  wolfish  change,  like  winter,  howls  to  strip 
The  foliage  in  which  Pame,  the  eagle,  br.ilt 
Her  aery,  while  Dominion  whelp'd  below. 
The  storin  is  in  its  branches,  and  the  frost 
Is  on  its  leaves,  and  the  blank  deep  expects 
Oblivion  on  oblivion,  spoil  on  spoil. 
Ruin  on  ruin  :  thou  art  slow,  my  son ; 
The  anarchs  of  the  world  of  darkness  keep 
A  throne  for  thee,  round  wjiich  thine  empire  lies 
Boundless  and  mute;  and  for  thy  sulyects  liiou, 
Like  u.s,  shall  rul^  the  ghosts  of  murder'd  life. 
The  phantoms  of  the  powers  who  rule  thee  now — 
Mutinous  passions,  and  conllictLntr  fears, 
^427 


180 


SHELLE\'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  hopes  that  sate  themselves  on  dust  and  die ! 
Stript  of  their  mortal  strength,  as  thou  of  thine. 
Islam  must  fall,  but  we  will  reign  together, 
Over  its  ruins  in  the  world  of  death : — 
And  if  the  trunk  be  dry,  yet  shall  the  seed 
Unfold  itself  even  in  the  shape  of  that 
Which  gathers  birth  in  its  decay.    Woe  !  woe  ! 
To  the  weak  people  tangled  in  tl  e  grasp 
Of  its  last  spasms. 

MAHMUD. 

Spirit,  woe  to  all ! 
Woe  to  the  wrong'd  and  tlie  avenger!  Woe 
To  the  destroyer,  woe  to  the  destroy'd  ! 
Woe  to  the  dupe,  and  woe  to  the  deceiver ! 
Woe  to  the  oppress'd,  and  woe  to  the  oppressor! 
Woe  both  to  those  that  suffer  and  inflict ; 
Those  who  are  born,  and  those  who  die  !  But  say, 
Imperial  shadow  of  the  thing  I  am 
When,  how,  by  whom,  Destri.ction  must  accomplish 
Her  consummation  ? 

PHANTOM. 

Ask  the  cold  pale  Hour, 
Rich  in  reversion  of  impending  death. 
When  he  shall  fall  upon  whose  ripe  gray  hairs 
Sit  care,  and  sorrow,  and  infirmity— 
The  weight  which  crime,  whose  wings  are  plumed 

with  years. 
Leaves  in  his  flight  from  ravaged  heart  to  heart 
Over  the  heads  of  men,  under  which  burthen 
They  bow  themselves  unto  the  grave  :  fond  wretch  ! 
He  leans  upon  his  crutch,  and  tallis  of  years 
To  come,  and  how  in  hours  of  youth  renew'd 
He  will  renew  lost  joys,  and 

VOICE    WITHOUT. 

Victory !  victory ! 
\The  phantom  vanishes. 

MAIIMUD. 

What  sound  of  the  importunate  earth  has  broken 
My  mighty  trance  ? 

VOICE    WITHOUT. 

Victory!  victory! 

MAHMUD. 

Weak  lightning  before  darkness !  poor  faint  smile 
Of  dying  Islam  !  Voice  which  art  the  response 
Of  hollow  weakness  !  Do  I  wake  and  live  ? 
Were  there  such  things  ?  or  may  the  unquiet  brain, 
Vex'd  by  the  wise  mad  talk  of  the  old  Jew, 
Have  shaped  itself  these  shadows  of  its  fear  ? 
It  matters  not ! — for  naught  we  see  or  dream. 
Possess,  or  lose,  or  grasp  at,  can  be  worth 
More  than  it  gives  or  teaches.    Come  what  may, 
The  future  must  become  the  past,  and  I 
As  they  were  to  whom  once  this  present  hour, 
This  gloomy  crag  of  time  to  which  I  cling, 
Seem'd  an  Elysian  isle  of  peace  and  joy 
Never  to  be  attain'd. — I  must  rebuke 
'This  drunkenness  of  triumph  ere  it  die, 
.And  dying,  bring  despair. — Victory ! — poor  slaves ! 

[Exit  Mahmud. 
VOICE  without. 
rShout  in  the  jubilee  of  death  !  The  Greeks 
Are  as  a  brood  of  lions  in  the  net. 
Round  which  the  kingly  hunters  of  the  earth 
;  Stand  smiling.    Anarchs,  ye  whose  daily  food 
Are  curses,  groans,  and  gold,  the  fruit  of  death. 
From  Thule  to  the  girdle  of  the  world, 
>Come,  feast!  the  board  groans  with  the  flesh  of  men — 


The  cup  is  foaming  with  a  nation's  blood. 
Famine  and  thirst  await .- — eat,  drink,  and  die ! 

SE.MICHORUS  I. 

Victorious  Wrong,  with  vulture  scream. 
Salutes  the  risen  sun,  pursues  the  flying  day ! 

I  saw  her  ghastly  as  a  tyrant's  dream. 
Perch  on  the  trembling  pyramid  of  night. 

Beneath  which  earth  and  all  her  realms  pavilion'd  lay 
In  visions  of  the  dawning  undelight. 
Who  shall  impede  her  flight  ? 
Who  rob  her  of  her  prey  ? 
voice  without. 
Victory  !  victory  !  Russia's  famish'd  eagles 
Dare  not  to  prey  beneath  the  crescent's  light. 
Impale  the  remnant  of  the  Greeks  !  despoil ! 
Violate!  make  their  flesh  cheaper  than  dust! 

SE.MICHORUS    II. 

Thou  voice  which  art 
The  herald  of  the  ill  in  splendor  hid! 

Thou  echo  of  the  hollow  heart 
Of  monarch,  bear  me  to  thine  abode 

When  desolation  flashes  o'er  a  world  destroy'd. 
Oh  bear  me  to  those  isles  of  jagged  cloud 

Which  float  like  mountains  on  the  earthquakes, 
'mid 
The  momentary  oceans  of  the  lightning ; 
Or  to  some  toppling  promontory  proud 
Of  solid  tempest,  whose  black  pyramid. 
Riven,  overhangs  the  founts  intensely  brightening 
Of  those  dawn-tinted  deluges  of  fire 
Before  their  waves  expire. 
When  Heaven  and  earth  are  light,  and  only  light 
In  the  thunder-night ! 

voice  without. 
Victory  !  Victory !  Austria,  Russia,  England, 
And  that  tame  serpent,  that  poor  shadow,  France, 
Cry  peace,  and  that  means  death  when  monarchs  speak! 
Ho,  there !  bring  torches,  sharpen  those  red  stakes ! 
These  chains  are  light,  fitter  for  slaves  and  poisoners 
Than  Greeks.    Kill!  plunder!  burn!  let  none  remain. 

semichorus  I. 
Alas  for  Liberty ! 
If  numbers,  wealth,  or  unfulfdling  years, 
Or  fate,  can  quell  the  free  ; 
Alas  for  Virtue  !  when 
Torments,  or  contumely,  or  the  sneers 

Of  erring  judging  men 
Can  break  the  heart  where  it  abides. 
Alas !  if  Love,  whose  smile  makes  this  obscure  more 
splendid. 
Can  change,  with  its  false  times  and  tides, 
Like  hope  and  terror — 
Alas  lor  Love ! 
And  Truth,  who  wanderest  lone  and  unbefriended. 
If  thou  canst  veil  thy  lie-consuming  mirror 
Before  the  dazzled  eyes  of  error. 
Alas  for  thee !  Image  of  the  above. 

semichorus  II. 
Repulse,  with  plumes  from  conquest  torn, 
hed  the  ten  thousand  from  the  limits  of  the  morn 

Through  many  a  hostile  Anarchy ! 
At  length  they  w  ept  aloud  and  cried,  "The  sea !  the  sea!' ' 
Through  exile,  persecution,  and  despair, 

Rome  was,  and  young  Atlantis  shall  become 
The  wonder,  or  the  terror,  or  the  tomb 
Of  all  whose  step  wakes  power  lull'd  in  hersavage  lair: 
But  Greece  was  as  a  hermit  child, 
428 


HELLAS. 


181 


Whose  fliircst  thoughts  and  limbs  were  built 
To  woniau's  growth  by  dreams  so  mild, 

She  knew  not  pain  or  guilt ; 
And  now,  O  Victory,  blush !  and  Empire,  tremble, 

When  ye  desert  the  free ! 

If  Greece  must  be 
A  wteok,  yet  shall  its  fragments  reassemble, 
And  build  themselves  again  impregnably 

In  a  diviner  clime. 
To  Amphioiiic  music,  on  some  cape  sublime, 
W'hich  frowns  above  the  idle  foam  of  Time. 

SEMICHORUS  I. 

Let  the  tyrants  rule  the  desert  they  have  made ; 

Let  the  free  possess  the  paradise  they  claim ; 
Be  the  fortune  of  our  fierce  oppressors  weigh'd 

With  our  ruin,  our  resistance,  and  our  name ! 

SEMICHORUS  II. 

Our  dead  shall  be  the  seed  of  their  decay. 
Our  survivors  be  the  shadows  of  their  pride, 

Our  adversity  a  dream  to  pass  away — 
Their  dishonor  a  remembrance  to  abide. 

VOICE  WITHOUT. 

Victory !  Victory  !  The  bought  Briton  sends 

The  keys  of  ocean  to  the  Islamite. 

JN'or  shall  the  blazon  of  the  cross  be  veil'd, 

And  British  skill  directing  Othman  might, 

Thunder-strike  rebel  victory.     O  keep  holy 

This  jubilee  of  unrevenged  blood ! 

Kill !  crush  I  despwil !   Let  not  a  Greek  escape ! 

SEMICHORUS  I. 

Darkness  has  dawn'd  in  the  East 

On  the  noon  of  time  : 
The  death-birds  descend  to  their  feast, 

From  the  hungry  clime. 
Let  Freedom  and  Peace  flee  far 

To  a  sunnier  strand, 
4nd  follow  Love's  folding-star 

To  the  evening  land ! 

SEMICHORUS  II. 

The  young  moon  has  fed 
Her  exhausted  horn 
With  the  sunset's  fire : 
The  weak  day  is  dead. 
But  the  night  is  not  born  ; 
And,  like  loveliness  panting  with  wild  desire. 
While  it  trembles  with  fear  and  delight, 
Hesperus  flies  from  awakening  might. 
And  pants  in  its  beauty  and  speed  with  light 
Fast  flashing,  soft,  and  bright. 
Thou  beacon  of  love  !  thou  lamp  of  the  free ! 

Guide  us  far,  far  away. 
To  climes  where  now,  veil'd  by  the  ardor  of  day, 
Thou  art  hidden 
P'rom  waves  on  which  weary  Noon 
Faints  in  her  summer  swoon, 
Between  kingless  continents,  sinless  as  Eden, 
Around  mountain-s  and  islands  inviolably 
Prankt  on  the  sapphire  sea. 

SEMICHORUS  I. 

Through  the  sunset  of  hope, 
Like  the  shapes  of  a  dream. 
What  Paradise  islands  of  glory  gleam 

Beneath  Heaven's  cope. 
Their  shadows  more  clear  float  by — 
The  sound  of  their  oceans,  the  light  of  their  sky. 


The  music  and  fragrance  their  solitudes  breathe. 
Burst  like  morning  on  dreams,  or  like  Heaven  on  death 

Through  the  walls  of  our  prison ; 

And  Greece,  which  was  dead,  is  arisen! 

CHORUS. 

The  world's  great  age  begins  anew,* 

The  golden  years  return. 
The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 

Her  winter  weeds  outworn  : 
Heaven  smiles,  and  faiths  and  empires  gleam 
Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream. 

A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener  far, 
A  new  Peneus  rolls  its  fountains 

Against  the  morning-star. 
Where  fairer  Tempes  bloom,  there  sleep 
Young  Cyclads,  on  a  sunnier  deep ; 
A  loftier  Argos  cleaves  the  main. 

Fraught  with  a  later  prize  ; 
Another  Orpheus  sings  again. 

And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies. 
A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 
Calypso  for  his  native  shore. 
O  write  no  more  the  tale  of  Troy, 

If  earth  Death's  scroll  must  be ! 
Nor  mix  with  Laian  rage  the  joy 

Which  dawns  upon  the  free  : 
Although  a  subtle  sphinx  renew 
Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew, 
Another  Athens  shall  arise. 

And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies. 

The  splendor  of  its  prime  ; 
And  leave,  if  naught  so  bright  may  live. 
All  earth  can  lake  or  heaven  can  give. 
Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose t 

Shall  burst,  more  wise  and  good 
Than  all  who  fell,  than  one  who  rose. 

Than  many  unvvithstood — 
Not  gold,  nor  blood,  their  altar  dowers, 
But  native  tears,  and  symbol  flowers. 
O  cease !  must  hate  and  death  return  ? 
Cease !  must  men  kill  and  die  ? 
Cease !  drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy. 
The  world  is  weary  of  the  past — 
O  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last ! 


*  The  final  cfiorus  is  indistinct  and  obscure  as  the  event  of 
the  living  drama  whose  arrival  it  foretells.  Prophecies  of  wara, 
and  rumor  of  wars,  etc.  may  satlly  be  made  by  poet  or  prophet 
in  any  age;  but  to  anticipate,  however  darkly,  a  period  of  re- 
generation and  happiness,  is  a  more  hazardous  exercise  of  the 
faculty  which  bards  possess  or  feign.  I  will  remind  the  reader, 
"magno  nee  proximus  intervallo,"  of  Isaiah  and  Virgil,  whose 
ardent  spirits  overleaping  the  actual  reign  of  evil  which  we  en- 
dure and  bewail,  already  saw  the  possible  and  perhaps  ap 
proaching  state  of  society  in  which  the  "lion  shall  lie  down 
with  the  lamb,"  and  "omnis  firet  omnia  tcllus."  Let  these 
great  names  be  my  authority  and  excuse. 

t  Saturn  and  Love  were  among  the  deities  of  a  real  or  imagi- 
nary state  of  innocence  and  ha|)piness.  All  those  who  fell,  or 
the  Gods  of  Greece,  Asia  and  Egypt,  and  the  many  unsubdued, 
or  the  monstrous  objects  of  the  idolatry  of  China,  India,  the 
Antarctic  islands,  and  the  native  tribes  of  America,  certainly 
have  reigned  over  the  understandings  of  men  in  conjunction  oi 
in  succession,  during  periods  in  which  all  we  know  of  evil  hag 
been  in  a  slate  of  portentous,  and,  until  the  revival  of  learning 
and  the  arts,  perpetually  increasing  activity.  The  Grecian  Gods 
seem  indeed  to  have  been  personally  mure  innocent,  although 
it  cannot  be  said  that,  as  far  as  temperance  and  chastity  are 
concerned,  they  gave  very  edifying  examples.  The  horrors  of 
the  Mexican,  the  Peruvian,  and  the  Indian  superstitiong  are 
well  known. 

56  429 


182 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


.^» 


In  nobil  sangiie  vita  umile  e  qiieta, 
E(1  in  alto  intelletto  un  puro  core; 
Fnittn  senile  in  siil  g'ovonil  fiore, 
E  in  aspetto  pensoso  auima  lieta. 

Petrarca. 


JULIAN  AND  MADDALO; 


A  CONVERSATION. 


The  moarlows  with  fresh  streams,  the  bees  witli  thyme. 
The  {joats  with  the  green  leaves  of  building  spring, 
Are  saturated  not— nor  Love  with  tears. 

Virgil's  Qallus. 


CoBNT  Maddalo  is  a  Venetian  nobleman  of  ancient  family 
and  of  great  fortune,  who.  witlwul  mixing  much  in  the 
society  of  his  countrjtnen.  resides  chiefly  at  his  magnifi- 
cent palace  in  that  city.  He  is  a  person  of  the  mostcon- 
Eunimate  genius,  and  capable,  if  he  would  direct  his  ener- 
gies to  such  an  end,  of  becoming  the  redeemer  of  his 
degraded  country.  I5ut  it  is  his  weakness  to  be  proud  :  he 
derives,  from  a  comparison  of  his  own  e.xtraordinary  mind 
with  the  dwarfish  intellects  that  surround  him,  an  intense 
apprehension  of  the  nothingness  of  human  life.  His  pas- 
sions and  his  powers  are  incomparably  greater  than  those 
of  other  men,  and  instead  of  the  latter  having  been  em- 
ployed in  curbing  the  former,  they  have  mutually  lent 
each  other  strength.  "Hi,s  ambition  preys  upQu  itself,  for 
want  of  objects  «  hich  it  can  consider  worthy  of  exertion. 
1  say  that  Maddalo  is  proijd,  because  I  can  find  no  other 
word  to  express  the  concentred  and  impatient  feelings 
which  consume  him;  but  it  is  on  his  own  hopes  and  af- 
fections only  that  he  seems  to  trample,  for  in  social  life 
no  human  being  can  be  more  gentle,  patiijnt,  and  unas- 
suming than  Maddalo.  He  is  cheerful,  frank,  and  witty. 
His  more  seripus  conversation  is  a  sort  of  intoxication  ; 
men  are  held  by  it  as  by  a  spell.  He  has  travelled  much  ; 
and  there  is  an  inexpressible  charm  in  his  relation  of  his 
adventures  in  different  countries. 

Julian  is  an  Englishman  of  good  family,  passionately 
attached  to  those  philosophical  notions  which  assert  the 
power  of  man  over  his  own  mind,  and  the  immense  im- 
provements of  which,  by  the  extinction  of  certain  moral 
superstitions,  human  society  may  be  yet  susceptible. 
Without  concealing  the  evil  in  the  world,  he  is  for  ever 
speculating  how  good  may  be  made  superior.  He  is  a 
complete  infidel,  and  a  scoffer  at  all  things  reputed  holy; 
and  Maddalo  takes  a  wicked  pleasure  in  drawing  out  his 
taunts  against  religion.  What  JIaddalo  thinks  on  these 
matters  is  not  exactly  known.  Julian,  in  s[)ite  of  his 
heterodox  opinions,  is  conjectured  by  his  friends  to  possess 
some  godii  i|ualities.  How  far  this  is  possible,  the  pious 
reader  will  determine.    Julian  is  rather  serious. 

Of  the  Maniac  I  can  give  no  information.  He  seems  by 
his  own  account  to  have  been  disappointed  in  love.  He 
was  evidently  a  very  cultivated  and  amiable  person  when 
in  his  right  senses.  His  story,  told  at  length,  might  be  like 
nianyother  stf)ries  of  the  same  kind:  the  unconnected  ex- 
clamations of  his  agony  will  perhaps  be  found  a  sufficient 
comment  for  the  text  of  every  heart. 


I  RODE  one  evening  with  Count  Maddalo 
Upon  the  bank  of  land  which  breaks  the  flow 
Of  Adria  towards  Venice :  a  bare  strand 
Of  hillocks,  heap'd  from  ever-shifting  sand, 


*  The  greater  part  of  these  pieces  first  appeared  after 
their  author's  death,  in  a  volume  of  Poems,  edited  by  Mrs. 
Shelley,  whose  interesting  Preface  will  be  found  entire  in 
the  biographical  memoir  prefixed  to  this  edition. —Editor. 


Matted  vviih  thistles  and  amphibious  weeds, 
Such  as  from  earth's  embrace  the  salt  ooze  breeds.. 
Is  this ;  an  uninhabited  sea-side. 
Which  the  lone  fisher,  when  his  nets  are  dried, 
Abandons ;  and  no  other  object  breaks 
The  waste,  but  one  dwarf-tree  and  some  few  stakes 
Broken  and  unrepair'd,  and  the  tide  makes 
A  narrow  space  of  level  sand  thereon. 
Where  'twas  our  wont  to  ride  while  day  went  down 
This  ride  was  my  delight.     I  love  all  waste 
And  solitary  places  ;  where  we  taste 
The  pleasure  of  believing  what  we  see 
Is  boundless,  as  we  wish  our  souls  to  be : 
And  such  was  this  wide  ocean,  and  this  shore 
More  barren  than  its  billows ;  and  yet  more 
Than  all,  wilh  a  remember'd  friend  I  love 
To  ride  as  then  I  rode ; — for  the  winds  drove 
The  living  spray  along  the  sunny  air 
Into  our  faces  ;  the  blue  heavens  were  bare, 
Stripp'd  to  their  depths  by  the  awakening  north ; 
And,  from  the  waves,  sound  like  delight  broke  forth, 
Harmonizing  with  solitude,  and  sent 
Into  our  hearts  aerial  merritnent. 
So,  as  we  rode,  we  talk'd  ;  and  the  swift  thought, 
Winging  itself  with  laughter,  linger'd  not, 
But  flew  from  brain  to  brain, — such  glee  was  ours, 
Charged  with  light  memories  of  remember'd  hours, 
None  slow  enough  for  sadness :  till  we  came 
Homeward,  which  always  makes  the  spirit  tame. 
Tliis  day  had  been  cheerful  but  cold,  and  now 
The  sun  was  sinking,  and  the  wind  also. 
Our  talk  grew  somewhat  serious,  as  may  be 
Talk  interrupted  with  such  raillery 
As  mocks  itself,  because  it  cannot  scorn 
The  thoughts  it  would  extinguish: — 'twas  forlorn, 
Yet  pleasing;  such  as  once,  so  poets  tell, 
The  devils  held  within  the  dales  of  hell, 
Concerning  God,  free-will,  and  destiny. 
Of  all  that  Earth  has  been,  or  yet  may  be. 
All  that  vain  men  imagine  or  believe. 
Or  hope  can  paint,  or  suflfering  can  achieve, 
We  descanted  ;  and  I  (for  ever  still 
Is  it  not  wise  to  make  the  best  of  ill  ?) 
Argued  against  despondency  ;  but  pride 
Made  my  companion  take  the  darker  side. 
The  sense  that  he  was  greater  than  his  kind 
Had  struck,  methinks,  his  eagle  spirit  blind 
By  gazing  on  its  own  exceeding  light. 
Meanwhile  the  sun  paused  ere  it  should  alight 
Over  the  horizon  of  the  mountains — Oh ! 
How  beautiful  is  sunset,  when  the  glow 
Of  heaven  descends  upon  a  land  like  thee, 
Thou  paradise  of  exiles,  Italy ! 
Thy  mountains,  seas,  and  vineyards,  and  the  towers 
Of  cities  they  encircle! — It  was  ours 
To  stand  on  thee,  beholding  it :  and  then, 
Just  where  we  liad  dismounted,  the  Count's  men 
430 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


183 


Were  waiting  i^r  us  with  the  gondola. 

As  those  who  pause  on  some  dehghtlul  way, 

Though  bent  on  pleasant  pilgrimage,  we  stood, 

Looking  upon  the  evening  and  the  flood. 

Which  lay  between  the  city  and  the  shore, 

Paved  with  the  image  of  the  sky :  the  hoar 

And  aery  Alps,  towards  the  north,  appear'd. 

Through  mist,  a  heaven-sustaining  bulwark,  rear'd 

Bet\\  een  the  east  and  west ;  and  half  the  sky 

\\'as  roof'd  with  clouds  of  rich  emblazonry, 

Dark  purple  at  the  zenith,  which  still  grew 

Down  the  steep  west  into  a  wondrous  hue 

Brighter  than  burning  gold,  even  to  the  rent 

Where  the  swift  sim  yet  paused  in  his  descent 

Among  the  many-folded  hills — they  were 

Those  famous  Euganean  hills,  which  bear, 

As  seen  from  Lido  through  the  harbor  piles, 

The  likeness  of  a  clump  of  jieaked  isles — 

And  then,  as  if  llie  earth  and  sea  had  been 

Dissolved  into  one  lake  of  fire,  were  seen 

Those  mountains  towering,  as  from  waves  of  flame, 

Around  the  vaporous  sun,  from  which  there  came 

The  inmost  purple  spirit  of  light,  and  made 

Their  very  peaks  transparent.     "  Ere  it  fade," 

Said  my  companion.     "  I  will  show  you  soon 

A  better  station."     So,  o'er  the  lagune 

We  glided ;  and  from  that  funereal  bark 

I  lean'd,  and  saw  the  city,  and  could  mark 

How  from  their  many  isles,  in  evening's  gleam, 

Its  temples  and  its  palaces  did  seem 

Like  fabrics  of  enchantment  piled  to  heav'n. 

I  was  about  to  speak,  when — "  We  are  even 

Now  at  the  point  I  meant,"  said  Maddalo, 

And  bade  the  gondolieri  cease  to  row. 

"  Look,  Julian,  on  the  west,  and  listen  well 

If  you  hear  not  a  deep  and  heavy  bell." 

I  look'd,  and  saw  between  us  and  the  sun 

A  building  on  an  island,  such  an  one 

As  age  to  age  might  add,  for  uses  vile, — 

A  windowless,  delbrni'd  and  dreary  pile  ; 

And  on  the  top  an  open  tower,  where  hung 

A  bell,  which  in  the  radiance  sway'd  and  swung — 

We  could  just  hear  its  hoar.se  and  iron  tongue : 

The  broad  sun  sank  behind  it,  and  it  toU'd 

In  strong  and  black  relief. — "  What  we  behold 

Shall  be  the  madhouse  and  ils  belfry  tower ;" — 

Said  Maddalo,  "  and  even  at  this  hour, 

Those  who  may  cross  the  water  hear  that  bell, 

Which  calls  the  maniacs,  each  one  from  his  cell, 

To  vespers." — "  As  much  skill  as  need  to  pray, 

In  thanks  or  hope  for  their  dark  lot,  have  they, 

To  their  stern  Maker,"  I  replied. — "  0,  ho! 

You  talk  as  in  years  past,"  said  Maddalo. 

"  'T  is  strange  men  change  not.    You  were  ever  still 

Among  Christ's  flock  a  perilous  infidel, 

A  wolf  for  the  meek  lambs  :  if  you  can't  swim, 

Beware  of  providence."    I  look'd  on  him, 

But  the  gay  smile  had  faded  from  his  eye. 

"  And  such,"  he  cried  "  is  our  mortality  ; 

And  this  must  be  the  emblem  and  the  sign 

Of  what  should  be  eternal  and  divine  ; 

And  like  that  black  and  dreary  bell,  the  soul 

Hung  in  a  heav'n-illumined  tower,  must  toll 

Our  thoughts  and  our  desires  to  meet  below 

Round  the  rent  heart,  and  pray — as  madmen  do ; 


For  what  ?  they  know  not,  till  the  night  of  death. 
As  sunset  that  strange  vision,  scvereth 
Our  memory  from  itself,  and  us  from  all 
We  sought,  and  yet  were  baffled."     I  reca'.l 
The  sense  of  what  he  said,  although  I  mar 
The  force  of  liis  expressions.     The  broad  star 
Of  day  meanwhile  had  sunk  behind  the  hill ; 
And  the  black  bell  became  invisible; 
Aiad  the  red  tower  look'd  gray ;  and  all  between. 
The  churches,  ships,  and  palaces,  were  seen 
Huddled  in  gloom ;  into  the  purple  sea 
The  orange  hues  of  heaven  sunk  silently. 
VVe  hardly  spoke,  and  soon  tlie  gondola 
Convey'd  me  to  my  lodging  by  the  way. 

The  following  mom  was  rainy,  cold  and  dim  : 
Ere  Maddalo  arose  I  call'd  on  him. 
And  whilst  I  waited,  with  his  child  I  play'd  ; 
A  lovelier  toy  sweet  Nature  never  made ; 
A  serious,  subtle,  wild,  yet  gentle  being  ; 
Graceful  without  design,  and  unforeseeing ; 
With  eyes — Oh  !  speak  not  of  her  eyes  !  which  seem 
Twin  mirrors  of  Italian  Heaven,  yet  gleam 
With  stich  deep  meaning  as  we  never  see 
But  in  the  human  countenance.     With  me 
She  was  a  special  favorite :  1  had  nursed 
Iler  fine  and  feeble  limbs,  when  she  came  first 
To  this  bleak  world  ;  and  she  yet  seem'd  to  know. 
On  second  sight,  her  ancient  jjlayfellow, 
Less  changed  than  she  was  by  six  montlis  or  so. 
For,  after  her  first  shyness  was  worn  out. 
We  sate  there,  rolling  billiard-balls  about. 
When  the  Count  enter'd.     Salutations  past : 
"  I'he  words  you  spoke  last  night  might  well  have  cast 
A  darkness  on  my  spirit : — if  man  be 
The  passive  thing  you  say,  I  should  not  see 
Much  harm  in  the  religions  and  old  saws 
(Though  /  may  never  own  such  leaden  laws) 
Which  break  a  teachless  nature  to  the  yoke : 
Mine  is  another  failh." — Thus  much  I  spoke, 
And,  rioting  he  replied  not,  added — "  See 
This  lovely  child  ;  blithe,  innocent  and  free  ; 
She  spends  a  happy  time,  with  little  care  ; 
Wliile  we  to  such  sick  thoughts  subjected  are. 
As  came  on  you  last  night.     It  is  our  will 
Which  thus  enchains  us  to  permitted  ill. 
We  might  be  otherwise  ;  we  might  be  all 
We  dream  of,  happy,  high,  majestical. 
Where  is  the  love,  beauty,  and  truth  we  seek. 
But  in  our  minds  ?  And,  if  we  were  not  weak, 
Should  we  be  less  in  deed  than  in  desire  ?" — 
— "  Ay,  if  we  were  not  weak,^-and  we  aspire, 
How  vainly  !  to  be  strong,"  said  Maddalo 
"  You  talk  Utopia" — 

"  It  remains  to  know," 
I  then  rejoin'd,  "  and  those  w  ho  try,  may  find 
How  strong  the  chains  are  which  our  spirit  binn  • 
Brittle  perchance  as  straw.     We  are  assured 
Much  may  be  conqucr'd,  much  may  be  endured, 
Of  what  degrades  and  crushes  us.     We  know 
That  we  have  power  over  ourselves  to  do 
And  suflfer — whal,  we  know  not  till  we  try  ; 
But  something  nobler  than  to  live  and  die : 
So  taught  the  Idngs  of  old  philosophy, 
431 


184 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Who  reign'd  before  religion  made  men  blind  ; 
And  those  who  suffer  with  their  suffering  kind, 
Yet  feel  this  faith,  religion." 

"  My  dear  friend," 
Said  Maddalo,  "  my  judgment  will  not  bend 
To  your  opinion,  though  I  think  you  might 
Make  such  a  system  refutation-tight, 
As  far  as  words  go.     I  knew  one  like  you, 
Who  to  this  city  came  some  months  ago, 
With  whom  I  argued  in  this  sort, — and  he 
Is  now  gone  mad — and  so  he  answer'd  me. 
Poor  fellow  ! — But  if  you  would  like  to  go, 
We'll  visit  him,  and  his  wild  talk  will  show 
How  vain  are  such  aspiring  theories." — 

"  I  hope  to  prove  the  induction  otherwise. 
And  that  a  want  of  that  true  theory  still. 
Which  seeks  a  soul  of  goodness  in  things  ill. 
Or  in  himself  or  others,  has  thus  bow'd 
His  being  : — there  are  some  by  nature  proud, 
Who,  patient  in  all  else,  demand  but  this — 
To  love  and  be  beloved  with  gentleness : — 
And  being  scorn'd,  what  wonder  if  they  die 
Some  living  death  ?    This  is  not  destiny. 
But  man's  own  wilful  ill." — 

As  thus  I  spoke, 
Servants  announced  the  gondola,  and  we 
Through  the  fast-falling  rain  and  high-wrought  sea 
Sail'd  to  the  island  where  the  mad-house  stands. 
We  disembark'd.     The  clap  of  tortured  hands, 
Fierce  yells,  and  bowlings,  and  lamentings  keen, 
And  laughter  where  complaint  had  merrier  been. 
Accosted  us.     We  climb'd  the  oozy  stairs 
Into  an  old  court-yard.     I  heard  on  high. 
Then,  fragments  of  most  touching  melody. 
But  looking  up  saw  not  the  singer  there. — 
Through  the  black  bars  in  the  tempestuous  air 
1  saw,  like  weeds  on  a  wreck'd  palace  growing. 
Long  tangled  locks  flung  wildly  forth  and  flowing, 
Of  those  who  on  a  sudden  were  beguiled 
Into  strange  silence,  and  look'd  forth  and  smiled. 
Hearing  sweet  sounds.     Then  I : — 

"  Methinks  there  were 
A  cure  of  these  with  patience  and  kind  care. 
If  music  can  thus  move.     But  what  is  he. 
Whom  we  seek  here  ? " 

.  "  Of  his  sad  history 
I  know  but  this,"  said  Maddalo :  "  he  came 
To  Venice  a  dejected  man,  and  fame 
Said  he  was  wealthy,  or  he  had  been  so. 
Some  thought  the  loss  of  fortune  wrought  him  woe  ; 
But  he  was  ever  talking  in  such  sort 
As  you  do, — but  more  sadly  ; — he  seem'd  hurt. 
Even  as  a  man  with  his  peculiar  wrong. 
To  hear  but  of  the  oppression  of  the  strong. 
Or  those  absurd  deceits  (I  think  with  you 
In  some  respects,  you  know)  which  carry  through 
The  excellent  impostors  of  this  earth 
When  they  outface  detection.     He  had  worth, 
Poor  fellow !  but  a  humorist  in  his  way." — 


— "  Alas  !   what  drove  him  mad  ? " 


"  I  cannot  say : 


A  lady  came  with  him  from  France,  and  when 

She  left  him  and  return'd,  he  wander'd  then 

About  yon  lonely  isles  of  desert  sand, 

Till  he  grew  wild.     He  had  no  cash  or  land 

Remaining  : — the  police  had  brought  him  here  — 

Some  fancy  took  him,  and  he  would  not  bear 

Removal,  so  I  fitted  up  for  him 

Those  rooms  beside  the  sea,  to  please  his  whim ; 

And  sent  him  busts,  and  books,  and  urns  for  flowers 

Which  had  adorn'd  his  life  in  happier  hours. 

And  instruments  of  music.     You  may  guess 

A  stranger  could  do  little  more  or  less 

For  one  so  gentle  and  unfortunate — 

And  those  are  his  sweet  strains  which  charm  tho 

weight 
From  madmen's  chains,  and  make  this  hell  appear 
A  heaven  of  sacred  silence,  hush'd  to  hear." 

"  Nay,  this  was  kind  of  you, — he  had  no  claim, 
As  the  world  says." 

"  None  but  the  very  same 
Which  I  on  all  mankind,  were  I,  as  he, 
Fall'n  to  such  deep  reverse.     His  melody 
Is  interrupted  now  ;  we  hear  the  din 
Of  madmen,  shriek  on  shriek,  again  begin 
Let  us  now  visit  him  :  after  this  strain, 
He  ever  communes  with  himself  again, 
And  sees  and  hears  not  any." 

Having  said 
These  words,  we  call'd  the  keeper,  and  he  led 
To  an  apartment  opening  on  the  sea. — 
There  the  poor  wretch  was  sitting  mournfully 
Near  a  piano,  his  pale  fingers  twined 
One  with  the  other  ;  and  the  ooze  and  wind 
Rush'd  through  an  open  casement,  and  did  sway 
His  hair,  and  starr'd  it  with  the  brackish  spray  ; 
His  head  was  leaning  on  a  music-book, 
And  he  was  muttering  ;  and  his  lean  limbs  shook ; 
His  lips  were  press'd  against  a  folded  leaf 
In  hue  too  beautiful  for  health,  and  grief 
Smiled  in  their  motions  as  they  lay  apart. 
As  one  who  wrought  from  his  own  fervid  heal* 
The  eloquence  of  passion  :  soon  he  raised 
His  sad  meek  face,  and  eyes  lustrous  and  glazec/- 
And  spoke, — sometimes  as  one  who  wrote,  and  (hvyiight 
His  words  might  move  some  heart  that  heedtsd  i.ot, 
If  sent  to  distant  lands ; — and  then  as  otie 
Reproaching  deeds  never  to  be  undone, 
With  wondering  self-compassion ; — t\ien  his  speech 
Was  lost  in  grief,  and  then  his  words  came  each 
Unmodulated  and  expressionless, — 
But  that  from  one  jarr'd  accent  you  might  guess 
It  was  despair  made  them  so  uniform  : 
And  all  the  while  the  loud  tind  gusty  storm 
Hiss'd  through  the  window,  and  we  stood  behind, 
Stealing  his  accents  from  the  envious  wind, 
Unseen.     I  yet  remember  what  he  said 
Distinctly,  such  impression  his  words  made 

"  Month  after  month,"  he  cried,  "  to  bear  this  load, 
And,  as  a  jade  urged  by  the  whip  and  goad, 
To  drag  life  on — which  like  a  heavy  chain 
Lengthens  behind  with  many  a  link  of  pain, 
And  not  to  speak  my  grief — O,  not  to  dare 
To  give  a  human  voice  to  my  despair ; 
432 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


185 


But  live,  and  move,  and,  wretched  thing !  smile  on, 
As  if  I  never  went  aside  to  groan. 
And  wear  this  mask  of  falsehood  even  to  those 
^Vho  are  most  dear — not  for  my  own  repose — 
Alas  !  no  scorn,  or  pain,  or  hate,  could  be 
So  heavy  as  that  falsehood  is  to  me — 
But  that  I  cannot  bear  more  alter'd  faces 
Than  needs  must  be,  more  changed  and  cold  em- 
braces, 
More  misery,  disappointment,  and  mistrust 
To  own  me  for  their  fatlier.     Would  the  dust 
Were  cover'd  in  upon  my  body  now ! 
That  the  life  ceased  to  toil  within  my  brow ! 
And  then  these  thoughts  would  at  the  last  be  fled  : 
Let  us  not  fear  such  pain  can  vex  the  dead. 


"  What  Power  delights  to  torture  us  ?  I  know 
That  to  myself  I  do  not  wholly  owe 
What  now  I  suffer,  though  in  part  I  may. 
Alas !  none  strew'd  fresh  flowers  upon  the  way, 
Where,  wandering  heedlessly,  I  met  pale  Pain, 
My  sliadow,  vihich  will  leave  me  not  again. 
If  I  have  err'd,  there  was  no  joy  in  error. 
But  pain,  and  insult,  and  unrest,  and  terror ; 
I  have  not,  as  some  do,  bought  penitence 
With  pleasure,  and  a  dark  yet  sw-eet  offence ; 
For  then  if  love,  and  tenderness,  and  truth 
Had  overlived  Hope's  momentary  youth. 
My  creed  should  have  redeem'd  me  from  repenting 
But  lolhed  scorn  and  outrage  unrelenting 
Met  love  excited  by  far  other  seeming. 
Until  the  end  was  gain'd : — as  one  from  dreaming 
Of  sweetest  peace,  I  woke,  and  found  my  state 
Such  as  it  is. — 


"  O,  thou,  my  spirit's  mate  ! 
^Vho,  for  thou  art  compassionate  and  wise, 
Wouldst  pity  me  from  thy  most  gentle  eyes, 
If  tliis  sad  writing  thou  shouldst  ever  see, 
My  secret  groans  must  be  unheard  by  thee ; 
Thou  wouldst  weep  tears,  bitter  as  blood,  to  know 
Thy  lost  friend's  incommunicable  woe. 
Ye  few  by  whom  my  nature  has  been  weigh'd 
In  friendship,  let  me  not  that  name  degrade, 
By  placing  on  your  hearts  the  secret  load 
Which  crushes  mine  to  dust.     There  is  one  road 
To  peace,  and  that  is  truth,  which  follow  ye ! 
Love  .sometimes  leads  astray  to  misery. 
Yet  think  not,  though  subdued  (and  I  may  well 
Say  that  I  am  subdued) — that  the  full  hell 
Within  me  would  infect  the  untainted  breast 
Of  sacred  nature  with  its  own  unrest; 
As  some  perverted  beings  think  to  find 
In  scorn  or  hate  a  medicine  for  the  mind 
Which  scorn  or  hate  hath  wounded. — O,  how  vain  ! 
The  dagger  heals  not,  but  may  rend  again. 
Believe  that  I  am  ever  still  the  same 
In  creed  as  in  resolve :  and  what  may  tame 
My  heart,  must  leave  the  understanding  free, 
Or  ail  would  sink  under  this  agony. — 
Nor  dream  that  I  will  join  the  vulgar  eye, 
Or  with  my  silence  sanction  tyranny. 
Or  seek  a  moment's  shelter  from  my  pain 
In  any  madness  which  the  world  calls  gain ; 
Ambition,  or  revenge,  or  thoughts  as  stern 
As  those  which  make  me  what  I  am,  or  turn 
3  E 


To  avarice  or  misanthropy  or  lust. 
Heap  on  me  soon,  O  grave,  thy  welcome  dust! 
Till  then  the  diuigeon  may  demand  its  prey, 
And  Poverty  and  Shame  may  meet  and  say. 
Halting  beside  me  in  the  public  way, — 
'  That  love-devoted  youth  is  ours  :  let's  sit 
Beside  him  :  he  may  live  some  six  months  yet.'— 
Or  the  red  scaflbld,  as  our  country  bends, 
May  ask  some  willing  victim  ;  or  yc,  friends ! 
May  fall  under  some  sorrow,  which  this  heart 
Or  hand  may  share,  or  vanquish,  or  avert ; 
I  am  prepared,  in  truth,  with  no  proud  joy 
To  do  or  suffer  aught,  as  when  a  boy 
I  did  devote  to  justice,  and  to  love, 
My  nature,  worthless  now. 

"  I  must  remove 
A  veil  from  my  pent  mind.     'T  is  torn  aside  ! 
O !  pallid  as  Death's  dedicated  bride. 
Thou  mockery  which  art  silting  by  my  side, 
Am  I  not  wan  like  thee  ?  At  the  grave's  call 
I  haste,  invited  to  thy  wedding-hall. 
To  meet  the  ghastly  paramour,  for  whom 
Thou  hast  deserted  me, — and  made  the  tomb 
Thy  bridal  bed.     But  I  beside  thy  feet 
Will  lie,  and  watch  ye  from  my  winding-sheet 

Thus — wideawake  though  dead Yet  stay, O, stay! 

Go  not  so  soon — I  know  not  what  I  say — 
Hear  but  my  reasons — I  am  mad,  I  fear. 
My  fancy  is  o'erwrought — thou  art  not  here. 

Pale  art  thou,  'tis  most  true but  thou  art  gone — 

Thy  work  is  finish'd ;  I  am  left  alone. 


"  Nay,  was  it  I  who  woo'd  thee  to  this  breast. 

Which  like  a  serpent  thou  envenomest 

As  in  repayment  of  the  warmth  it  lent  ? 

Didst  thou  not  seek  me  for  thine  own  content  ? 

Did  not  thy  love  awaken  mine  ?  I  thought 

That  thou  wert  she  who  said  '  You  kiss  me  not 

Ever ;  I  fear  you  do  not  love  me  now.' 

In  truth  I  loved  even  to  my  overthrow 

Her,  who  would  fain  forget  these  words ;  but  they 

Cling  to  her  mind,  and  cannot  pass  away. 


"  You  say  that  I  am  proud  ;  that  when  I  speak. 
My  lip  is  tortured  with  the  wrongs,  which  break 
The  spirit  it  expresses. — Never  one 
Humbled  himself  before,  as  I  have  done ! 
Even  the  instinctive  worm  on  which  we  tread 
Tunis,  though  it  wound  not — then,  with  prostralo 

head. 
Sinks  in  the  dust,  and  writhes  like  me — and  dies  • 

No  : — wears  a  living  death  of  agonies ! 

As  the  slow  shadows  of  the  pointed  grass 
Mark  the  eternal  periods,  its  pangs  pass. 
Slow,  ever-moving,  making  moments  be 
As  mine  seem, — each  an  immortality ! 


"  That  you  had  never  seen  me  I  never  heard 
My  voice  !  and  more  than  all,  had  ne'er  endured 
The  deep  pollution  of  my  lothed  embrace! 
That  your  eyes  ne'er  had  lied  love  in  my  face ! 
That,  like  some  maniac  monk,  I  had  torn  out 
The  nerves  of  manhood  by  their  bleeding  root 
433 


186 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


With  mine  own  quivering  fingers  !  so  that  ne'er 

Our  hearts  had  for  a  moment  mingled  there, 

To  disunite  in  horror !  These  were  not 

With  thee  like  some  suppress'd  and  hideous  thought, 

Wlvkh  flits  athwart  our  musings,  but  can  find 

No  rest  within  a  pure  and  gentle  mind — 

Thou  sealedst  them  with  many  a  bare  broad  word, 

And  searedst  my  memory  o"er  them, — for  I  heard 

And  can  forget  not — they  were  minister'd, 

One  after  one,  those  curses.     Mix  them  up 

Like  self-destroying  poisons  in  one  cup ; 

And  they  will  make  one  blessing,  which  thou  ne'er 

Didst  imprecate  for  on  me death! 

"  It  were 
A  cruel  punishment  for  one  most  cruel, 
If  such  can  love,  to  make  that  love  the  fuel 
Of  the  mind's  hel-1 — hate,  scorn,  remorse,  despair  : 
But  me,  whose  heart  a  stranger's  tear  might  wear, 
As  water-drops  the  sandy  fountain-stone  ; 
Who  loved  and  ])itied  all  things,  and  could  moan 
For  woes  which  others  hear  not ;  and  could  see 
The  absent  with  the  glass  of  phantasy. 
And  near  the  poor  and  trampled  sit  and  weep, 
Following  the  captive  to  his  dungeon  deep ; 
Me,  who  am  as  a  nerve  o'er  which  do  creep 
The  else  unfelt  oppressions  of  this  earth. 
And  was  to  thee  the  flame  upon  ihy  hearth. 
When  all  beside  was  cold  : — that  thou  on  me 
Should  rain  these  plagues  of  blistering  agony — 
Such  curses  are  from  lips  once  eloquent 
With  love's  too  partial  praise!  Let  none  relent 
Who  intend  deeds  too  dreadful  for  a  name 
Henceforth,  if  an  example  for  the  same 
The}'  seek : — for  thou  on  me  look'dst  so  and  so. 
And  didst  speak  thus  and  thus.     I  live  to  show 
How  much  men  bear  and  die  not. 


"  Thou  wilt  tell, 
With  the  grimace  of  hate,  how  horrible 
It  was  to  meet  my  love  when  thine  grew  less ; 
Thou  wilt  admire  how  I  could  e'er  address 

Such  features  to  love's  work This  taunt,  though 

true 
(For  indeed  Nature  nor  in  form  nor  hue 
Bestow'd  on  me  her  choicest  workmanship). 
Shall  not  be  thy  defence:  for  since  thy  life 
Met  mine  first,  years  long  past, — since  thine  eye  kin- 
dled 
AVith  soft  fire  under  mine, — I  have  not  dwindled, 
Nor  changed  in  mind,  or  body,  or  in  aught, 
But  as  love  changes  what  it  loveth  not 
After  long  years  and  many  trials. 
********  * 

"  How  vain 
Are  words !  I  thought  never  to  speak  again. 
Not  even  in  secret,  not  to  my  own  heart — 
But  from  my  lips  the  unwilling  accents  start, 
And  from  my  pen  the  words  flow  as  I  write, 
Dazzling  my  eyes  with  scalding  tears — my  sight 
Is  dim  to  see  that  characler'd  in  vain. 
On  this  unfeeling  leaf,  which  burns  the  brain 
And  eats  into  it,  blotting  all  things  fair. 
And  wise  and  good,  which  time  had  written  there. 
Those  who  inflict  must  suffer,  for  they  see 
The  work  of  their  own  hearts,  and  that  must  be 


Our  chastisement  or  recompense. — O,  child  I 
I  would  that  thine  were  like  to  be  more  mild. 
For  both  our  wretched  sakes, — for  thine  the  most, 
Who  feel'st  already  all  that  thou  hast  lost. 
Without  the  power  to  wish  it  thine  again. 
And,  as  slow  years  pass,  a  funereal  train. 
Each  with  the  ghost  of  some  lost  hope  or  friend 
Following  it  like  its  shadow,  wilt  thou  bend 
No  thought  on  my  dead  memory  ? 


"  Alas,  love ! 
Fear  me  not :  against  thee  I  'd  not  move 
A  finger  in  despite.     Do  I  not  live 
That  thou  mayst  have  less  bitter  cause  to  gneve  ? 
I  give  thee  tears  for  scorn,  and  love  for  hate  ; 
And,  that  thy  lot  may  be  less  desolate 
Than  his  on  whom  thou  tramplest,  I  refrain 
From  that  sweet  sleep  which  medicines  all  pain. 
Then — when  thou  speakest  of  me — never  say, 
'  He  could  forgive  not' — Here  I  cast  away 
All  human  passions,  all  revenge,  all  pride ; 
I  think,  speak,  act  no  ill ;  I  do  but  hide 
Under  these  words,  like  embers,  every  spark 
Of  that  which  has  consumed  me.     Quick  and  dark 
The  grave  is  yawning : — as  its  roof  shall  cover 
My  limbs  with  dust  and  worms,  under  and  over. 
So  let  oblivion  hide  this  grief — The  air 
Closes  upon  my  accents,  as  despair 
Upon  my  heart — let  death  upon  despair ! " 


He  ceased,  and  overcome,  leant  back  awhile; 
Then  rising,  with  a  melancholy  smile. 
Went  to  a  sofa,  and  lay  down,  and  slept 
A  heavy  sleep,  and  in  his  dreams  he  wept. 
And  mutter'd  some  familiar  name,  and  we 
Wept  without  shame  in  his  society. 
I  think  I  never  was  impress'd  so  much ; 
The  man  who  were  not,  must  have  lack'd  a  touch 
Of  human  nature. — Then  we  linger'd  not. 
Although  our  argument  was  quite  forgot; 
But,  calling  the  attendants,  went  to  dine 
At  Maddalo's: — yet  neither  cheer  nor  wine 
Could  give  us  spirits,  for  we  talk'd  of  him. 
And  nothing  else,  till  daylight  made  stars  dim. 
And  we  agreed  it  was  some  dreadful  ill 
Wrought  on  him  boldly,  yet  unspeakable, 
By  a  dear  friend ;  some  deadly  change  in  love 
Of  one  vow'd  deeply  which  he  dream'd  not  of; 
For  whose  sake  he,  it  seem'd,  had  fix'd  a  blot 
Of  falsehood  in  his  mind,  which  flourish'd  not 
But  in  the  hght  of  all-beholding  truth  ; 
And  having  stamp'd  this  canker  on  his  youth. 
She  had  abandon'd  him  : — and  how  much  more 
Might  be  his  woe,  we  guess'd  not : — he  had  store 
Of  friends  and  fortune  once,  as  we  could  guess 
From  his  nice  habits  and  his  gentleness: 
These  now  were  lost — it  were  a  grief  indeed 
If  he  had  changed  one  unsuslaining  reed 
For  all  that  such  a  man  might  else  adorn. 
The  colors  of  his  mind  seem'd  yet  unworn ; 
For  the  wild  language  of  his  grief  was  high- 
Such  as  in  measure  were  caJl'd  poetry. 
And  I  remember  one  remark,  which  then 
Maddalo  made :  he  said — "  Most  wretched  men 
434 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


IS/ 


Are  cradled  into  poetry  by  wrong: 

They  learn  in  soirering  what  they  teach  in  song." 

If  I  had  been  an  unconnected  man, 
J,  from  this  raoment,  should  have  form'd  some  plan 
Never  to  leave  sweet  Venice :  for  to  me 
It  was  delight  to  ride  by  the  lone  sea : 
And  then  the  town  is  silent — one  may  write, 
Or  read  in  gondolas  by  day  or  night, 
Having  the  little  brazen  lamp  alight, 
Unseen,  uninterrupted  : — hooks  are  there. 
Pictures,  and  casts  from  all  those  statues  fair 
Whicii  were  twin-born  with  poetry ; — and  all 
We  seek  in  towns,  with  little  to  recall 
Regret  for  the  green  country  : — I  might  sit 
In  Maddalo's  great  palace,  and  his  wit 
And  subtle  talk  would  cheer  the  winter  niglit, 
And  make  me  know  myself: — and  the  fire-light 
Would  flash  upon  our  faces,  till  the  day 
Might  dawn,  and  make  me  wonder  at  my  stay. 
But  I  had  friends  in  London  too.     The  chief 
Attraction  here  was  that  I  sought  relief 
From  the  deep  tenderness  that  maniac  wrought 
Within  me — 't  was  perhaps  an  idle  thought, 
But  I  imagined  that  if  day  by  day, 
I  watched  him,  and  seldom  went  away, 
And  studied  all  the  beatings  of  his  heart 
With  zeal,  as  men  study  some  stubborn  art 
For  their  own  good,  and  could  by  patience  find 
An  entrance  to  the  caverns  of  his  mind, 
I  might  reclaim  him  from  his  dark  estate. 
In  friendships  I  had  been  most  fortunate. 
Yet  never  saw  I  one  whom  I  would  call 
More  willingly  my  friend ; — and  this  was  all 
Accomplish'd  not ; — such  dreams  of  baseless  good 
Oft  come  and  go,  in  crowds  or  solitude. 
And  leave  no  trace  I — but  what  I  now  design'd, 
Made,  for  long  years,  impression  on  my  mind. 
— The  following  morning,  urged  by  my  affairs, 
I  left  bright  Venice. — 

After  many  years, 
And  many  changes,  I  return'd  ;  the  name 
Of  Venice,  and  its  aspect,  were  the  same ; 
But  Maddalo  was  travelling,  far  away. 
Among  the  mountains  of  Armenia. 
His  dog  was  dead  :  his  child  had  now  become 
A  woman,  such  as  it  has  been  my  doom 
To  meet  with  few  ;  a  wonder  of  this  earth, 
Where  there  is  little  of  transcendent  worth, — 
Like  one  of  Shalvspeare's  women.     Kindly  she, 
And  with  a  manner  beyond  courtesy, 
Received  her  father's  friend  ;  and,  when  I  ask'd 
Of  the  lorn  maniac,  she  her  memory  task'd. 
And  told,  as  she  had  heard,  the  mouniful  tale: 
"  That  the  ]X)or  sufferer's  health  began  to  fail, 
Two  years  from  my  departure  ;  but  that  then 
The  lady,  who  had  left  him,  came  again. 
Ilcr  mien  had  been  imperious,  but  she  now 
L/Jok'd  meek ;  perhaps  remorse  had  brought  her  low. 
Her  coming  made  him  better;  and  they  stay'd 
Together  at  my  father's, — for  I  play'd. 
As  [  remember,  with  the  lady's  shawl ; 
I  might  be  six  years  old  : — But,  after  all, 
She  left  iiim." — 

"  Why,  her  heart  must  have  been  tough  : 
How  did  it  end  ?" 


"  And  was  not  this  enough  ? 
They  met,  they  parted." 

"  Child,  is  there  no  more  1 " 

"  Something  within  that  interval,  which  bore 
The  stamp  of  v:hy  they  parted,  hmn  they  met ; 
Yet  if  thine  aged  eyes  disdain  to  wet 
Those  wrinkled  cheelis  with  youth's  remember  J 

tears. 
Ask  me  no  more  ;  but  let  the  silent  years 
Be  closed  and  cered  over  their  memoiy 
As  yon  mute  marble  where  their  corpses  lie." 

I  urged  and  question'd  still :  she  told  me  how 
All  happen'd — but  the  cold  world  shall  not  know 
Rome,  May,  1819. 


THE  WITCH  OF  ATLAS. 


Before  those  cruel  Twins,  whom  at  one  birth 
Incestuous  Change  bore  to  her  father  Time, 

Error  and  Truth,  had  hunted  from  the  eartn 

All  those  bright  natures  which  adom'd  its  pnme. 

And  left  us  nothing  to  beUeve  in,  worth 
The  pains  of  putting  into  learned  rhyme, 

A  lady-witch  there  lived  on  Atlas'  mountain. 

Within  a  cavern  )5y  a  secret  fountain. 

IL 

Her  mother  was  one  of  the  Atlantides  : 
The  all-beholding  Sun  had  ne'er  beholden 

In  his, wide  voyage  o'er  continents  and  seas 
So  fair  a  creature,  as  she  lay  enfolden 

In  the  warm  shadow  of  her  loveliness ; — 

He  kiss'd  her  with  his  beams,  and  made  all  goldeu 

The  chamber  of  gray  rock  in  which  she  lay — 

She,  in  that  dream  of  joy,  dissolved  away. 

III. 

'Tis  said,  she  was  first  changed  into  a  vapor. 
And  then  into  a  cloud,  such  clouds  as  Hit, 

Like  splendor-winged  moths  about  a  taper. 
Round  the  red  west  when  the  sun  dies  in  ii  • 

And  then  into  a  meteor,  such  as  caper 
On  hill-tops  when  the  moon  is  in  a  fit  ; 

Then,  into  one  of  those  mysterious  stars 

Which  hide  themselves  between  the  Earth  and  Mars. 

IV. 

Ten  times  the  Mother  of  the  Months  had  bent 
Her  bow  beside  the  folding-star,  and  bidden 

With  that  bright  sign  the  billows  to  indent 

The  sea-deserted  sand  :  like  children  chidden. 

At  her  command  they  ever  came  and  went : — 
Since  in  that  cave  a  dewy  splendor  hidden, 

Took  shape  and  motion :  with  the  living  form 

Of  this  embodied  Power,  the  cave  grew  warm 


A  lovely  lady  garmented  in  light 

From  her  own  beauty — deep  her  eyes,  as  are 
Two  openings  of  unfathomable  night 

Seen  through  a  tempest-cloven  roof — her  hair 
Dark — the  dim  brain  whirls  dizzy  with  delight. 

Picturing  her  form  !  her  soft  smiles  shone  afar, 
And  her  low  voice  was  heard  like  love,  and  drew 
All  living  things  towards  this  wonder  new 
435 


188 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


VI. 

And  first  ihe  spotted  cameleopard  came, 
And  then  the  wise  and  fearless  elephant ; 

Then  the  sly  serpent,  in  the  golden  flame 
Of  his  own  volumes  intervolved  ; — all  gaunt 

And  sanguine  beasts  her  gentle  looks  made  tame. 
They  drank  before  her  at  her  sacred  fount. 

And  every  beast  of  beating  heart  grew  bold, 

Such  gentleness  and  power  even  to  behold. 

VII. 

The  brinded  lioness  led  forth  her  young. 

That  she  might  teach  them  how  they  should  forego 

Their  inborn  thirst  of  death  ;  the  pard  unstrimg 
His  sinews  at  her  feet,  and  sought  to  know. 

With  looks  whose  motions  spoke  without  a  tongue, 
How  he  might  be  as  gentle  as  the  doe. 

The  magic  circle  of  her  voice  and  eyes 

All  savage  natures  did  imparadise. 

VIII. 

And  old  Silenus,  shaking  a  green  stick 
Of  lilies,  and  the  wood-gods  in  a  crew 

Came,  blithe,  as  in  the  olive  copses  thick 
Cicadse  are,  drunk  with  the  noonday  dew  : 

And  Driope  and  Faunus  foUow'd  quick. 

Teasing  the  God  to  sing  them  something  new, 

Till  in  this  cave  they  found  the  lady  lone, 

Sitting  upon  a  seat  of  emerald  stone. 

IX. 

And  Universal  Pan,  'tis  said,  was  there, 

And  though  none  saw  him, — through  the  adamant 

Of  the  deep  mountains,  through  the  trackless  air. 
And  through  those  living  spirits,  like  a  want 

He  past  out  of  his  everlasting  lair 

Where  the  quick  heart  of  the  great  world  doth  pant, 

And  felt  that  wondrous  lady  all  alone, — 

And  she  felt  him,  upon  her  emerald  throne. 

X. 

And  every  nymph  of  stream  and  spreading  tree. 
And  every  shepherdess  of  Ocean's  flocks. 

Who  drives  her  white  waves  over  the  green  sea  ; 
And  Ocean,  with  the  brine  on  his  gray  locks. 

And  quaint  Priapus  with  his  company 

All  came,  much  wondering  how  the  enwombed 
rocks 

Cotild  have  brought  forth  so  beautiful  a  birth  ; — 

Her  love  subdued  their  wonder  and  their  mirth. 

XI. 

The  herdsmen  and  the  mountain  maidens  came, 
And  the  rude  kings  of  pastoral  Garamant — 

These  spirits  shook  within  them,  as  a  flame 
Stirr'd  by  the  air  under  a  cavern  gaunt : 

Pigmies,  and  Polyphemes,  by  many  a  name. 
Centaurs  and  Satyrs,  and  such  shapes  as  haunt 

Wet  clefts, — and  lumps  neither  alive  nor  dead, 

Dog-headed,  bosom-eyed  and  bird-footed. 

XII. 
For  she  was  beautiful  :  her  beauty  made 

The  bright  world  dim,  and  every  thing  beside 
Seem'd  like  the  fleeting  image  of  a  shade  : 

No  thought  of  living  spirit  could  abide, 
Which  to  her  looks  had  ever  been  betray'd. 

On  any  object  in  the  world  so  wide. 
On  any  hope  within  the  circling  skies. 
But  on  her  form,  and  in  her  inmost  eyes 


XIII. 
Which  when  the  lady  knew,  she  took  her  spindlo 

And  twined  three  threads  of  fleecy  mist,  and  three 
Long  lines  of  light,  such  as  the  dawn  may  kindle 

The  clouds  and  waves  and  mountains  with,  and 
she 
As  many  star-beams,  ere  their  lamps  could  dwindle 

In  the  belated  moon,  wound  skilfully ; 
And  with  these  threads  a  subtle  veil  she  wove — 
A  shadow  for  the  splendor  of  her  love. 

XIV. 
The  deep  recesses  of  her  odorous  dwelling 

Were  stored  with  magic  treasures — sounds  of  air 
Which  had  the  power  all  spirits  of  compelling. 

Folded  in  cells  of  crystal  silence  there  ; 
Such  as  we  hear  in  youth,  and  think  the  feeling 

Will  never  die — yet  ere  we  are  aware, 
Tlie  feeling  and  the  sound  are  fled  and  gone, 
And  the  regret  they  leave  remains  alone. 

•\    ^,"       ■  XV. 

And  there  lay  Visions  swift,  and  sweet,  and  quaint, 
Each  in  its  thin  sheath  like  a  chrysalis  ; 

Some  eager  to  burst  forth,  some  weak  and  faint 
With  the  soft  burthen  of  intensest  bliss  ; 

It  is  its  work  to  bear  to  many  a  saint 

Whose  heart  adores  the  shrine  which  holiest  is. 

Even  Love's — and  others  white,  green,  gray,  and 
black. 

And  of  all  shapes — and  each  was  at  her  beck. 

XVI. 
And  odors  in  a  kind  of  aviary 

Of  ever-blooming  Eden-trees  she  kept, 
Clipt  in  a  floating  net,  a  love-sick  Fairy 

Had  woven  from  dew-beams  while  the  moon  yet 
slept; 
As  bats  at  the  wired  window  of  a  dairy, 

They  beat  their  vans  ;  and  each  was  an  adept. 
When  loosed  and  mission'd,  making  wings  of  winds, 
To  stir  sweet  thoughts  or  sad  in  destined  minds 

XVII. 
And  liquors  clear  and  sweet,  whose  healthful  might 

Could  medicine  the  sick  soul  to  happy  sleep. 
And  change  eternal  death  into  a  night 

Of  glorious  dreams — or  if  eyes  needs  must  weep 
Could  make  their  tears  all  wonder  and  delight. 

She  in  her  crystal  vials  did  closely  keep : 
If  men  could  drink  of  those  clear  vials,  'tis  said 
The  living  were  not  envied  of  the  dead. 

xvin. 

Her  cave  was  stored  with  scrolls  of  strange  device, 
The  works  of  some  Satuniian  Archimage, 

Which  taught  the  expiations  at  whose  price 
Men  from  the  Gods  might  win  that  happy  age 

Too  lightly  lost,  redeeming  native  vice ; 

And  which  might  quench  the  earth-consuming  raga 

Of  gold  and  blood — till  men  should  live  and  move 

Harmonious  as  the  sacred  stars  above. 

XIX. 

And  how  all  things  that  seem  untamable, 
Not  to  be  check'd  and  not  to  be  confined, 

Obey  the  spells  of  wisdom's  wizard  skill  : 

Time,  Earth  and  Fire — the  Ocean  and  the  Wind 

And  all  their  shapes — and  man's  imperial  will ; 
And  other  scrolls  whose  writings  did  unbind 

The  inmost  lore  of  Love — let  the  profane 

Tremble  to  ask  what  secrets  they  contain. 
436 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


189 


XX. 

4nd  wondrous  works  of  substances  unknown, 
To  which  the  encliantment  of  her  father's  power 

Had  changed  those  ragged  blocks  of  savage  stone, 
Were  heap'd  in  the  recesses  of  lier  bower ; 

Carved  lamps  and  chalices,  and  pliials  which  shone 
In  their  own  golden  beams — each  like  a  flower, 

Out  of  whose  depth  a  fire-fly  shakes  his  light 

T-'nder  a  cypress  in  a  starle-ss  night. 

XXI. 
At  first  she  lived  alone  in  this  wild  home. 

And  her  own  thoughts  were  each  a  minister. 
Clothing  themselves  or  with  the  ocean-foam. 

Or  with  the  wind,  or  with  the  speed  of  fire. 
To  work  whatever  purposes  might  come 

Into  her  mind  ;  such  power  her  mighty  Sire 
Had  girt  them  with,  whether  to  fly  or  run. 
Through  all  the  regions  which  he  shines  upon. 

XXII. 

The  Ocean-nymphs  and  Hamadryades, 

Oreads  and  Naiads  with  long  weedy  locks, 

Offei'd  to  do  her  bidding  through  the  seas, 
Under  the  earth,  and  in  the  hollow  rocks, 

And  lar  beneath  the  matted  roots  of  trees, 
And  m  the  gnarled  heart  of  stubborn  oaks, 

So  they  might  live  for  ever  in  the  light 

Of  her  sweet  presence — each  a  satellite. 

XXIII. 

"This  may  not  be,"  the  wizard  maid  replied ; 

"  The  fountains  where   the  Naiades  bedew 
Their  shining  hair,  at  length  are  drain'd  and  dried ; 

The  solid  oaks  forget  their  strength,  and  strew 
Their  latest  leaf  upon  the  mountains  wide  ; 

The  boundless  ocean,  like  a  drop  of  dew, 
Will  be  consumed — the  stubborn  centre  must 
Be  scatter'd,  like  a  cloud  of  summer  dust. 

XXIV. 

"  And  ye  with  them  will  perish  one  by  one : 
If  I  must  sigh  to  think  that  this  shall  be. 

If  I  must  weep  when  the  surviving  Sun 
Shall  smile  on  your  decay — Oh,  ask  not  me 

To  love  you  till  your  little  race  is  run  ; 
I  cannot  die  as  ye  must — over  me 

Your  leaves  shall  glance — the  streams  in  which  ye 
dwell 

Shall  be  my  paths  henceforth,  and  so,  farewell!" 

XXV. 

She  spoke  and  wept :  the  dark  and  azure  well 
Sparkled  beneath  the  shower  of  her  bright  tears, 

And  every  little  circlet  where  they  fell. 

Flung  to  the  cavern-roof  inconstant  spheres 

And  intertangled  lines  of  light! — a  knell 
Of  sobbing  voices  came  upon  her  ears 

From  those  departing  I'orms,  o'er  the  serene 

Of  the  while  streams  and  of  the  forest  green. 

XXVI. 

All  day  the  wizard  lady  sat  aloof. 

Spelling  out  scrolls  of  dread  antiquity 

Under  the  cavern's  fountain-lighted  roof; 
Or  broidering  the  pictured  poesy 

Of  some  high  tale  upon  her  growing  woof. 

Which  the  sweet  splendor  of  her  smiles  could  dye 

In  hues  outshining  Heaven — and  ever  she 

Added  some  grace  to  the  wrought  poesy. 


XXVII. 
While  on  her  hearth  lay  blazing  many  a  piece 

Of  sandal-wood,  rare  gums  and  cinnamon; 
Men  scarcely  know  how  beautiftd  fire  is, 

Each  flame  of  it  is  as  a  precious  stone 
Dissolved  in  ever-moving  light,  and  this 

Belongs  to  each  and  all  who  gaze  upon. 
The  Witch  beheld  it  not,  for  in  her  hand 
She  held  a  woof  that  dimm'd  the  burning  brand. 

XXVIII. 

This  lady  never  slept,  but  lay  in  trance 
All  night  within  the  fountain — as  in  sleep. 

Its  emerald  crags  glovv'd  in  her  beauty's  glijnce  : 
Through  the  green  splendor  of  the  water  deep 

She  saw  the  constellations  reel  and  dance 
Like  fire-flies — and  withal  did  ever  keep 

The  tenor  of  her  contemplations  calm. 

With  open  eyes,  closed  feet  and  folded  palm. 

XXIX. 

And  when  the  whirlwinds  and  the  clouds  descended 
From  the  white  pinnacles  of  that  cold  hill, 

She  past  at  dewfall  to  a  space  extended. 
Where  in  a  lawn  of  flowering  asphodel 

Amid  a  wood  of  pines  and  cedars  blended. 
There  yawn'd  an  inextinguishable  well 

Of  crimson  fire,  full  even  to  the  brim, 

And  overflowing  all  the  margin  trim. 

XXX. 

Within  the  which  she  lay  when  the  fierce  war 
Of  wintry  winds  shook  that  innocuous  liquor 

In  many  a  mimic  moon  and  bearded  star. 

O'er  woods  and  lawns — the  serpent  heard  it  flicker 

In  sleep,  and  dreaming  still,  he  crept  afar — 

And  when  the  windless  snow  descended  thicker 

Than  autumn  leaves,  she  watch'd  it  as  it  came 

Melt  on  the  surface  of  the  level  flame. 

XXXI. 

She  had  a  Boat  which  some  say  Vulcan  wrought 
For  Venus,  as  the  chariot  of  her  star; 

But  it  was  found  too  feeble  to  be  fraught 

With  all  the  ardors  in  that  sphere  which  are. 

And  so  she  sold  it,  and  Apollo  bought, 
And  gave  it  to  this  daughter:  from  a  car 

Changed  to  the  fairest  and  the  lightest  boat 

Which  ever  upon  mortal  stream  did  float. 

XXXII. 

And  others  say,  that  when  but  three  hours  old. 
The  first-born  Love  out  of  his  cradle  leapt, 

And  clove  dun  Chaos  with  his  wings  of  gold. 
And  like  a  horticultural  adopt. 

Stole  a  strange  seed,  and  wrapt  it  up  in  mould. 
And  sow'd  it  in  his  mother's  star,  and  kept 

Watering  it  all  the  summer  with  sweet  dew, 

And  with  his  wings  fanning  it  as  it  grew. 

XXXIII. 

The  plant  grew  strong  and  green — the  sno^vy  flower 
Fell,  and  ihe  long  and  gourd-like  fruit  began 

To  turn  the  light  and  dew  by  inward  power 
To  its  own  substance ;  woven  tracery  ran 

Of  light  firm  texture,  ribb'd  and  branching,  o'er 
The  solid  rind,  like  a  leafs  veined  fan. 

Of  w  hich  Lf>ve  scoop'd  this  Iwat,  and  with  soft  motion 

Piloted  it  round  the  circumfluous  ocean. 
57  437 


190 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXXIV. 

This  boat  she  moor'd  upon  her  fount,  and  Ut 

A  living  spirit  within  all  ils  frame, 
Breathing  the  soul  of  swiftness  into  it. 

Couch'd  on  the  fountain  like  a  panther  tame. 
One  of  the  twain  at  Evan's  feet  that  sit ; 

Or  as  on  Vesla's  sceptre  a  swift  flame. 
Or  on  blind  Homer's  heart  a  winged  thought, — 
In  joyous  expectation  lay  the  boat. 

XXXV. 

Then  by  strange  art  .she  kneaded  fire  and  snow 
Together,  tempering  the  repugnant  mass 

With  liquid  love — all  things  together  grow 

Through  which  the  harmony  of  love  can  pass ; 

And  a  fair  Shape  out  of  her  hands  did  flow 
A  living  Image,  which  did  far  surpass 

In  beauty  that  bright  shape  of  vital  stone 

Which  drew  the  heart  out  of  Pygmalion. 

XXXVI. 

A  sexless  thing  it  was,  and  in  its  growth 
It  seem'd  to  have  developed  no  defect 

Of  either  sex,  yet  all  the  grace  of  both, — 

In  gentleness  and  strength  its  limbs  were  deck'd  ; 

The  bosom  lightly  swell'd  with  its  full  youth, 
The  countenance  was  such  as  might  select 

Some  artist  that  his  skill  should  never  die. 

Imaging  forth  such  perfect  purity. 

XXXVII. 
iFrom  its  smooth  shoulders  hung  two  rapid  wings, 

Fit  to  have  borne  it  to  the  seventh  sphere, 
Tipt  with  the  speed  of  liquid  lightnings. 

Dyed  in  the  odors  of  the  atmosphere  : 
"Bhe  led  her  creature  to  the  boiling  springs 

Where  the  light  boat  was    moor'd, — and   said — 
"Sit  here!" 
And  pointed  to  the  prow,  and  took  her  seat 
Beside  the  rudder  with  opposing  feet. 

XXXVIII. 
And  down  the  streams  which  clove  those  mountains 
vast 
Around  their  inland  islets,  and  amid 
The  panther-peopled  forests,  whose  shade  cast 

Darkness  and  odors,  and  a  pleasure  hid 
In  melancholy  gloom,  the  pinnace  past  ; 

By  many  a  star-surrounded  pyramid 
■  Of  icy  crag  cleaving  the  purple  sky. 
And  caverns  yawning  round  unfathoraably. 

XXXIX. 

The  silver  noon  into  that  winding  dell, 

With  slanted  gleam  athwart  the  forest  tops, 

Temper'd  like  golden  evening,  feebly  fell ; 

A  green  and  glowing  light,  like  that  which  drops 

From  folded  lilies  in  which  glow-worms  dwell. 
When  earth  over  her  face  night's  mantle  wraps  ; 

Between  the  sever'd  mountains  lay  on  high 

Over  the  stream,  a  narrow  rift  of  sky. 

XL. 

And  ever  as  she  went,  the  Image  lay 

With  folded  wings  and  unawaken'd  eyes ; 

And  o'er  its  gentle  countenance  did  play 
The  busy  dreams,  as  thick  as  summer  flies, 

Chasing  the  rapid  smiles  that  would  not  stay, 
And  drinking  the  warm  tears,  and  the  sweet 

Inhaling,  which,  with  busy  murmur  vain. 

They  had  aroused  from  that  full  heart  and  brain. 


XLI. 

And  ever  down  the  prone  vale,  like  a  cloud 
Upon  a  stream  of  wind,  the  pinnace  went: 

Now  lingering  on  the  pools,  in  which  abode 
The  calm  and  darkness  of  the  deep  content 

In  which  they  paused  ;  now  o'er  the  shallow  road 
Of  white  and  dancing  waters  all  besprent 

With  sands  and  polish'd  pebbles : — mortal  boat 

In  such  a  shallow  rapid  could  not  float. 

XLII. 

And  down  the  earthquaking  cataracts  which  shive! 

Their  snow-like  waters  into  golden  air, 
Or  under  chasms  unfothomable  ever 

Sepulchre  them,  till  in  their  rage  they  tear 
A  subterranean  portal  for  the  river. 

It  fled — the  circling  sunbows  did  upbear 
Its  fall  down  the  hoar  precipice  of  spray, 
Lighting  it  far  upon  its  lampless  way. 

XLIII. 

And  when  the  wizard  lady  would  ascend 
The  labyrinths  of  some  many-winding  vale. 

Which  to  the  inmost  mountain  upward  tend — 
She  call'd  "  Hermaphroditus  ! "  and  the  pale 

And  heavy  hue  which  slumber  could  extend 
Over  its  lips  and  eyes,  as  on  the  gale 

A  rapid  shadow  from  a  slope  of  grass, 

Into  the  darkness  of  the  Stream  did  pass. 

XLIV. 

And  it  unfurl'd  its  Heaven-color'd  pinions, 
With  stars  of  fire  spotting  the  stream  below  , 

And  from  above  into  the  Sun's  dominions 
Flinging  a  glory,  like  the  golden  glow 

In  which  spring  clothes  her  emerald-winged  miniona 
All  interwoven  with  fine  feathery  snow 

And  moonlight  splendor  of  intensest  rime, 

With  which  frost  paints  the  pines  in  winter-lime. 

XLV. 

And  then  it  winnow'd  the  Elysian  air 
Which  ever  hung  about  tliat  lady  bright, 

With  ils  ethereal  vans — and  speeding  there, 
Like  a  star  up  the  torrent  of  the  night. 

Or  a  swift  eagle  in  the  morning  glare 

Breasting  the  whirlwind  with  impetuous  flight; 

The  pinnace,  oar'd  by  those  enchanted  wings. 

Clove  the  fierce  streams  towards  their  upper  springi 

XLVI. 

The  water  flash'd  like  sunlight,  by  the  prow 
Of  a  noon-wandering  meteor  flung  to  Heaven ; 

The  still  air  seem'd  as  if  its  waves  did  flow 

In  tempest  down  the  mountains, — loosely  driven 

The  lady's  radiant  hair  stream'd  to  and  fro : 
Beneath,  the  billows  having  vainly  striven 

Indignant  and  impetuous,  roar'd  to  feel 

The  swift  and  steady  motion  of  the  keel. 

XLVII. 

Or,  when  the  weary  moon  was  in  the  wane. 

Or  in  the  noon  of  interlunar  night. 
The  lady-witch  in  visions  could  not  chain 

Her  spirit ;  but  sail'd  forth  under  the  light 
Of  shooting  stars,  and  bade  extend  amain 

His  siorm-outspeeding  wings,  th'  HermaphrodilP , 
She  to  tlie  Austral  waters  took  her  way, 
Beyond  the  fabulous  Thamondocona. 
438 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


191" 


xLviir. 

Where,  like  a  meadow  which  no  sryllic  has  shaven, 
Wliich  rain  could  never  bend,  or  whirl-blast  shake 

With  the  Antarctic  constellations  haven, 

Canopus  and  his  crew,  lay  th'  Austral  lake — 

There  she  would  build  lierself  a  windless  haven 
Out  of  tlie  clouds  whose  moving  turrets  make 

The  bastions  of  the  storm,  when  through  the  sky 

The  spirits  of  the  tempest  thunder'd  by. 

XLIX. 

A  haven,  beneath  whose  translucent  floor 
The  tremulous  stars  sparkled  imfathomably, 

And  around  which,  the  solid  vapors  hoar, 
Based  on  the  level  waters,  to  the  sky 

Lifted  their  dreadful  crags  ;  and  like  a  shore 
Of  wintry  mountains,  inaccessibly 

Hemm'd  in  with  rifts  and  precipices  gray, 

Aud  hanging  crags,  many  a  cove  and  bay. 


And  whilst  the  outer  lake  beneath  the  lash 

Of  the  winds'  scourge,  foam'd  like  a  wounded  thing; 

And  the  incessant  hail  with  stony  cla-sh  ^ 

Plow'd  up  the  waters,  and  the  flagging  wing 

Of  the  roused  cormorant  in  the  lightning  flash 
Look'd  like  the  wreck  of  some  wind-wandering 

Fragment  of  inky  thunder-smoke — this  haven 

Was  as  a  gem  to  copy  Heaven  engraven. 

LI. 

On  which  that  lady  play'd  her  many  pranks. 
Circling  the  image  of  a  shooting  star, 

Even  as  a  tiger  on  Hydaspes'  banks 

Outspeeds  the  antelopes  which  speediest  are. 

In  her  light  boat ;  and  many  quips  and  cranks 
Slie  play'd  upon  the  water ;  till  the  car 

Of  the  late  moon,  like  a  sick  matron  wan, 

To  journey  from  the  misty  east  began. 

LII. 

And  then  .she  call'd  out  of  the  hollow  turrets 

Of  those  high  clouds,  white,  golden  and  vermilion, 

The  armies  of  her  ministering  spirits — 
In  mighty  legions,  million  after  million 

They  came,  each  troop  emblazoning  its  merits 
On  meteor  flags ;  and  many  a  proud  pavilion, 

Of  the  intertexture  of  the  atmosphere. 

They  pitch'd  upon  the  plain  of  the  calm  mere. 

LIII. 
They  framed  the  imperial  tent  of  their  great  Queen 

Of  woven  exhalations,  underlaid 
With  lambent  lightning-fire,  as  may  be  seen 

A  dome  of  thin  and  open  ivory  inlaid 
With  crimson  silk — cressets  from  the  serene 

Hung  there,  and  on  the  water  for  her  tread, 
A  tapestry  oC  fleece-like  mist  was  strewn, 
Dyed  in  the  beams  of  the  ascending  moon. 

LIV. 

And  on  a  throne  o'erlaid  with  star-light,  caught 
Upon  those  wandering  isles  of  atiry  dew, 

Which  highest  shoals  of  mountain  shipwreck  not, 
She  sale,  and  heard  all  that  had  happen'd  new 

Between  the  earth  and  moon  since  they  had  brouohl 
The  last  intelligence — and  now  she  grew 

Pale  as  that  moon,  lost  in  the  watery  night — 

And  now  she  wept,  and  now  she  laugh'd  outright. 


L\^ 

These  were  tame  pleasures. — She  would  often  climb 
The  steepest  ladder  of  the  crudded  rack 

Up  to  some  beaked  cape  of  cloud  sublime, 
And  like  Arion  on  the  dolphin's  back 

Ride  singing  through  the  shoreless  air.    Oft-time 
Following  the  serpent  lightning's  winding  track 

She  ran  upon  the  platforms  of  the  wind. 

And  laugh'd  to  hear  the  fire-balls  roar  behind. 

LVI. 

And  sometimes  to  those  streams  of  upper  air, 
Which  whirl  the  earth  in  its  diurnal  round. 

She  would  ascend,  and  win  the  spirits  there 
To  let  her  join  their  chorus.    Mortals  fouM 

That  on  those  days  the  sky  was  calm  and  fair. 
And  mystic  snatches  of  harmonious  sound 

Wander'd  upon  the  earth  where'er  she  past. 

And  happy  thoughts  of  hope,  too  sweet  to  last 

LVII. 
But  her  choice  sport  was,  in  the  hours  of  sleep, 

To  glide  adown  old  Nitus.f  hen  he  threads 
Egypt  and  Ethiopia,  from  the  steep 

Of  utmost  Axume,  until  he  spreads. 
Like  a  calm  flock  of  sOver-fleeced  sheep, 

His  waters  on  the  plain :  and  crested  heads 
Of  cities  and  proud  temples  gleam  amid, 
And  many  a  vapor-belted  pyramid. 

LVIII. 

By  Mffiris  and  the  Mareotid  lakes. 

Strewn  with  faint  blooms  like  bridal-chamber  floois, 
Where  naked  boys  bridling  tame  water-snakes, 

Or  charioteering  ghastly  alligators. 
Had  left  on  the  sweet  v\'aters  mighty  wakes 

Of  those  huge  forms: — within  the  brazen  doors 
Of  the  great  Labyrinth  slept  both  boy  and  beast. 
Tired  with  the  pomp  of  their  Osirian  feast. 

LIX. 

And  where  within  the  surfiice  of  the  river 
The  shadows  of  the  massy  temples  lie, 

And  never  are  erased — but  tremble  ever 

Like  things  which  every  cloud  can  doom  to  die, 

Through  lotus-paven  canals,  and  wheresoever 
The  works  of  man  pierced  that  serenest  sky 

With  tombs,  and  towers,  and  fanes,  't  w  as  her  delight 

To  wander  in  the  shadow  of  the  night. 

LX. 

With  motion  like  the  spirit  of  that  wind 

Whose  soft  step  deepens  slumber,  her  light  feet 

Past  through  the  peopled  haunts  of  human-kind. 
Scattering  sweet  visions  from  her  presence  sweet, 

Through  fane  and  palace-court  and  labyrinth  mined 
With  many  a  dark  and  subterranean  street 

Under  the  INile ;  through  chambers  high  and  deep 

She  past,  observing  mortals  in  their  sleep. 

LXI. 

A  pleasure  sweet  doubtless  it  was  to  see 
Mortals  subdued  in  all  the  shapes  of  sleep. 

Here  lay  two  sister-twins  in  infancy ; 

There,  a  lone  youth  who  in  his  dreams  did  weep 

Within,  two  lovers  link'd  innocently 

In  their  loose  locks  wliich  over  liotli  did  creep 

Like  ivy  from  one  stem  ; — and  there  lay  calm. 

Old  age  with  snow-bright  hair  and  folded  palm 
439 


192 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


LXII. 

But  other  troubled  forms  of  sleep  she  saw, 

Kot  to  be  mirror'd  in  a  holy  song, 
Distortions  foul  of  supernatural  awe. 

And  pale  imaginings  of  vision'd  wrong, 
And  all  the  code  of  custom's  lawless  law 

\Vritten  upon  the  brows  of  old  and  young : 
'  This,"  said  the  wizard  maiden,  "  is  the  strife. 
Which  stirs  the  liquid  surface  of  man's  hfe." 

LXIII. 
And  little  did  the  sight  disturb  her  soul — 

We,  the  weak  hiariners  of  that  wide  lake, 
Where'w  its  shores  extend  or  billows  roll. 

Our  course  unpiloted  and  starless  make 
O'er  its  wide  surface  to  an  unknown  goal — 

But  she  in  the  calm  depths  her  way  could  take, 
Where  in  bright  bowers  immortal  forms  abide, 
Beneath  the  weltering  of  the  restless  tide. 

LXIV. 

And  she  saw  princes  couch'd  under  the  glow 
Of  sunlike  gems  ;  and  round  each  temple-court 

In  dormitories  ranged,  row  after  row. 

She  saw  the  priests  asleep, — all  of  one  sort. 

For  all  were  educated  to  be  so ; — 

The  peasants  in  their  huts,  and  in  the  port 

The  sailors  she  saw  cradled  on  the  waves. 

And  the  dead  luU'd  within  their  dreamless  graves. 

LXV. 

And  all  the  forms  in  which  those  spirits  lay 
Were  to  her  siglit  like  the  diaphanous 

Veils,  in  which  those  sweet  ladies  oft  array 

Their  delicate  limbs,  who  would  conceal  from  us 

Only  their  scorn  of  all  concealment :  they 
Move  in  the  light  of  their  own  beauty  thus. 

But  these,  and  all,  now  lay  with  sleep  upon  them, 

And  little  thought  a  Witch  was  loolung  on  them. 

LXVI. 

She  all  those  human  figures  breathing  there 

Beheld  as  living  spirits — to  her  eyes 
The  naked  beauty  of  the  soul  lay  bare. 

And  often  through  a  rude  and  worn  disguise 
She  saw  the  inner  form  most  bright  and  fair — 

And  then, — she  had  a  charm  of  strange  device, 
Which  murmur'd  on  mute  lips  witli  tender  tone, 
Could  make  that  spirit  mingle  with  her  own. 

LXVII. 

Alas,  Aurora !  what  wouldst  thou  have  given. 
For  such  a  charm,  when  Tithon  became  gray ! 

Or  how  much,  \'enus,  of  ihy  silver  Heaven 
Wouldst  thou  have  yielded,  ere  Proserpina 

Had  half  (oh  !  wliy  not  all  ?}  the  debt  forgiven 
Which  dear  Adonais  had  been  doom'd  to  pay, 

To  any  witch  who  would  have  taught  you  it! 

The  Ileliad  doth  not  know  its  value  yet. 

LXVIII. 
'T  is  said  in  after-times  her  spirit  free 

Knew  what  love  was,  and  felt  itself  alone-— 
But  holy  Dian  could  not  chaster  be 

Before  she  sloop'd  lo  kiss  Endymion, 
Than  now  this  lady — like  a  sexless  bee 

Tasting  all  blossoms,  and  confined  to  none — 
Among  those  mortal  forms,  the  wizard  maiden 
Pass'd  with  an  eye  serene  and  heart  unladen. 


LXIX. 

To  those  she  saw  most  beautiful,  she  gave 

Strange  panacea  in  a  crystal  bowl. 
They  drank  in  their  deep  sleep  of  that  sweet  wave 

And  lived  thenceforth  as  if  some  control 
Mightier  than  life,  were  in  them  ;  and  the  grave 

Of  such,  when  death  oppress'd  the  weary  soul, 
Was  as  a  green  and  over-arching  bower. 
Lit  by  the  gems  of  many  a  starry  flower. 

LXX. 

For  on  the  night  that  they  were  buried,  she 
Restored  the  embalmers'  ruining,  and  shook 

The  light  out  of  the  funeral  lamps,  to  be 
A  mimic  day  within  that  deathly  nook ; 

And  she  unwound  the  woven  imagery 

Of  second  childhood's  swaddling-bands,  and  took 

The  coffin,  its  last  cradle,  from  its  niche. 

And  threw  it  with  contempt  into  a  ditch. 

LXXI. 

And  there  the  body  lay,  age  after  age. 

Mute,  breathing,  beating,  warm,  and  undecaying, 
Like  one  asleep  in  a  green  hermitage. 

With  gentle  sleep  about  its  eyelids  playing. 
And  living  in  its  dreams  beyond  the  rage 

Of  death  or  life  ;  while  they  were  still  arraying 
In  liveries  ever  new,  the  rapid,  blind 
And  fleeting  generations  of  mankind. 

LXXII. 

And  she  would  write  strange  dreams  upon  the  brain 
Of  those  who  were  less  beautiful,  and  make 

All  harsh  and  crooked  purposes  more  vain 
Than  in  the  desert  is  the  serpent's  wake 

Which  the  sand  covers, — all  his  evil  gain 

The  miser  in  such  dreams  would  rise  and  shake 

Into  a  beggar's  lap; — the  lying  scribe 

Would  his  own  lies  betray  without  a  bribe.    • 

LXXIII. 

The  priests  would  write  an  explanation  full, 
Translating  hieroglyphics  into  Greek, 

How  the  god  Apis  really  was  a  bull. 

And  nothing  more ;  and  bid  the  herald  stick 

The  same  against  the  temple-doors,  and  pull 
The  old  cant  down ;  they  licensed  all  to  speak 

Whate'er  they  thought  of  hawks,  and  cats,  and  geese. 

By  pastoral  letters  to  each  diocese. 

LXXIV. 

The  king  would  dress  an  ape  up  in  his  crown 
And  robes,  and  seat  him  on  his  glorious  seat. 

And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  sunlike  throne 
Would  place  a  gaudy  mock-bird  to  repeat 

The  chatterings  of  the  monkey. — Every  one 
Of  the  prone  courtiers  crawl'd  to  kiss  the  feet 

Of  their  great  Emperor  when  the  morning  came , 

And  kiss'd — alas,  how  many  kiss  the  same ! 

LXXV. 

The  soldiers  dream'd  that  they  were  blacksmiths,  and 
VValk'd  out  of  quarters  in  somnambulism  : 

Round  the  red  anvils  you  might  see  them  stand 
Like  Cyclopses  in  Vulcan's  sooty  abysm. 

Beating  iheir  swords  lo  plowshares; — in  a  band 
The  jailei-s  sent  those  of  the  liberal  schism 

Free  through  the  streets  of  Memphis ;  much,  I  wis. 

To  the  annoyance  of  king  Amasis. 

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MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


193 


L\X\I. 

And  timid  lovers,  who  had  liocii  so  coy 
Tiiey  hardly  knew  whclhcr  ihey  loved  or  not. 

Would  rise  out  of  their  rest,  and  take  sweet  joy, 
To  the  f'ullilinent  of  their  iiuuosi  thought; 

And  when  next  day  the  maiden  and  the  boy 
Met  one  another,  both,  like  sinners  caught, 

Blush'd  at  the  thing  which  each  believed  was  done 

Only  in  fancy — till  the  tenth  moon  shone  ; 

LXXVII. 

And  then  the  Witch  would  let  them  take  no  ill  : 
Of  many  thousand  schemes  which  lovers  find 

The  Witch  found  one, — and  so  they  took  their  fill 
Of  happiness  in  marriage  warm  and  kind. 

Friends  who  by  practice  of  some  envious  skill 
Were  torn  apart,  a  wide  wound,  mind  from  mind  I 

She  did  unite  again  with  visions  clear 

Of  deep  afTectinn  and  of  truth  sincere. 

LXXVIII. 
These  were  the  pranks  she  play'd  among  the  cities 

Of  mortal  men,  and  what  she  did  to  sprites 
And  Gods,  entangling  them  in  her  sweet  ditties 

To  do  her  will,  and  show  their  subtle  sleights, 
I  will  declare  another  time  ;  for  it  is 

A  tale  more  fit  for  the  weird  winter  nights — 
Than  for  these  garish  summer  days,  when  we 
Scarcely  believe  much  more  than  we  can  see. 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LIFE. 

Swift  as  a  spirit  hastening  to  his  task 

Of  glory  and  of  good,  the  Sun  sprang  forth 

Rejoicing  in  his  splendor,  and  the  mask 

Of  darkness  fell  from  the  awaken'd  Earth — 
The  smokeless  altars  of  the  mountain  snows 
Flamed  aljove  crimson  clouds,  and  at  the  birth 

Of  light,  the  Ocean's  orison  arose, 

To  which  the  birds  temper'd  their  matin  lay  ; 

All  flowers  in  field  or  forest  which  unclose 

Their  trembling  eyelids  to  the  kiss  of  day, 
Swinging  their  censers  in  the  element. 
With  orient  incense  lit  by  the  new  ray, 

Bum'd  slow  and  inconsumably,  and  sent 
Their  odorous  sighs  up  to  the  smiling  air; 
And,  in  succession  due,  did  continent, 

Isle,  ocean,  and  all  things  that  in  them  wear 
The  form  and  character  of  mortal  mould. 
Rise  as  the  sun  their  father  rose,  to  bear 

Their  portion  of  the  toil,  which  he  of  old 
Took  as  his  own  and  then  imposed  on  them : 
]>ut  I,  whom  thoughts  which  must  remain  untold 

Had  kept  as  wakeful  as  the  stars  that  gem 
The  cone  of  night,  now  they  were  laid  asleep, 
Stretch'd  my  faint  limbs  beneath  the  hoary  stem 

Which  an  old  chestnut  flung  athwart  the  steep 
Of  a  green  Apennine:  before  me  fled 
The  night;  behind  me  rose  the  day;  the  deep 
3F 


Was  at  my  feet,  and  Heaven  above  my  head, 
When  a  strange  trance  over  my  fancy  grew. 
Which  was  not  slumber,  lor  the  shade  it  spread 

Was  so  transparent,  that  the  scene  came  through 
As  clear  as  when  a  veil  of  light  is  drawn 
O'er  evening  hills  they  glimmer ;  and  1  knew 

That  I  had  felt  the  freshness  of  that  dawn. 
Bathed  in  the  same  cold  dew  my  brow  and  hair. 
And  sate  as  thus  upon  that  slope  of  lawn 

Under  the  self-same  bough,  and  heard  as  there 
The  birds,  the  fountains,  and  the  ocean  hold 
Sweet  talk  in  music  through  the  enamor'd  air, 
And  then  a  vision  on  my  brain  was  roU'd. 


As  in  that  trance  of  wondrous  thought  I  lay, 
This  was  the  tenor  of  my  waking  dream  : — 
Methought  I  sate  beside  a  pubUc  way 

Thick  strewn  with  summer  dust,  and  a  great  stream 
Of  people  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
Num.erous  as  gnats  upon  the  evening  gleam, 

.\11  hastening  onward ;  yet  none  seem'd  to  know 
Whither  he  went,  or  whence  he  came,  or  why 
He  made  one  of  the  multitude,  and  so 

Was  borne  amid  the  crowd,  as  through  the  sky 
One  of  the  million  leaves  of  summer's  bier; 
Old  age  and  youth,  manhood  and  infancy, 

Mix'd  in  one  mighty  torrent  did  appear. 

Some  flying  from  the  thing  they  fear'd,  and  some 

Seeking  the  object  of  another's  fear; 

And  others,  as  with  steps  towards  the  tomb, 
Pored  on  the  trodden  worms  that  crawi'd  beneath ; 
And  others  mournfully  within  the  gloom 

Of  their  own  shadow  walk'd,  and  call'd  it  death  ; 
And  some  fled  from  it  as  it  were  a  ghost. 
Half  fainting  in  the  affliction  of  vain  breath  : 

But  more,  with  motions  which  each  other  crost. 
Pursued  or  spurn'd  the  shadows  the  clouds  threw, 
Or  birds  within  the  noonday  ether  lost. 

Upon  that  path  where  flowers  never  grew. 
And  weary  with  vain  toil  and  faint  for  thirst. 
Heard  not  the  fountains,  whose  melodious  dew 

Out  of  their  mossy  cells  for  ever  burst ; 

Nor  felt  the  breeze  which  from  the  forest  told 

Of  grassy  paths  and  wood,  lawn-interspersed, 

With  overarching  elms  and  caverns  cold, 

.And  violet  banks  where  sweet  dreams  brood,  but  they 

Pursued  their  serious  folly  as  of  old. 

And  as  I  gazed,  methought  that  in  the  way 
The  throng  grew  wilder,  as  the  woods  of  June 
When  the  south  wind  shakes  the  extinguish'd  day ; 
441 


194 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  a  cold  glare,  intenser  than  the  noon, 
But  icy  cold,  obscured  with  [blinding]  light 
The  sun,  as  he  the  stars.    Like  the  young  moon, 

When  on  the  siinlit  limits  of  the  night 
Her  white  shell  trembles  amid  crimson  air. 
And  whilst  the  sleeping  tempest  gathers  might. 

Doth,  as  the  herald  of  its  coming,  bear 

The  ghost  of  its  dead  mother,  whose  dim  frown 

Bends  in  dark  elher  from  her  iniant's  chair, — 

So  came  a  chariot  on  the  silent  storm 
Of  its  own  rushing  splendor,  and  a  Shape 
So  sate  within,  as  one  whom  years  deform, 

Beneath  a  dusky  hood  and  double  cape. 

Crouching  within  the  shadow  of  a  tomb  ; 

And  o'er  what  seem'd  the  head  a  cloud-like  crape 

Was  bent,  a  dun  and  faint  ethereal  gloom 
Tempering  the  light  upon  the  chariot  beam; 
A  Janus-visaged  shadow  did  assume 

The  guidance  of  that  wonder-winged  team ; 
The  shapes  which  drew  it  in  thick  lightnings 
Were  lost : — I  heard  alone  on  the  air's  soft  stream 

The  music  of  their  ever-moving  wings. 

All  the  four  faces  of  that  charioteer 

Jlad  their  eyes  banded;  Utile  profit  brings 

Speed  in  the  van  and  blindness  in  the  rear, 
]Nor  then  avail  the  beams  that  quench  the  sun. 
Or  that  with  banded  eyes  could  pierce  the  sphere 

Of  all  that  is,  has  been  or  will  be  done ; 
So  ill  was  the  car  guided— but  it  past 
With  solemn  speed  majestically  on. 

The  crowd  gave  way,  and  I  arose  aghast, 
Or  seem'd  to  rise,  so  mighty  was  the  trance. 
And  saw,  like  clouds  upon  the  thunder's  blast, 

The  million  with  fierce  song  and  maniac  dance 
Raging  around — such  seem'd  the  jubilee 
As  when  to  meet  some  conqueror's  advance 

Imperial  Rome  pour'd  forth  her  living  sea, 
From  senate-house,  and  forum,  and  theatre, 
When  [  ]  upon  the  free 

Had  bound  a  yoke,  which  soon  they  stoop'd  to  bear. 
IVor  wanted  here  the  just  similitude 
Of  a  triumphal  pageant,  for  where'er 

The  chariot  roll'd,  a  captive  multitude 

Was  driven; — all  those  who  had  grown  old  in  power 

Or  misery, — all  who  had  their  age  subdued 

By  action  or  by  suffering,  and  whose  hour 

Was  drain'd  to  its  last  sand  in  weal  or  woe, 

So  that  the  trunk  survived  both  fruit  and  flower ; — 

All  those  whose  fame  or  infamy  must  grow 
Till  the  great  winter  lay  tlie  form  and  name 
Of  this  green  earth  with  them  for  ever  low ; — 


All  but  the  sacred  few  who  could  not  lame 
Their  spirits  to  the  conquerors — but  as  soon 
As  they  had  touch'd  the  world  with  living  flame. 

Fled  back  like  eagles  to  their  native  noon ; 

Or  those  who  put  aside  tlie  diadem 

Of  earthly  thrones  or  gems  [  ] 

Were  there,  of  Athens  or  Jerusalem, 

Were  neither  'mid  the  mighty  captives  seen, 

JNor  'mid  the  ribald  crowd  that  foUow'd  them. 

Nor  those  who  went  before  fierce  and  obscene. 
The  wild  dance  maddens  in  the  van,  and  those 
Who  lead  it,  fleet  as  shadows  on  the  green, 

Outspeed  the  chariot,  and  without  repose 
Mix  with  eacii  other  in  tempestuous  measure 
To  savage  music;  wilder  as  it  grows. 

They,  tortured  by  their  agonizing  pleasure, 
Convulsed  and  on  the  rapid  whirlwinds  spun 
Of  that  fierce  spirit,  whose  unholy  leisure 

Was  soothed  by  mischief  since  the  world  begun 
Throw  back  their  heads  and  loose  their  streaming  hail , 
And  in  their  dance  round  her  who  dims  the  sun, 

Maidens  and  youths  fling  their  wild  arms  in  air ; 
As  their  feet  twinkle,  they  recede,  and  now 
Bending  within  each  other's  atmosphere 

Kindle  invisibly — and  as  they  glow. 

Like  moths  by  liglit  attracted  and  repell'd. 

Oft  to  their  bright  destruction  come  and  go. 

Till,  like  two  clouds  into  one  vale  impell'd. 

That  shake  the  mountains  when  their  lightnings  mingle 

And  die  in  rain — the  fiery  band  which  held 

Their  natures,  snaps — the  shock  still  may  tingle ; 
One  falls  and  then  another  in  the  path 
Senseless — nor  is  the  desolation  single ; 

Yet  ere  I  can  say  where — the  chariot  hath 
Past  over  them — nor  other  trace  I  find 
But  as  of  foam  after  the  ocean's  wrath 

Is  spent  upon  the  desert  shore  : — behind. 
Old  men  and  women  foully  disarray 'd. 
Shake  their  gray  hairs  in  the  insulting  wind, 

To  seek,  to  [  ],  to  strain  with  limbs  decay'd, 

Limping  to  reach  the  light  which  leaves  them  still 
Farther  behind  and  deeper  in  the  shade. 

But  not  the  less  with  impotence  of  will 
They  wheel,  though  ghastly  shadows  interpose 
Round  them  and  round  each  otlier,  and  fulfil 

Their  work,  and  in  the  dust  from  whence  they  rose 

Sink,  and  corruption  veils  them  as  they  lie. 

And  past  in  these  performs  what  [  ]  in  thoso 

Struck  to  the  heart  by  this  sad  pageantry. 
Half  to  myself  I  said — And  what  is  this? 
Wliose  shape  is  that  within  the  car  ?  And  why- 
442 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


195 


I  would  have  added— is  all  here  aniiss  ?— 

But  a  voice  aiisvver'd-^"  Lii'c  ! " — I  tuni'd,  and  knew 

(Oh  Heaven,  have  mercy  on  sir  h  w  relchedness  I) 

That  what  I  thought  was  an  old  root  which  grew 
To  strange  distortion  out  of  the  hill-side, 
Was  indeed  one  of  those  deluded  crew. 

And  that  the  grass,  which  methought  hung  so  wide 
Anil  while,  was  hut  his  thin  discolor'd  hair. 
And  thai  I'.ie  holes  it  vainly  sought  to  hide. 

Were  or  had  been  eyes : — "  If  thou  canst  forbear 
To  join  the  dance,  which  I  had  well  forborne  ! " 
Saiil  the  grim  Feature  of  my  thought:  "Aware, 

"  I  will  unfold  that  which  to  this  deep  scorn 
Led  me  and  my  companions,  and  relate 
The  progress  of  the  pageant  since  the  morn ; 

"  If  thirst  of  knowledge  shall  not  then  abate, 

Follow  it  thou  even  to  the  night,  but  I 

Am  weary." — Then  like  one  who  with  the  weight 

Of  his  own  words  is  stagger'd,  wearily 

He  paused ;  and  ere  he  could  rasume,  I  cried : 

"  Fii-st,  who  art  thou  ? " — "  Before  thy  memory, 

"  I  fear'd,  loved,  liateil,  suffer'd,  did  and  died. 
And  if  the  spark  with  which  Heaven  lit  my  spirit 
Had  been  with  purer  sentiment  supplied, 

"  Corruption  would  not  now  thus  much  inherit 
Of  what  was  once  Rousseau, — nor  this  disguise 
Stain'd  that  which  ought  to  have  disdain'd  to  wear  it ; 

'•  If  I  have  been  exlinguish'd,  5-01  there  rise 
A  thousand  beacons  from  the  spark  I  bore'' — 
"And  who  are  those  chain'd  to  the  car?" — "The  wise, 

"The  groat   the  unforgotlen, — they  who  wore 
Mitres  and  helms  and  crowns,  or  wreaths  of  light, 
Signs  of  thought's  empire  over  thought — their  lore 

'■  Taught  them  not  this,  to  know  themselves;  their  might 

Could  not  repress  the  mystery  within. 

And  lor  the  morn  of  truth  they  feign'd,  deep  night 

"  Caught  them  ere  evening." — "Who  is  he  with  chin 
Upon  his  breast,  and  hands  crosl  on  his  chain  ? " — 
"  The  Child  of  a  fierce  hour;  he  sought  to  win 

"  The  world,  and  lost  all  that  it  did  contain 
Of  greatness,  in  its  hope  dcstroy'd  ;  and  more 
Of  fame  and  peace  than  virtue's  self  can  gain, 

"  ^Vilhout  the  opportunity  which  bore 

Him  on  its  eagle  pinions  to  the  peak 

From  which  a  thousand  climbers  have  before 

Fall'n,  as  Napoleon  fell."-^I  felt  my  cheek 
Alter,  to  see  the  shadow  pass  away 
Whose  grasp  had  left  the  giant  world  so  weak, 

Tliat  every  pigmy  kick'd  it  as  it  lay ; 
And  much  I  grieved  to  think  how  power  and  will 
n  opposition  rule  our  mortal  day. 


And  why  God  made  irreconcilable 

Good  and  the  means  of  good  ;  and  for  dcsj)air 

1  half  disdain'd  mine  eyes'  desire  to  fill 

With  the  spent  vision  of  the  limes  that  were 

And  scarce  have  ceased  to  be. — "Dost  thou  behold," 

Said  my  guide,  "  those  spoilers  spoil'd,  Voltaire, 

"Frederic,  and  Paid,  Catherine,  and  Leopold, 
And  hoary  anarciis,  demagogues,  and  sage — 
names  the  world  thinks  always  old, 

"  For  in  the  battle,  life  and  they  did  wage. 
She  remain'd  conqueror.  I  was  overcome 
By  my  own  heart  alone,  which  neither  age, 

"  Nor  tears,  nor  infamy,  nor  now  the  tomb. 
Could  temper  to  its  object.  — "  Let  them  pass," 
I  cried,  "  the  world  and  its  mysterious  doom 

"  Is  not  so  much  more  glorious  than  it  was, 
Tiiat  I  desire  to  worsliip  those  who  drew 
New  figures  on  its  false  and  fragile  glass 

"  As  the  old  faded." — "  Figures  ever  new- 
Rise  on  the  bubble,  paint  them  as  you  may ; 
We  have  but  thrown,  as  those  before  us  threw, 

"  Our  shadows  on  it  as  it  pass'd  away. 

But  mark  how  chain'd  to  the  triumphal  chaii 

The  mighty  phantoms  of  an  elder  day ; 

"  All  that  is  mortal  of  great  Plato  there 
Expiates  the  joy  and  woe  his  master  know  not; 
The  star  that  ruled  his  doom  was  far  too  fair, 

"  And  life,  where  long  that  fiower  of  Heaven  grew  not, 
Conquer'd  that  heart  hy  love,  which  gold,  or  pain, 
Or  age,  or  sloth,  or  slavery  could  subdue  not. 

"  And  near  walk  the  [  ]  twain, 

The  tutor  and  his  pupil,  whom  Dominion 
Follow'd  as  tame  as  vulture  in  a  chain. 

"  The  world  was  darkcn'd  beneath  either  pinion 
Of  him  whom  from  the  flock  of  conquerors 
Fame  singled  out  for  her  thunder-bearing  minion; 

"  The  other  long  outlived  both  woes  and  wars. 
Throned  in  the  thoughts  of  men,  and  Still  had  kept 
The  jealous  key  of  truth's  eternal  doors, 

"  If  Bacon's  eagle  spirit  had  not  leapt 

Like  lightning  out  of  darkness — he  compcll'd 

The  Proteus  shape  of  Nature  as  it  slept 

"  To  wake,  and  lead  him  to  the  caves  that  held 

The  treasure  of  the  secrets  of  its  reign. 

See  the  great  bards  of  elder  time,  who  quell'd 

The  passions  which  they  sung,  as  by  their  strain 
May  well  be  known  :  their  living  melody 
Tempers  its  owii  contagion  to  the  vein 

"  Of  those  w  ho  are  infected  with  it — I 
Have  suffer'd  what  I  wrote,  or  viler  pain ! 

And  so  my  words  have  seeds  of  misery  " 

443 


196 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


[There  is  a  chasm  here  in  the  MS.  which  it  is  im- 
possible to  fill  up.  It  appears  from  the  context, 
that  other  shapes  pass,  and  that  Rousseau  still  stood 
beside  the  dreamer,  as] — 


—  he  pointed  to  a  company, 


Midst  whom  I  quickly  recognized  the  heirs 
or  Caesar's  crime,  from  him  to  Constantino ; 
The  anarch  chiefs,  whose  fierce  and  murderous  snares 

Had  founded  many  a  sceptre-bearing  line, 

And  spread  the  plague  of  gold  and  blood  abroad : 

And  Gregory  and  John,  and  men  divine, 

Who  rose  like  shadows  between  man  and  God  ; 

Till  that  eclipse,  still  hanging  over  heaven. 

Was  worshipp'd  by  the  world  o'er  which  they  strode. 

For  the  true  sun  it  quench'd — "Theirpower  was  given 
But  to  destroy,"  replied  the  leader : — "  I 
Am  one  of  those  who  have  created,  even 

"  If  it  be  but  a  world  of  agony." — 

"  Whence  comest  thou  ?  and  whither  goest  thou? 

How  did  thy  course  begin  ? "  I  said,  "  and  why  ? 

"  Mine  eyes  are  sick  of  this  perpetual  flow 

Of  people,  and  my  heart  sick  of  one  sad  thought — 

Speak!" — "Whence  I  am,  I  partly  seem  to  know, 

"And  how  and  by  what  paths  I  have  been  brought 
To  this  dread  pass,  methinks  even  thou  mayest  guess; — 
Why  this  should  be,  my  mind  can  compass  not; 

"  Whither  the  conqueror  hurries  me,  still  less ; — 
But  follow  thou,  and  from  spectator  turn 
Actor  or  victim  in  this  wretchedness, 

"  And  what  thou  wouldst  be  taught  I  then  may  learn 
From  thee.    Now  listen : — In  the  April  prime, 
When  all  the  forest  lips  began  to  burn 

"  With  kindling  green,  touch'd  by  the  azure  clime 
Of  the  young  year's  dawn,  I  was  laid  asleep 
Under  a  mountain,  which  from  unluiown  time 

"  Had  yawn'd  into  a  cavern,  high  and  deep ; 

And  from  it  came  a  gentle  rivulet. 

Whose  water,  like  clear  air,  in  its  calm  sweep 

"  Bent  the  soft  grass,  and  kept  for  ever  wet 

The  stems  of  the  sweet  flowers,  and  iill'd  the  grove 

With  sounds  which  whoso  hears  must  needs  forget 

"  All  pleasure  and  all  pain,  all  hate  and  love, 
Which  they  had  known  before  tiiat  hour  of  rest; 
.A  sleeping  mother  then  v\ould  dream  not  of 

Her  only  child  who  died  upon  her  breast 
At  eventide — a  king  would  mourn  no  more 
'  The  crown  of  which  his  brows  were  dispossest 


When  the  sun  linger'd  o'er  his  ocean  floor, 
To  gild  his  rival's  new  prosperity. 
Thou  wouldst  forget  thus  vainly  to  deplore 

"  Ills,  which  if  ills  can  find  no  cure  from  thee. 
The  thought  of  which  no  other  sleep  will  quell 
Nor  other  music  blot  from  memory, 

"  So  sweet  and  deep  is  the  oblivious  spell  ; 
And  whether  life  had  been  before  that  sleep 
The  heaven  which  I  imagine,  or  a  hell 

"  Like  this  harsh  world  in  which  I  wake  to  weej 

I  know  not.    I  arose,  and  for  a  space 

The  scene  of  woods  and  waters  seem'd  to  keep, 

"  Though  it  was  now  broad  day,  a  gentle  trace 
Of  light  diviner  than  the  common  sun 
Sheds  on  the  common  earth,  and  all  the  place 

"  Was  fill'd  with  magic  sounds  woven  into  one 

Oblivious  melody,  confusing  sense 

Amid  the  gliding  waves  and  shadows  dun  ; 

"And,  as  I  look'd,  the  bright  omnipresence  . 
Of  morning  through  the  orient  cavern  flow'd, 
And  the  smi's  image  radiantly  intense 

"  Burn'd  on  the  wafers  of  the  well  that  glow'd 
Like  gold,  and  threaded  all  the  forest's  maze 
With  winding  paths  of  emerald  fire ;  there  stood 

"  Amid  the  sun,  as  he  amid  the  blaze 

Of  his  own  glorJ^  on  the  vibrating 

Floor  of  the  fountain,  paved  with  flashing  rays, 

"  A  Shape  all  light,  which  with  one  hand  did  fhng 
Dew  on  the  earth,  as  if  she  were  the  dawn. 
And  the  invisible  rain  did  ever  sing 

"  A  silver  music  on  the  mossy  lawn  ; 
And  still  before  me  on  the  dusky  grass, 
Iris  her  many-color'd  scarf  had  drawn: 

"  In  her  bright  hand  she  bore  a  crystal  glass. 
Mantling  with  bright  Nepenthe ;  the  fierce  splendcH 
Fell  from  her  as  she  moved  under  the  mass 

"Out  of  the  deep  cavern,  with  palms  so  tender. 
Their  tread  broke  not  the  mirror  of  its  billow; 
She  glided  along  the  river,  and  did  bend  her 

"  Head  under  the  dark  boughs,  till  like  a  willow. 
Her  fair  hair  swept  the  bosom  of  the  stream 
That  whisper'd  with  delight  to  be  its  pillow. 

"  As  one  enamor'd  is  upborne  in  dream 

O'er  lily-paven  lakes  'mid  silver  mist, 

To  wondrous  music,  so  this  shape  might  seem 

"  Partly  to  tread  the  waves  with  feet  which  Idss'd 
The  dancing  foam ;  partly  to  glide  along 
The  air  vviiich  roughen'd  the  moist  amethyst, 

"  Or  the  faint  morning  beams  that  fell  among 
The  trees,  or  the  soft  shadows  of  the  trees ; 
And  her  feet,  ever  to  the  ceaseless  song 
444 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


197 


"Of  leaves, and  winds,  and  waves,  and  birds,  and  bees, 
And  foiling  drops,  moved  lo  a  measure  new 
Yet  sweet,  as  on  ihu  summer  evening  breeze, 

"  Up  from  the  lake  a  shape  of  golden  dew 
Between  two  rocks,  athwart  the  rising  moon, 
Dances  i'  the  wind,  where  never  eagle  flew ; 

"  And  still  her  feet,  no  less  than  the  sweet  tune 

To  which  tliey  moved,  seem'd  as  they  moved,  to  blot 

Tlie  thoughts  of  him  who  gazed  on  them;  and  soon 

■'  All  that  W'as,  seem'd  as  if  it  had  been  not ; 
And  all  the  gazer's  mind  was  strewn  beneath 
Her  feet  like  embers;  and  she,  thought  by  thought, 

"  Trampled  its  sparks  into  the  dust  of  death  ; 

As  day  upon  the  threshold  of  the  east 

Treads  out  the  lamps  of  night,  until  the  breath 

"  Of  darkness  reillumine  even  the  least 

Of  heaven's  living  eyes — like  day  she  came. 

Making  the  night  a  dream ;  and  ere  she  ceased 

"  To  move,  as  one  between  desire  and  shame 
Suspended,  I  said — If,  as  it  doth  seem. 
Thou  comest  from  the  realm  without  a  name, 

"  Into  this  valley  of  perpetual  dream. 

Show  whence  I  came,  and  where  I  am,  and  why — 

Pass  not  away  upon  flie  passing  stream. 

"Arise  and  quench  thy  thirsi,  was  her  reply. 
And  as  a  shut  lily,  stricken  by  the  wand 
Of  dewy  morning's  vital  alchemy, 

"  I  rose  ;  and,  bending  at  her  sweet  command, 
Touch'd  with  faint  lips  the  cup  she  rai.sed. 
And  suddenly  my  brain  became  as  sand 

"  Where  the  first  wave  had  more  than  half  erased 
The  track  of  deer  on  desert  Labrador ; 
Whilst  the  wolf,  from  which  they  fled  amazed, 

"  Leaves  his  stamp  visibly  upon  the  shore. 
Until  the  second  bursts ; — so  on  my  sight 
Burst  a  new  vision,  never  seen  before, 

"  And  the  fair  shape  waned  in  the  coming  light, 
As  veil  by  veil  the  silent  splendor  drops 
From  Lucifer,  amid  the  chrysolite 

"  Of  sun-rise,  ere  it  tinge  the  mountain-tops ; 
And  as  the  presence  of  that  fairest  planet, 
Although  unseen,  is  felt  by  one  who  hopes 

"  That  his  day's  path  may  end  as  he  began  it, 
In  that  star's  smile,  whose  light  is  like  the  scent 
Of  a  jonquil  when  evening  breezes  fan  it, 

"  Or  the  soft  note  in  which  his  dear  lament 
The  Breseian  shepherd  breathes,  or  the  caress 
That  turn'd  his  weary  slumber  to  content  ,•* 


*  The  favorite  sons.  "  Stanco  di  pascolar  le  peccorelle,' 
is  a  Breseian  national  air. 


"  So  knew  I  in  that  light's  severe  excess 

The  presence  of  that  shape  which  on  the  stream 

Moved,  as  I  moved  along  the  wilderness, 

"  More  dimly  than  a  day-appearing  dream. 

The  ghost  of  a  forgotten  form  asleep; 

A  light  of  heaven,  whose  half-extinguish 'd  beam 

"  Through  the  sick  day  in  which  we  wake  to  weep. 
Glitters,  for  ever  sought,  for  ever  lost  ; 
So  did  that  shape  its  obscure  tenor  keep 

"  Beside  iny  path,  as  silent  as  a  ghost ; 

But  the  new  Vision,  and  the  cold  bright  car. 

With  solemn  speed  and  stunning  music,  crost 

"  The  forest,  and  as  if  from  some  dread  war 
Triumphantly  returning,  tiie  loud  million 
Fiercely  extoU'd  the  fortune  of  her  star. 

"  A  moving  arch  of  victory,  the  vermilion 
And  green  and  azure  plumes  of  Iris  had 
Built  high  over  her  wind-wing'd  pavilion, 

"  And  underneath  ethereal  glory  clad 
The  wilderness,  and  far  before  her  flew 
The  tempest  of  the  splendor,  which  forbade 

"  Shadow  to  fall  from  leaf  and  stone  ;  the  crew 
Seem'd  in  that  light  like  atomies  to  dance 
Within  a  sunbeam ; — some  upon  the  new 

"  Embroidery  of  flowers,  that  did  enhance 
The  grassy  vesture  of  the  desert,  play'd. 
Forgetful  of  tue  chariot's  swift  advance; 

"  Others  stood  gazing,  till  within  the  shade 
Of  the  great  mountain  its  light  left  them  dim  ; 
Others  outspeeded  it;  and  others  made 

"  Circles  around  it,  like  the  clouds  that  swim 
Roimd  the  high  moon  in  a  bright  sea  of  air; 
And  more  did  follow,  with  exulting  hymn, 

"  The  chariot  and  the  captives  fetter'd  there  : — 
But  all  like  bubbles  on  an  eddying  flood 
Fell  into  the  same  track  at  last,  and  were 

"  Borne  onward. — I  among  the  multitude 

Was  swept — me,  sweetest  flowers  delay 'd  not  long ; 

Me,  not  the  shadow  nor  the  solitude ; 

"  Me,  not  that  falling  stream's  Lethean  song ; 
Me,  not  the  phantom  of  that  early  form, 
Which  moved  upon  its  motion — but  among 

"  The  thickest  billows  of  that  living  storm 
I  plunged,  and  bared  my  bosom  to  the  clime 
Of  that  cold  hght,  whose  airs  too  soon  deform. 

"  Before  the  chariot  had  begun  to  climb 
The  opposing  steep  of  that  mysterious  dell. 
Behold  a  wonder  worthy  of  the  rhyme 

"  Of  him  who  from  the  lowest  depths  of  hell. 
Through  every  paradise  and  through  all  glory. 
Love  led  serene,  and  who  return'd  to  tell 
58  445 


198 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  The  words  of  hate  and  care ;  Ihe  wondrous  story 
How  all  things  are  transfigured  except  Love; 
For  deaf  as  is  a  sea,  which  wrath  makes  hoary, 

"  Tlie  world  can  hear  not  the  sweet  notes  that  move 
The  sphere  whose  light  is  melody  to  lovers — 
A  wonder  worthy  of  his  rhyme — tjie  grove 

"Grew  dense  with  shadows  to  its  inmost  covers, 
The  earth  was  gray  with  phantoms,  and  the  air 
Was  peopled  with  dim  forms,  as  when  there  hovers 

"  A  flock  of  vampire-bats  before  the  glare 

Of  the  tropic  sun,  bringing,  ere  evening. 

Strange  night  upon  some  Indian  vale ; — thus  were 

"  Phantoms  diffused  around  ;  and  some  did  fling 
Shadows  of  shadows,  yet  unlike  themselves, 
Behind  them ;  some  like  eaglets  on  the  wing 

"  Were  lost  in  the  white  day ;  others  like  elves 
Danced  in  a  thousand  unimagined  shapes 
Upon  the  sunny  streams  and  grassy  shelves ; 

"  And  others  sate  chattering  like  restless  apes 

On  vulgar  hands,     *     *     *   .  *     * 

Some  made  a  cradle  of  the  ermined  capes 

"  Of  kingly  mantles;  some  across  the  tire 
Of  pontiffs  rode,  like  demons ;  others  play'd 
Under  the  crown  which  girt  with  empire 

"  A  baby's  or  an  idiot's  brow,  and  made 

Their  nests  in  it.     The  old  anatomies 

Sate  hatching  their  bare  broods  under  the  shade 

"  Of  demon  wings,  and  laugh'd  from  their  dead  eyes 

To  reassume  the  delegated  power, 

Array'd  in  which  those  worms  did  monarchize, 

"Who  make  this  earth  their  charnel.     Others  more 

Humble,  like  falcons,  sate  upon  the  fist 

Of  common  men,  and  round  their  heads  did  soar; 

"  Or  like  small  gnats  and  flies,  as  thick  as  mist 
On  evening  marshes,  throng'd  about  the  brow 
Of  lawyers,  statesmen,  priest  and  theorist : — 

■"  And  others,  like  discolor'd  flakes  of  snow 
On  fairest  bosoms  and  the  sunniest  hair, 
Fell,  and  were  melted  by  the  youthful  glow 

"  Wliich  they  extinguish'd  ;  and,  like  tears,  they  were 
A  veil  to  those  from  whose  faint  lids  they  rain'd 
In  drops  of  sorrow.     I  became  aware 

"  Of  whence  those  forms  proceeded  which  thus  stain'd 
The  track  in  whieli  we  moved.  After  brief  space, 
From  every  form  the  beauty  slowly  waned ; 

"  From  every  firmest  limb  and  fairest  face 

The  strength  and  freshness  fell  like  dust,  and  left 

The  action  and  the  shape  without  the  grace 

"  Of  life.     The  marble  brow  of  youth  was  cleft 
With  care ;  and  in  those  eyes  where  once  hope  shone. 
Desire,  like  a  lioness  bereft 


Of  her  last  cub,  glared  ere  it  died  ;  each  one 
Of  that  great  crowd  sent  forth  incessantly 
These  shadows,  numerous  as  the  dead  leaves  blown 

"  In  autumn  evening  from  a  poplar-tree. 
Each  like  himself  and  like  each  other  were 
At  fu^t ;  but  some  distorted,  seem'd  to  be 

"  Obscure  clouds,  moulded  by  the  casual  air ; 
And  of  this  stuff  the  car's  creative  ray 
Wrapt  all  the  busy  phantoms  that  were  there, 

"  As  the  sun  shapes  the  clouds  ;  thus  on  the  way 
Mask  after  mask  fell  from  the  countenance 
And  form  of  all ;  and  long  before  the  day 

"  Was  old,  the  joy  which  waked  like  heaven's  glance 
The  .sleepers  in  the  oblivious  valley,  died; 
And  some  grew  weary  of  the  ghastly  dance, 

"  And  fell,  as  I  have  fallen  ;  by  the  way-side  ; — 
Those  soonest  from  whose  forms  most  shadows  past, 
And  least  of  strength  and  beauty  did  abide." 

"  Then,  what  is  life  ?  I  cried." — 


LINES  WRITTEN  AMONG  THE  EUG  ANEAN  HILLS. 
OCTOBER,  1818. 


These  lines  were  written  after  a  day's  exnnsion  among 
those  lonely  mountains  which  surround  what  was  once 
the  retreat,  and  where  is  now  the  sepulchre,  of  Petrarch. 
If  any  one  is  inclined  to  condemn  the  insertion  of  the  in- 
troductory lines,  which  image  forth  the  sudden  relief  of  a 
state  of  deep  despondency  by  the  radiant  visions  disclosed 
by  the  sudden  burst  of  an  Italian  sunrise  in  autumn  on 
the  highest  peak  of  those  delightful  mountains,  I  can  only 
offer  as  my  e.xcuse,  that  they  were  not  erased  at  tlie  re- 
quest of  a  dear  friend,  with  whom  added  years  of  inter- 
course only  add  to  my  apprehension  of  its  value,  and  who 
would  have  had  more  right  than  any  one  to  complain, 
that  she  has  not  been  able  to  extinguish  in  me  the  very 
power  of  delineating  sadness. 


Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 
In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  misery. 
Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan, 
Never  thus  could  voyage  on 
Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 
Drifting  on  his  dreary  way. 
With  the  solid  darkness  black 
Closing  round  his  vessel's  track ; 
Whilst  above,  the  sunless  sky. 
Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily, 
And  behind  the  tempest  fleet 
Hurries  on  with  lightning  feet, 
Riving  sail,  and  cord,  and  plank. 
Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 
Death  from  the  o'er-brimming  deep ; 
And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 
When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 
Weltering  through  eternity ; 
And  the  dim  low  line  before 
Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore 
Still  recedes,  as  ever  still 
Longing  with  divided  will, 

44f 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


199 


But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 

He  is  ever  drifled  oti 

O'er  the  unreposiiig  wave, 

To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 

Wliat,  if  there  no  friends  will  greet , 

What,  if  there  no  heart  will  meet 

His  with  love's  impatient  beat ; 

Wander  wheresoe'er  he  may, 

Can  he  dream  before  that  day 

To  find  a  refuge  from  distress 

In  friendship's  smile,  in  love's  caress  ? 

Then  't  will  w  reak  him  little  woe 

Whether  such  there  be  or  no : 

Senseless  is  the  breast,  and  cold, 

Which  relenting  love  would  fold  ; 

Bloodless  are  the  veins  and  chill 

Which  the  pulse  of  pain  did  fill ; 

Every  little  living  nerve 

That  from  bitter  words  did  swerve 

Round  the  tortured  lips  and  brow, 

Are  like  sapless  leaflets  now 

Frozen  upon  December's  bough. 

On  the  beach  of  a  northern  sea 

Which  tempests  shake  eternally. 

As  once  the  wretch  there  lay  to  sleep, 

Lies  a  solitary  heap. 

One  white  skull  and  seven  dry  bones. 

On  the  margin  of  the  stones. 

Where  a  few  gray  rushes  stand. 

Boundaries  of  the  sea  and  land  : 

I\or  is  heard  one  voice  of  wail 

But  the  sea-mews',  as  they  sail 

O'er  the  billows  of  the  gale  ; 

Or  the  whirlvvmd  up  and  down 

Howling,  like  a  slaughter'd  town. 

When  a  king  in  glory  rides 

Through  the  pomp  of  fratricides  : 

Those  unburied  bones  around 

There  is  many  a  mournful  sound  ; 

There  is  no  lament  for  him. 

Like  a  sunless  vapor,  dim. 

Who  once  clothed  with  life  and  thought 

What  now  moves  nor  murmurs  not. 


Ay,  many  flowering  islands  lie 

In  the  waters  of  wide  Agony  : 

To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led 

My  bark,  by  soft  winds  piloted. 

'Mid  the  mountains  Euganean, 

I  stood  listening  to  the  pffian 

\Vith  which  the  legion'd  rooks  did  hail 

The  sun's  uprise  majestical ; 

Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar, 

Through  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 

Like  gray  shades,  till  th'  eastern  heaven 

Bursts,  and  then,  as  clouds  of  even, 

Fleck'd  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 

In  the  unfathomable  sky. 

So  the  r  plumes  of  purple  grain, 

Starr'd  with  drops  of  golden  rain, 

Gleam  alxtve  the  sunlight  woods, 

As  in  silent  multitudes 

On  the  morning's  fitful  gale 

Through  the  broken  mist  they  sail. 

And  the  vapors  cloven  and  gleaming 

Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming, 


Till  all  is  bright,  and  clear,  and  still, 
Round  the  solitary  liill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 
The  waveless  plain  of  lx)mi)ardy, 
Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 
Islanded  by  cities  fair  ; 
Underneath  day's  azure  eyes 
Ocean's  nursling,  Venice,  lies, — 
A  peopled  labyrinth  of  valid, 
Aniphitrite's  destined  halls, 
Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 
With  his  blue  and  beaming  wave^. 
Lo!  the  sun  upsprings  behind, 
Broad,  red,  radiant,  half-reclined 
On  the  level  quivering  line 
Of  the  waters  crystalline  ; 
And  before  that  chasm  of  light. 
As  within  a  furnace  bright. 
Column,  tower,  and,  dome,  and  spni^ 
Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire. 
Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 
From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 
To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies  ; 
As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 
From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise 
As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 
Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 

Sun-girt  City  !  thou  hast  been 
Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queer.  ■ 
Now  is  come  a  darker  day. 
And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey. 
If  the  power  that  raised  tliee  here 
Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier, 
A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now. 
With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 
Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 
From  thy  throne,  among  the  waves 
Wilt  thou  be,  when  the  sea-mew 
Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew, 
O'er  thine  isles  depopulate. 
And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state, 
Save  where  many  a  palace-gate 
With  green  sea-flowers  overgrovvTi 
Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own. 
Topples  o'er  the  abandon'd  sea 
As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 
The  fisher  on  his  watery  way, 
Wandering  at  the  close  of  day. 
Will  spead  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 
Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore. 
Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep 
Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep. 
Lead  a  rapid  masque  of  death 
O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 

Those  who  alone  thy  towers  behold 
Quivering  through  ai'rial  gold. 
As  I  now  behold  liiem  here. 
Would  imagine  not  they  were 
Sepulchres,  where  human  forms, 
Like  poUution-nourish'd  worms. 
To  the  corpse  of  greatness  cling, 
Murder'd,  and  now  mouldering : 
447 


200 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  if  Freedom  should  awake 
In  her  omiiipolence,  and  shake 
From  the  Cehic  Anarch's  hold 
All  the  keys  of  dungeons  cold, 
Where  a  hundred  cities  lie 
Chain'd  like  thee,  ingloriously, 
Thou  and  all  thy  sister  band 
Might  adorn  this  sunny  land, 
Twining  memories  of  old  lime 
With  new  virtues  more  sublime  ; 
If  not,  perish  thou  and  ihey. 
Clouds  which  stain  truth's  rising  day 
By  her  sun  consumed  away, 
Earth  can  spare  ye  :  while  like  flowers, 
In  the  waste  of  years  and  hours, 
From  your  dust  new  nations  spring 
With  more  kindly  blossoming. 

Perish !  let  there  only  be 

Floating  o'er  thy  hearthless  sea, 

As  the  garment  of  thy  sky 

Clothes  the  world  immortally, 

One  remembrance,  more  sublime 

Than  the  tatler'd  pall  of  Time, 

Which  scarce  hides  thy  visage  wan , 

That  a  tempest-cleaving  swan 

Of  the  songs  of  Albion, 

Driven  from  his  ancestral  streams 

By  the  might  of  evil  dreams. 

Found  a  nest  in  thee  ;  and  Ocean 

Welcomed  him  with  such  emotion 

That  its  joy  grew  his,  and  sprung 

From  his  lips  like  music  flung 

O'er  a  mighty  thunder-fit, 

Chastening  terror  :  what  though  yet 

Poesy's  unfailing  river, 

Which  through  Albion  winds  for  ever. 

Lashing  with  meloflious  wave 

Many  a  sacred  poet's  grave. 

Mourn  its  latest  nursling  fled ! 

What  though  thou  with  all  thy  dead 

Scarce  can  for  this  fame  repay 

Aught  thine  own, — oh,  raiher  say. 

Though  thy  sins  and  slaveries  foul 

Overcloud  a  sunlike  soul ! 

As  the  ghost  of  Homer  clings 

Round  Scamander's  wasting  springs; 

As  divinest  Shakspeare's  might 

Fills  Avon  and  the  world  with  light, 

Like  omniscient  power,  which  he 

Imaged  'mid  mortality; 

As  the  love  from  Petrarch's  urn, 

Yet  amid  yon  hills  doth  burn, 

A  quenchless  lamp,  by  which  the  heart 

Sees  things  unearthly  ;  so  thou  art, 

Mighty  spirit:  so  shall  be 

The  city  that  did  refuge  thee. 

Lo,  the  sun  floats  up  the  sky 
Like  thought-winged  Liberty, 
Till  the  universal  light 
Seems  to  level  plain  and  height ; 
From  the  sea  a  mist  was  spread. 
And  the  beams  of  morn  lie  dead 
On  the  towers  of  Venice  now, 
Like  its  glory  long  ago. 


By  the  skirts  of  that  gray  cloud 
Many-domed  Padua  proud 
Stands,  a  peopled  solitude, 
'Mid  the  harvest-shining  plain. 
Where  the  peasant  heaps  his  grain 
In  the  garner  of  his  foe. 
And  the  milk-white  oxen  slow 
With  the  purple  vintage  strain, 
Heap'd  upon  the  creaking  wain. 
That  the  brutal  Celt  may  swill 
Drunken  sleep  with  savage  will ; 
And  the  sickle  to  the  sword 
Lies  unchanged,  though  many  a  lord, 
Like  a  weed  whose  shade  is  poison, 
Overgrows  this  region's  foison. 
Sheaves  of  whom  are  ripe  to  come 
To  destruction's  harvest-home : 
Men  must  reap  the  things  they  sow. 
Force  from  force  must  ever  flow. 
Or  worse  ;  but  'tis  a  bitter  woe 
That  love  or  reason  cannot  change 
The  despot's  rage,  the  slave's  revenge. 

Padua,  thou  within  whose  walls 
Those  mute  guests  at  festivals, 
Son  and  Mother,  Death  and  Sin, 
Play'd  at  dice  for  Ezzelin, 
Till  Death  cried,  "  I  win,  I  win  ! " 
And  Sin  cursed  to  lose  the  wager. 
But  Death  promised,  to  assuage  her. 
That  he  would  petition  for 
Her  to  be  made  Vice-Emperor, 
When  the  destined  years  were  o'er. 
Over  all  between  the  Po 
And  the  eastern  Alpine  snow. 
Under  the  mighty  Austrian. 
Sin  smiled  so  as  Sin  only  can. 
And  since  that  time,  ay,  long  before. 
Both  have  ruled  from  shore  to  shore. 
That  incestuous  pair,  w  ho  follow 
Tyrants  as  the  sun  the  swallow, 
As  Repentance  follows  Crime, 
And  as  changes  follow  Time. 

In  thine  halls  the  lamp  of  learning, 
Padua,  now  no  more  is  burning ; 
Like  a  meteor,  whose  wild  way 
Is  lost  over  the  grave  of  day. 
It  gleams  betray'd  and  to  betray : 
Once  remotest  nations  came 
To  adore  that  sacred  flame. 
When  it  lit  not  many  a  hearth 
On  this  cold  and  gloomy  earth  : 
Now  new  fires  from  antique  light 
Spring  beneath  the  wide  world's  might 
But  their  spark  lies  dead  in  thee, 
Trampled  out  by  tyranny. 
As  the  Norway  woodman  quells. 
In  the  depth  of  piny  dells. 
One  light  flame  among  the  brakes. 
While  the  boundless  forest  shakes. 
And  its  mighty  trunks  are  torn 
By  the  fire  thus  lowly  born  ; 
The  spark  beneath  his  feet  is  dead. 
He  starts  to  see  the  flames  it  fed 
448 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


201 


Howling  through  the  darken'd  sky 
With  a  myriad  tongues  victoriously, 
And  sinks  down  in  fear :  so  thou, 
O  tyranny  !  beholdest  now 
Light  around  thee,  and  thou  hearest 
The  loud  flames  asrejid,  and  learest : 
Grovel  on  the  earth ;  ay,  hide 
In  the  dust  thy  purple  pride ! 

Noon  descends  around  me  now : 

'Tis  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 

When  a  soft  and  purple  mist 

Like  a  vaporous  amethyst, 

Or  an  air-dissolved  star 

Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far 

From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 

To  the  point  of  Heaven's  profound, 

Fills  the  overflowing  sky  ; 

And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 

Underneath,  the  leaves  unsodden 

Where  the  infant  frost  has  trodden 

With  his  morning-winged  feet, 

Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet  ; 

And  the  red  and  golden  vines. 

Piercing  with  their  trellis'd  lines 

The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness ; 

The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less, 

Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 

In  the  windless  air ;  the  flower 

Glimmering  at  my  feet;  the  line 

Of  the  olive-sandaU'd  Apennine 

In  the  south  dimly  islanded ; 

And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 

High  between  the  clouds  and  sun; 

And  of  living  things  each  one; 

And  my  spirit,  which  so  long 

Darken'd  this  swift  stream  of  song. 

Interpenetrated  lie 

By  the  glory  of  the  sky ; 

Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 

Odor,  or  the  soul  of  all 

Which  from  Heaven  like  dew  doth  fall. 

Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse 

Peopling  the  lone  universe. 

Noon  descends,  and  after  noon 

Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon, 

Leading  the  iiifaniine  moon. 

And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 

Almost  seems  to  minister 

Half  the  crimson  light  she  brings 

From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs : 

And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn 

(Which  like  winged  winds  had  borne 

To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 

'Mid  rememher'd  agonies, 

The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being). 

Pass,  to  other  suflferers  fleeing. 

And  its  ancient  pilot.  Pain, 

Sita  beside  the  helm  again. 

Other  flowering  isles  must  be 
In  the  sea  of  life  and  agony: 
Other  spirits  float  and  flee 
O'er  that  gulf:  even  now,  perhaps. 
On  some  rock  the  viild  wave  wraps, 
3G 


With  folded  wings  they  waiting  sit 

For  my  bark,  to  ])ilot  it 

To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove. 

Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love. 

May  a  windless  bower  be  built, 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt. 

In  a  dell  'mid  lawny  hills. 

Which  the  wild  sca-murniur  fills. 

And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 

Of  old  forests  echoing  round, 

And  the  light  and  smell  divine 

Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine. 

We  may  live  so  happy  there. 

That  the  spirits  of  the  air, 

Envying  us,  may  even  entice 

To  our  healing  paradise 

The  polluting  multitude ; 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 

By  that  clime  divine  and  calm. 

And  the  winds,  whose  wings  rain  baliJi 

On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves 

Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves ; 

While  each  breathless  interval 

In  their  whisperings  musical 

The  inspired  soul  supplies 

With  its  own  deep  melodies. 

And  the  love  which  heals  all  strife 

Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life. 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 

With  its  own  mild  brotherhood. 

They,  not  it,  would  change  ;  and  soon 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 

Would  repent  its  envy  vain. 

And  the  earth  grow  young  again. 


LETTER  TO . 

Leghorn,  July  1,  1820. 

The  spider  spreads  her  webs,  whether  she  be 

In  poet's  tower,  cellar,  or  barn,  or  tree  ; 

The  silkworm  in  the  dark-green  mulberry-leaves 

His  winding  sheet  and  cradle  ever  weaves  ; 

So  I,  a  thing  whom  moralists  call  worm. 

Sit  spinning  still  round  this  decaying  fijrm, 

From  the  fine  threads  of  rare  and  subtle  thought — 

No  net  of  words  in  garish  colors  wrought 

To  catch  the  idle  buzzers  of  the  day — 

But  a  soft  cell,  where,  when  that  fades  away. 

Memory  may  clothe  in  wings  my  living  name, 

And  feed  it  with  the  asphodels  of  fame. 

Which  in  those  liearts  which  most  remember  me 

Grow,  making  love  an  immortality. 

Whoever  should  behold  me  now,  I  wist. 
Would  think  I  were  a  mighty  mechanist, 
Bent  with  sublime  Archimedean  art 
To  breathe  a  soul  into  the  iron  heart 
Of  some  machine  portentous,  or  strange  gin. 
Which  by  the  force  of  figured  spells  might  win 
Its  way  over  the  sea,  and  sport  therein ; 
For  round  the  walls  are  hung  dread  engines,  such 
As  Vulcan  never  w  rought  for  Jove  to  clutch 
Ixion  or  the  Titan: — or  the  quick 
Wit  of  that  man  of  God,  St.  Dominic, 
To  convince  Atheist,  Turk,  or  Heretic ; 
449 


202 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Or  those  in  philosophic  councils  met, 

Who  thought  to  pay  some  interest  for  the  debt 

They  owed     ********** 

By  giving  a  faint  foretaste  of  damnation 

To  Shakspeare,  Sidney,  Spenser  and  the  rest 

Who  made  our  land  an  island  of  the  blest, 

When  lamplike  Spain,  who  now  relumes  her  fire 

On  Freedom's  hearth,  grew  dim  with  Empire : — 

With   thumbscrews,  wheels,  with  tooth  and   spike 

and  jag, 
Wliich  fishes  found  under  the  utmost  crag 
Of  Cornwall  and  the  storm-encompass'd  isles, 
Where  to  the  sky  the  rude  sea  seldom  smiles 
Unless  in  treacherous  wrath,  as  on  the  morn 
When  the  exulting  elements  in  scorn 
Satiated  with  destroy 'd  destruction,  lay 
Sleeping  in  beauty  on  their  mangled  prey, 
As  panthers  sleep:  and  other  strange  and  dread 

Magical  forms  the  brick  floor  overspread 

Proteus  transform'd  to  metal  did  not  make 

More  figures,  or  more  strange  ;  nor  did  he  take 

Such  shapes  of  unintelligible  brass. 

Or  heap  himself  in  such  a  horrid  mass 

Of  tin  and  iron  not  to  be  understood. 

And  forms  of  unimaginable  wood, 

To  puzzle  Tubal  Cain  and  all  his  brood: 

Great  screws,  and  cones,  and  wheels,  and  grooved 

blocks. 
The  elements  of  what  will  stand  the  shocks 
Of  w-ave  and  wind  and  lime. — Upon  the  table 
More  knacks  and  quips  there  be  than  I  am  able 
To  catalogize  in  this  verse  of  mine : — 
A  pretty  bowl  of  wood — not  full  of  wine, 
But  quicksilver;  that  dew  which  the  gnomes  drink 
When  at  their  subterranean  toil  they  swink, 
Pledging  the  demons  of  the  earthquake,  who 
Reply  to  them  in  lava-cry,  halloo ! 
And  call  out  to  the  cities  o'er  their  head, — 
Roofs,  towns  and  shrines, — the  dying  and  the  dead 
Crash  through  the  chinks  of  earth — and  then  all  quaff 
Another  rouse,  and  hold  their  sides  and  laugh. 
This  quicksilver  no  gnome  has  drunk — within 
The  walnut  bowl  it  lies,  veined  and  thin, 
In  color  like  the  wake  of  light  that  stains 
The  Tuscan  deep,  when  from  the  moist  moon  rains 
The  inmost  shower  of  iis  wliite  fire — the  breeze 
Is  still — blue  Heaven  smiles  over  the  pale  seas. 
And  in  this  bowl  of  quicksilver — for  I 
Yield  to  the  impulse  of  an  infancy 
Outlasting  manhood — 1  have  made  to  float 
A  rude  idealism  of  a  paper  boat — 
A  hollow  screw  with  cogs — Henry  will  know 
The  thing  I  mean  and  laugh  at  me, — if  so 
He  fears  not  J  should  do  more  mischief — Next 
Lie  bills  and  calculations  much  perplext, 
With  steam-boats,  frigates,  and  machinery  quaint 
Traced  over  them  in  blue  and  yellow  paint- 
Then  comes  a  range  of  mathematical 
Instruments,  for  plans  nautical  and  statical, 
A  heap  of  rosin,  a  green  broken  glass 
With  ink  in  it; — a  cliina  cup  that  was 
What  it  will  never  be  again,  I  think, 
A  thing  from  which  sweel  lips  were  wont  to  drink 
The  liquor  doctors  rail  at — and  which  I 
Will  qtiaflf  in  spite  of  them — and  when  we  die 
We'll  toss  up  wlio  died  first  of  drinking  tea, 
And  cry  out, — heads  or  tails  ?  where'er  we  be. 


Near  that  a  dusty  paint-box,  some  old  hooks, 
A  haU-burnt  match,  an  ivory  block,  three  books, 
Where  conic  sections,  spherics,  logarithms. 
To  great  Laplace,  from  Saunderson  and  Sims, 
Lie  heap'd  in  their  harmonious  disarray 
Of  figures, — disentangle  them  who  may. 
Baron  de  Tott's  Memoirs  beside  them  lie, 
And  some  odd  volumes  of  old  chemistry. 
Near  them  a  most  inexplicable  thing. 
With  least  in  the  middle — I'm  conjecturing 
How  to  make  Henry  understand  ; — but — no, 
I'll  leave,  as  Spenser  says,  with  many  mo, 
This  secret  jn  the  pregnant  womb  of  time. 
Too  vast  a  matter  for  so  vveak  a  rhyme. 


And  here  like  some  weird  Archimage  sit  I, 

Plotting  dark  spells,  and  devilish  enginery. 

The  self-impelling  steam-wheels  of  the  mind 

Which  pump  up  oaths  from  clergynien,  and  grind 

The  gentle  spirit  of  our  meek  reviews 

Into  a  powdery  foam  of  salt  abuse, 

Ruflling  the  ocean  of  their  self-content; 

I  sit — and  smile  or  sigh  as  is  my  bent. 

But  not  for  them — Libeccio  rushes  round 

With  an  inconstant  and  an  idle  sound  ; 

I  heed  him  more  than  them — the  thunder-smoke 

Is  gathering  on  the  mountains,  like  a  cloak 

Folded  athwart  their  shoulders  broad  and  bare  ; 

The  ripe  corn  under  the  undulating  air 

Undulates  like  an  ocean  ; — and  the  vines 

Are  trembling  wide  in  all  their  trellis'd  lines — 

The  murmur  of  the  awakening  sea  doth  fill 

The  empty  pauses  of  the  blast ; — the  hill 

Looks  hoary  through  the  white  electric  rain. 

And  from  the  glens  beyond,  in  sullen  strain 

The  interrupted  thunder  howls ;  above 

One  chasm  of  Heaven  smiles,  like  the  age  of  love 

On  the  unquiet  world  ; — while  such  things  are. 

How  could  one  worth  your  friendship  heed  the  war 

Of  worms  ?  The  sliriek  of  the  world's  carrion  jays, 

Their  censure,  or  their  wonder,  or  their  praise  ? 


You  are  not  here !  the  quaint  witch  Memory  sees 
In  vacant  chairs,  your  absent  images, 
And  points  where  once  you  sat,  and  now  should  be, 
But  are  not. — I  demand  if  ever  we 
Shall  meet  as  then  we  met ; — and  she  replies, 
Veiling  in  awe  her  .second-sighted  eyes; 
"  I  know  the  past  alone — but  summon  home 
My  sister  Hope,  she  speaks  of  all  to  come." 
But  I,  an  old  diviner,  who  know  well 
Every  false  verse  of  that  sweet  oracle, 
Turn'd  to  the  sad  enchantress  once  again. 
And  sought  a  respite  from  my  gentle  pain, 
In  acting  every  passage  o'er  and  o'er 
Of  our  communion. — How  on  the  sea-shore 
We  watch'd  the  ocean  and  the  sky  together. 
Under  the  roof  of  blue  Italian  weather; 
How  I  ran  home  through  last  year's  thunder-storm 
And  felt  the  transverse  lightning  linger  warm 
Upon  my  cheek : — and  how  we  often  made 
Treats  for  each  other,  where  good-will  outweigh'd 
The  frugal  luxury  of  our  country  cheer. 
As  it  well  might,  were  it  less  firm  and  clear 
450 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


203 


Tlian  ours  must  ever  be ; — and  how  we  spun 
A  shroud  of  talk  to  hide  us  from  the  sun 
Of  this  familiar  hfe,  wliich  seems  to  be 
But  is  not, — or  is  but  quaint  mockery 
Of  all  we  would  believe  ;  or  sadly  blame 
The  jarring  and  inexplicable  frame 
,  Of  this  wrong  world  : — and  then  anatomize 
The  purposes  and  thoughts  of  men  whose  ej'es 
Were  closed  in  distant  years  ; — or  widely  guess 
The  issue  of  the  earth's  great  business, 
When  we  shall  be  as  we  no  longer  are;  ' 
Like  babbling  gossips  safe,  who  hear  the  war 
Of  winds,  and  sigh,  hut  tremble  not ;  or  how 
You  listen'd  to  some  interrupted  flow 
Of  visionary  rhyme — in  joy  and  pain 
Struck  from  the  inmost  fountains  of  my  brain, 
With  little  skill  perhaps ; — or  how  we  sought 
Those  deepest  wells  of  passion  or  of  thought 
Wrought  by  wise  poels  in  the  waste  of  years, 
Staining  the  sacred  waters  with  our  tears  ; 
Quenching  a  thirst  ever  to  be  renew'd! 
Or  how  I,  wisest  lady  !  then  indued 
The  language  of  a  land  which  now  is  free, 
And,  wing'd  with  thoughts  of  truth  and  majesty, 
Flits  round  the  tyrant's  sceptre  like  a  cloud. 
And  bursts  the  peopled  prisons,  and  cries  aloud, 
"  My  name  is  Legion  ! " — that  majestic  tongue 
Which  Calderon  over  the  desert  flung 
Of  ages  and  of  nations;  and  Which  found 
An  echo  in  our  hearts,  and  with  the  sound 
Startled  oblivion  ; — thou  wert  then  to  me 
As  is  a  nurse — when  inarticulately 
A  child  would  talk  as  its  grown  parents  do. 
If  living  winds  the  rapid  clouds  pursue. 
If  hawks  chase  doves  through  the  aerial  way. 
Huntsmen  the  innocent  deer,  and  beasts  their  prey, 
Wliy  should  not  we  rouse  with  the  spirit's  blast 
Out  of  the  forest  of  the  pathless  past 
These  recollected  pleasures  ? 

You  are  now 
In  London,  that  great  sea,  whose  ebb  and  flow 
At  once  is  deaf  and  loud,  and  on  the  shore 
Vomits  its  wrcclvs,  and  still  howls  on  for  more. 
Yet  in  its  depth  what  treasures!    You  will  see 
******** 

You  will  see  C ;  he  who  sits  obscure 

In  the  exceeding  lustre  and  the  pure 

Intense  irradiations  of  a  mind. 

Which  with  its  own  internal  lustre  blind. 

Flags  wearily  through  darkness  and  despair — 

A  cloud-encircled  meteor  of  the  air, 

A  hooded  eagle  among  blinking  owls. 

You  will  see  II — t ;  one  of  those  happy  souls 

Which  are  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and  without  whom 

This  world  would  smell  like  what  it  is— a  tomb; 

Who  is,  what  others  seem  ; — his  room  no  doubt 

Is  still  adorn 'd  by  many  a  cast  from  Shout, 

With  graceful  flowers,  tastefully  placed  about ; 

And  coronals  of  bay  from  riband  hung, 

And  brighter  wreaths  in  neat  disorder  flung. 

The  gifts  of  the  most  learn 'd  among  some  dozens 

Of  female  friends,  sisters-in-law  and  cousins. 

And  there  is  he  with  his  eternal  puns, 

Which  beat  the  dullest  brain  for  smiles,  like  duns 


Thundering  for  money  at  a  poet's  door ; 

Alas  !  it  is  no  use  to  say,  "  I  'm  poor  !' 

Or  oft  in  graver  mood,  when  he  will  look 

Things  wiser  than  were  ever  said  in  book, 

Except  in  Shakspeare's  wisest  letidcrness. 

You  will  see  II — ,  and  I  cannot  express 

His  virtues,  though  I  know  that  ihey  are  great, 

Because  he  locks,  then  barricades,  the  gate 

Within  which  they  inhabit ; — of  his  wit 

And  wisdom,  you  '11  cry  out  when  you  are  bit. 

He  is  a  pearl  within  an  oyster-shell, 

One  of  the  richest  of  the  deep.     And  there 

Is  English  P —  with  his  mountain  Fair 

Turn'd  into  a  Flamingo, — that  shy  bird 

That  gleams  i'  the  Indian  air.     Have  you  not  heard 

When  a  man  marries,  dies,  or  turns  Hindoo, 

His  best  friends  hear  no  more  of  him  ?  but  you 

Will  see  him  and  will  like  him  too,  I  hope. 

With  the  milk-white  Snowdonian  Antelope 

Match'd  with  this  cameleopard  ;  his  fine  wit 

Makes  such  a  wound,  the  knife  is  lost  in  it ; 

A  strain  too  learned  for  a  shallow  age, 

Too  wise  for  selfish  bigots ; — let  his  page 

Which  charms  the  chosen  spirits  of  the  age. 

Fold  itself  up  for  a  serenei^  clime 

Of  years  to  come,  and  find  its  recompense 

In  that  just  expectation.     Wit  and  sense, 

Virtue  and  htiman  knowledge,  all  that  might 

Make  this  dull  world  a  business  of  delight. 

Are  all  combined  in  H.  S. — And  these, 

With  some  exceptions,  which  I  need  not  tease 

Your  patience  by  descanting  on,  are  all 

You  and  I  know  in  London. 

I  recall 
My  thoughts,  and  bid  you  look  upon  the  night. 
As  water  does  a  sponge,  .so  the  moonlight 
Fills  the  void,  hollow,  universal  air. 
What  see  you  ? — Unpavilion'd  heaven  is  fair. 
Whether  the  moon,  into  her  chamber  gone. 
Leaves  midnight  to  the  golden  stars,  or  wan 
Wimbs  with  diminish'd  beams  the  azure  steep; 
Or  whether  clouds  sail  o'er  the  inverse  deep. 
Piloted  by  the  many-wandering  blast. 
And  the  rare  stars  rush  through  them,  dim  and  fast. 
All  this  is  beautiful  in  every  land. 
But  what  see  you  beside  ?    A  shabby  stand 
Of  hackney-coaches — a  brick  liouse  or  wall. 
Fencing  some  lonely  court,  white  with  the  scrawl 
Of  our  unhappy  politics  ; — or  worse — 
A  wretched  woman  reeling  by,  whose  cijrse 
Mix'd  with  the  watchman's,  partner  of  her  trade. 
You  must  accept  in  place  of  serenade — 
I  see  a  chaos  of  green  leaves  and  fruit 
Built  round  dark  caverns,  even  to  the  root 
Of  the  living  stems  who  feed  them  ;  in  whose  bowers 
There  sleep  in  their  dark  dew  the  folded  flowers ; 
Beyond,  the  surface  of  the  unsickled  corn 
Trembles  not  in  the  slumbering  air,  and  borne 
In  circles  quaint,  and  ever-changing  dance, 
Like  winged  stars  the  fire-flies  flash  and  glance 
Pale  in  the  open  moonshine  ;  but  each  one 
I'nder  the  dark  trees  seems  a  little  sun, 
A  meteor  tamed  ;  a  fix'd  star  gone  astray 
From  the  silver  regions  of  the  milkv  way 
451 


204 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Afar  the  Conladino's  song  is  heard, 

Rude,  but  made  sweet  by  distance  ; — and  a  bird 

Which  cannot  be  a  nightingale,  and  yet 

I  know  none  else  that  sings  so  sweet  as  it 

At  this  late  hour  ; — and  then  all  is  still : — 

Now  Italy  or  London,  which  you  will ! 

Next  winter  you  must  pass  with  me :  I  '11  have 
My  house  by  that  time  turn'd  into  a  grave 
Of  dead  despondence  and  low-thoughted  care, 
And  all  the  dreams  which  our  tormentors  are. 

Oh  that  H and were  there, 

With  every  thing  belonging  to  them  fair ! — 
We  will  have  books  ;  Spanish,  Italian,  Greek, 


Though  we  eat  little  flesh  and  drink  no  wine, 

Yet  let's  be  merry:  vie '11  have  tea  and  toast; 

Custards  for  supper,  and  an  endless  host 

Of  syllabubs  and  jellies  and  mince-pies, 

And  other  such  lady-like  luxuries, — 

Feasting  on  which  we  will  philosophize. 

Aud  we  '11  have  fires  out  of  the  Grand  Duke's  wood, 

To  thaw  the  six  weeks'  winter  in  our  blood. 

And  then  we  '11  talk  ; — what  shall  we  talk  about  ? 

Oh  !   there  are  themes  enough  for  many  a  bout 

Of  thought-entangled  descant; — as  to  nerves, 

With  cones  and  parallelograms  and  curves, 

I  've  sworn  to  strangle  them  if  once  they  dare 

To  bother  me, — when  you  are  with  me  there. 

And  they  shall  never  more  sip  laud'num 

From  Helicon  or  Himeros  ;* — we'll  come 

And  in  despite  of  *  *  *  and  of  the  devil. 

Will  make  our  friendly  philosophic  revel 

Outlast  the  leafless  time  ; — till  buds  and  flowers 

Warn  the  obscure,  inevitable  hours 

Sweet  meeting  by  sad  parting  to  renew ; — 

"  To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new." 


THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT. 


A  Sensitive  Plant  in  a  garden  grew, 
And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver  dew, 
And  it  open'd  its  fan-like  leaves  to  the  light. 
And  closed  them  beneath  the  kisses  of  night 

And  the  Spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair. 
Like  the  Spirit  of  Love  felt  everywhere ; 
And  each  flower  and  herb  on  Earth's  dark  breast 
Rose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest. 

But  none  ever  trembled  and  panted  with  bliss 
In  the  garden,  the  field,  or  the  wilderness. 
Like  a  doe  in  the  noontide  with  love's  sweet  want. 
As  the  companionless  Sensitive  Plant. 

The  snow-drop,  and  then  the  violet. 
Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet, 
And  their  breath  was  mix'd  with  fresh  odor,  sent 
From  tlie  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  instrument. 


*   Ijtcpo;,  from  which  the  river  Himera  was  named,  is, 
with  some  slight  shade  of  difference,  a  synonyme  of  Love. 


Then  the  pied  wind-flowers  and  the  tulip  tall 
And  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all, 
Who  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the  stream's  reces*. 
Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveliness ; 

And  the  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale, 
Whom  youth  makes  so  fair  and  passion  so  pa'e, 
That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is  seen 
Through  their  pavilions  of  tender  green ; 

And  the  hyacinth,  purple,  and  white,  and  blue. 
Which  flung  from  its  bells  a  sweet  peal  anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense. 
It  was  felt  like  an  odor  within  the  sense ; 

And  the  rose  like  a  nymph  to  the  bath  addrest. 
Which  unveil'd  the  depth  of  her  glowing  breast 
Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare : 

And  the  wand-like  lily,  which  lifted  up, 
As  a  Maenad,  its  moonlight-color'd  cup, 
Till  the  fiery  star,  which  is  its  eye. 
Gazed  through  clear  dew  on  the  tender  sky; 

And  the  jessamine  faint,  and  the  sweet  tuberose, 
The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows ; 
And  all  rare  blossoms  from  every  clime 
Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime. 

And  on  the  stream  whose  inconstant  bosom 
Was  prankt  under  boughs  of  embowering  blossom, 
With  golden  and  green  light,  slanting  through 
Their  heaven  of  many  a  tangled  hue. 

Broad  water-lilies  lay  tremulously. 

And  starry  river-buds  glimnier'd  by, 

And  around  them  the  soft  stream  did  glide  and  danc« 

With  a  motion  of  sweet  sound  and  radiance. 

And  the  sinuous  paths  of  lawn  and  of  moss. 
Which  led  through  the  garden  along  and  across, 
Some  open  at  once  to  the  sun  and  the  breeze, 
Some  lost  among  bowers  of  blossoming  trees. 

Were  all  paved  with  daisies  and  delicate  bells 
As  fair  as  the  fabulous  asphodels. 
And  flowers  which  drooping  as  day'  droop'd  too, 
Fell  into  pavilions,  white,  purple,  and  blue. 
To  roof  the  glow-worm  from  the  evening  dew. 

And  from  this  undefiled  Paradise 
The  flowers  (as  an  infant's  awakening  eyes 
Smile  on  its  mother,  whose  singing  sweet 
Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken  it), 

When  Heaven's  blithe  winds  had  unfolded  them 
As  mine-lamps  enkindle  a  hidden  gem. 
Shone  smiling  to  Heaven,  and  every  one 
Shared  joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle  sun ; 

For  each  one  was  interpenetrated 
With  the  light  and  the  odor  its  neighbor  shed, 
Like  young  lovers  whom  youth  and  love  make  dean 
Wrapp'd  and  fill'd  by  their  mutual  atmosphere. 
452 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


205 


But  the  Sensitive  Plant  which  could  give  small  fruit 
Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  the  leaf  to  the  root, 
Keceived  more  than  all,  it  loved  more  than  ever, 
Where  none  v\  anted  but  it,  could  belong  to  the  giver — 

For  the  Sensitive  Plant  has  no  bright  flower ; 
Radiance  and  odor  are  not  its  dower ; 
It  loves  even  like  Love,  its  deep  heart  is  full, 
It  desires  what  it  has  not,  the  beautiful ! 

The  light  winds  which  from  unsustaining  wings 
Shed  the  music  of  many  nmrmurings ; 
The  beams  which  dart  from  many  a  star 
Of  the  flowers  whose  hues  they  bear  afar ; 

The  plumed  insects  swift  and  free, 
.  Like  golden  boats  on  a  sunny  sea, 
Laden  with  light  and  odor,  which  pass 
Over  the  gleam  of  the  living  grass; 

The  unseen  clouds  of  the  dew,  which  lie 
Like  fire  in  the  flowers  till  the  sun  rides  high, 
Then  wander  like  spirits  among  the  spheres, 
Each  cloud  faint  with  the  fragrance  it  bears; 

The  quivering  vapors  of  dim  noontide. 
Which  like  a  sea  o'er  the  warm  earth  glide, 
In  which  every  sound,  and  odor,  and  beam. 
Move,  as  reeds  in  a  single  stream ; 

Each  and  all  like  ministering  angels  were 
For  the  Sensitive  Plant  sweet  joy  to  bear, 
Whilst  the  lagging  hours  of  the  day  went  by 
Like  windless  clouds  o'er  a  tender  sky. 

And  when  evening  descended  from  Heaven  above, 
And  the  Earth  was  all  rest,  and  the  air  was  all  love 
And  delight,  though  less  bright,  was  far  more  deep, 
And  the  day's  veil  fell  from  the  world  of  sleep. 

And  the  beasts,  and  the  birds,  and   the  insects  were 

drown'd 
In  an  ocean  of  dreams  without  a  sound  ; 
Whose  waves  never  mark,  though  they  ever  impress 
The  light  sand  which  paves  it,  consciousness ; 

(Only  overhead  the  sweet  nightingale 

Ever  sang  more  sweet  as  the  day  might  fail. 

And  snatches  of  its  Elysian  chant 

Were  mix'd  with  the  dreams  of  the  Sensitive  Plant.) 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  the  earliest 
Upgather'd  into  the  bosom  of  rest ; 
A  sweet  child  weary  of  its  delight. 
The  feeblest  and  yet  the  favorite 
Cradled  within  the  embrace  of  night 


There  was  a  Power  in  this  sweet  place, 
An  Eve  in  this  Eden ;  a  ruling  grace 
Which  to  the  flowers,  did  they  waken  or  dream, 
Was  as  God  is  to  the  starry  scheme. 

A  Lady,  the  wonder  of  her  kind. 
Whose  form  was  upborne  by  a  lovely  mind. 
Which,  dilating,  had  moulded  her  mien  and  motion 
Like  a  sea-flower  unfolded  beneath  the  ocean, 


Tended  the  garden  from  morn  to  even : 
And  the  meteors  of  that  sublunar  Heaven, 
Like  the  lamps  of  the  air  when  night  walks  forth, 
Laugh'd  round  her  footsteps  up  from  the  Earlh! 

She  had  no  companion  of  mortal  race. 
But  her  tremulous  breath  and  her  flushing  face 
Told,  whilst  the  morn  kiss'd  the  sleep  from  her  eyes 
That  her  dreams  were  less  slumber  than  Paradise  . 


As  if  some  bright  Spirit  for  her  sweet  sake 

Had  deserted  Heaven  while  the  stars  were  awake, 

As  if  yet  around  her  he  lingering  were. 

Though  the  veil  of  d-aylight  conceal'd  him  from  her. 

Her  step  seem'd  to  pity  the  grass  it  prest ; 
You  might  hear  by  the  heaving  of  her  breastr 
That  the  coming  and  going  of  the  wind 
Brought  pleasure  there  and  left  passion  behind. 

And  wherever  her  airy  footstep  trod, 
Her  trailing  hair  from  the  grassy  sod 
Erased  its  light  vestige,  with  shadowy  sweep, 
Like  a  sunny  storm  o'er  the  dark-green  deep. 

I  doubt  not  the  flowers  of  that  garden  sweet 
Rejoiced  in  the  sound  of  her  gentle  feet ; 
I  doubt  not  they  felt  the  spirit  that  came 
From  her  glowing  fingers  through  all  their  frame. 

She  sprinkled  bright  water  from  the  stream 
On  those  that  were  faint  with  the  sunny  beam ; 
And  out  of  the  cups  of  the  heavy  flowers 
She  emptied  the  rain  of  the  thunder-showers. 

She  lifted  their  heads  with  her  tender  hands. 
And  sustain'd  ihem  with  rods  and  osier  bands; 
If  the  flowers  had  been  her  own  infants,  she 
Could  never  have  nursed  them  more  tenderly. 

And  all  killing  insects  and  gnawing  worms. 
And  things  of  obscene  and  unlovely  forms, 
She  bore  in  a  basket  of  Indian  woof, 
Into  the  rough  woods  far  aloof. 

In  a  basket,  of  grasses  and  wild  flowers  full. 
The  freshest  her  gentle  hands  could  pull 
For  the  poor  banish'd  insects,  whose  intent, 
Although  they  did  ill,  was  innocent. 

But  the  bee  and  the  beamlike  ephemeris, 
Whose  path  is  the  lightning's,  and  soft  moths  that  kiS3- 
The  sweet  lips  of  the  flowers,  and  harm  not,  did  sha 
Make  her  attendant  angels  be. 

And  many  an  antenatal  tomb, 
Where  butterflies  dream  of  the  life  to  come, 
She  left  clinging  round  the  smooth  and  dark 
Edge  of  the  odorous  cedar  bark. 

This  fairest  creature  from  earliest  spring 
Thus  moved  through  the  garden  ministering 
All  the  sweet  season  of  summer-tide. 
And  ere  the  first  leaf  look'd  brown — she  died ! 
59  453 


206 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Three  days  the  flowers  of  the  garden  fair, 
Like  stars  when  the  moon  is  awaken'd,  were, 
Or  the  waves  of  Baise,  ere  luminous 
She  floats  up  through  the  smoke  of  Vesuvius. 

And  on  the  fourth,  the  Sensitive  Plant 
Felt  the  sound  of  the  funeral  chant, 
And  the  steps  of  the  bearers,  heavy  and  slow. 
And  the  sobs  of  the  mourners  deep  and  low ; 

The  weary  sound  and  the  heavy  breath. 
And  the  silent  motions  of  passing  death, 
And  tlie  smell,  cold,  oppressive,  and  dank. 
Sent  through  the  pores  of  the  coffin  plank  ; 

The  dark  grass,  and  the  flowers  among  the  grass, 
Were  bright  with  tears  as  the  crowd  did  pass  ; 
From  their  sighs  the  wind  caught  a  mournful  tone, 
And  sate  in  the  pines,  and  gave  groan  for  groan. 

The  garden,  once  fair,  became  cold  and  foul. 
Like  the  corpse  of  her  who  had  been  its  soul ; 
Which  at  first  was  lovely  as  if  in  sleep, 
Then  slowly  changed,  till  it  grew  a  heap 
To  make  men  tremble  who  never  weep. 

Swift  summer  into  the  autumn  flow'd, 
And  frost  in  the  mist  of  the  morning  rode, 
Though  the  noonday  sun  look'd  clear  and  bright, 
Mijcking  the  spoil  of  the  secret  night. 

The  rose-leaves,  like  flakes  of  crimson  snow, 
Paved  the  turf  and  the  moss  below. 
The  lilies  were  drooping,  and  white,  and  wan, 
liike  the  head  and  the  skin  of  a  dying  man. 

And  Indian  plants,  of  scent  and  hue 
The  sweetest  that  ever  were  fed  on  dew, 
lieaf  after  leaf,  day  after  day. 
Were  mass'd  into  the  common  clay. 

And  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow,  and  gray,  and  red, 
And  white  with  the  whiteness  of  what  is  dead, 
Like  troops  of  ghosts  on  the  dry  wind  past; 
Their  whistling  noise  made  the  birds  aghast. 

And  the  gusty  winds  waked  the  winged  seeds, 
Out  of  their  birth-place  of  ugly  weeds. 
Till  they  clung  round  many  a  sweet  flower's  stem, 
Which  rotted  into  the  earth  with  them. 

The  water-blooms  under  the  rivulet 
Fell  from  the  stalks  on  which  they  were  set ; 
And  the  eddies  drove  them  here  and  there. 
As  the  winds  did  those  of  the  upper  air. 

Then  the  rain  came  down,  and  the  broken  stalks. 
Were  bent  and  tangled  across  the  walks  ; 
And  the  leafless  net-work  of  parasite  bowers 
Mass'd  into  ruin,  and  all  sweet  flowers. 


And  thistles,  and  nettles,  and  darnels  rank. 
And  the  dock,  and  henbane,  and  hemlock  danL 
Stretch'd  out  its  long  and  hollow  shank. 
And  stifled  the  air  till  the  dead  wind  slank. 

And  plants,  at  whoso  names  the  verse  feels  loth; 
Fill'd  the  place  with  a  monstrous  undergrowth. 
Prickly,  and  pulpous,  and  blistering,  and  blue, 
Livid,  and  starr'd  with  a  lurid  dew. 

And  agarics  and  fungi,  with  mildew  and  mould, 
Started  like  mist  from  the  wet  ground  cold ; 
Pale,  fleshy,  as  if  the  decaying  dead 
With  a  spirit  of  growth  had  been  animated  ! 

Their  mass  rotted  oflT  them,  flake  by  flake, 
Till  the  thick  stalk  stuck  like  a  murderer's  stake ; 
Where  rags  of  loose  flesh  yet  tremble  on  high. 
Infecting  the  winds  that  wander  by. 

Spawn,  weeds,  and  filth,  a  leprous  scum. 

Made  the  running  rivulet  thick  and  dumb 

And  at  its  outlet,  flags  huge  as  stakes 

Damm'd  it  up  with  roots  knotted  like  wate'-snakes. 

And  hour  by  hour,  when  the  air  was  still. 
The  vapors  arose  which  have  strength  to  kill ! 
At  morn  they  were  seen,  at  noon  they  were  felt, 
At  night  they  were  darltness  no  star  could  melt. 

And  unctuous  meteors  from  spray  to  spray 
Crept  and  flitted  in  broad  noonday 
Unseen ;  every  branch  on  which  they  alit 
By  a  venomous  blight  was  burn'd  and  bit. 

The  Sensitive  Plant,  like  one  forbid. 
Wept,  and  the  tears  within  each  lid 
Of  its  folded  leaves,  which  together  grew. 
Were  changed  to  a  blight  of  frozen  glue. 

For  the  leaves  soon  fell,  and  the  branches  .soon 
By  the  heavy  ax  of  the  blast  were  hewn  ; 
The  sap  shrank  to  the  root  through  evei-y  pore, 
As  blood  to  a  heart  that  will  beat  no  more. 

For  Winter  came :  the  wind  was  his  whip: 
One  choppy  finger  was  on  his  lip: 
He  had  torn  the  cataracts  from  the  hills. 
And  they  claidi'd  at  his  girdle  like  manacles; 

His  breath  was  a  chain  which  without  a  sound 
The  earth,  and  the  air,  and  the  water  bound  ; 
He  came,  fiercely  driven  in  his  chariot-throne 
By  the  tenfold  blasts  of  the  arctic  zone. 

Then  the  weeds  which  were  forms  of  living  deatl 
Fled  from  the  frost  to  the  earth  beneath. 
Their  decay  and  sudden  flight  from  frost 
Was  but  like  the  vanishing  of  a  ghost ! 


Between  the  time  of  the  wind  and  the  snow.  And  under  flie  roots  of  the  Sensitive  Plant 

All  lotheliest  weeds  began  to  grow.  The  moles  and  the  dormice  died  for  want: 

Whose  coarse  leaves  were  splash'd  with  many  a  speck.  The  birds  dropp'd  stiflT  from  the  frozen  air, 
Like  the  water-snake's  belly  and  the  toad's  back.         And  were  caught  in  the  branches  naked  and  bare. 

454 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


20": 


First  there  came  down  a  thawing  rain, 
And  its  dull  drops  froze  on  the  boughs  again, 
Then  there  steam'd  up  a  freezing  dew 
Which  to  the  drops  of  the  thaw-rain  grew  ; 

And  a  northern  whirlwind,  wandering  about 
Like  a  wolf  that  had  smelt  a  dead  child  out. 
Shook  the  boughs  thus  laden,  and  heavy  and  stiff. 
And  snapp'd  them  off  with  his  rigid  griff 

When  winter  had  gone  and  spring  came  back, 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  a  leafless  wreck ; 

But  the  mandrakes,  and  toadstools,  and  docks,  and 

darnels. 
Rose  like  the  dead  from  their  ruin'd  chainels. 

CONCLUSION. 

Whether  the  Sensitive  Plant,  or  that 
Which  within  its  boughs  like  a  spirit  sat 
Ere  its  outward  form  had  known  decay, 
Now  felt  this  change,  I  cannot  say. 

Whether  that  lady's  gentle  mind, 
No  longer  with  the  (brm  combined 
Which  scatter'd  love,  as  stars  do  light. 
Found  sadness,  where  it  left  delight, 

I  dare  not  guess  ;  but  in  this  life 
Of  error,  ignorance,  and  strife. 
Where  nothing  is,  but  all  things  seem, 
And  we  the  shadows  of  the  dream. 

It  is  a  modest  creed,  and  yet 
Pleasant,  if  one  considers  it. 
To  own  that  death  itself  must  be. 
Like  all  the  rest,  a  mockery. 

That  garden  sweet,  that  lady  fair. 
And  all  sweet  shapes  and  odors  there, 
In  truth  have  never  pass'd  away : 
"Tis  we,  'tis  ours,  are  changed ;  not  they. 

For  love,  and  beauty,  and  delight. 
There  is  no  death  nor  change :  their  might 
Exceeds  our  organs,  wliich  endure 
No  light,  being  themselves  obscure. 


A  VISION  OF  THE  SEA. 

T  IS  the  terror  of  tempest.    The  rags  of  the  sail 
Are  flickering  in  ribbons  within  the  fierce  gale : 
From  the  stark  night  of  vaf)ors  ihe  tlini  rain  is  driven, 
And  when  lightning  is  loosed,  like  a  deluge  from  heaven, 
She  sees  the  black  trunks  of  the  water-spouts  spin, 
And  blend,  as  if  heaven  was  mining  in. 
Which  they  seem'd  to  sustain  with  their  terrible  mass 
As  if  ocean  had  sunk  fn)m  beneath  them  :  they  pass 
To  their  graves  in  the  deep  wiih  an  earthquake  ofsoimd. 
And  the  waves  and  ilie  ibunders,  made  silent  around. 
Leave  the  \yin(l  lo  its  e(;lio.    'Die  vessel,  now  toss'd 
Tiirouirh  ihe  low-trailing  rack  of  the  tempest,  is  lost 
!n  h'skirisolihe  iliuiider-cloud:  now  down  the  sweep 
Of  the  wind-cloven  wave  to  the  chasm  of  the  deep 
It  sinks,  and  tiie  walls  of  the  watery  vale 
Whose  depths  of  dread  calm  arc  unmoved  by  the  gale. 
Dim  mirrors  of  ruin  liang  glcanu'ng  about; 
While  the  surf,  like  a  chaos  of  stars,  like  a  rout 


Of  death-flames,  like  whirlpools  of  fire-flowing  iron, 
With  splendor  and  terror  the  black  ship  environ  ; 
Or  like  sulphur-flakes  hurl'd  from  a  mine  of  pale  fire 
In  fountains  spout  o'er  it.    In  many  a  spire 
The  pyramid-billows,  with  while  points  of  brine. 
In  ihe  cope  of  the  lightning  inconstantly  shine, 
As  piercing  the  sky  from  the  floor  of  the  sea. 
The  great  ship  seems  splitting!  it  cracks  as  a  tree. 
While  an  earthquake  is  splintering  its  root,  ere  the  blast 
Of  the  whirlwind  that  stript  it  of  branches  has  past. 
The   intense   thunder-balls  which  are  raining  from 

heaven 
Have  shatter'd  its  mast,  and  it  stands  black  and  riven. 
The  chinks  suck  destruction.    The  heavy  dead  hulk 
On  the  living  sea  rolls  an  inanimate  bulk. 
Like  a  corpse  on  the  clay  which  is  hung'ring  to  fold 
Its  corruption  around  it.    Meanwhile,  from  the  hold, 
One  deck  is  burst  up  from  the  waters  below. 
And  it  splits  like  the  ice  when  the  thaw-breezes  blow 
O'er  the  lakes  of  the  desert !  Who  sit  on  the  other? 
Is  that  all  the  crew  that  lie  buiying  each  other, 
Like  the  dead  in  a  breach,  round  the  foremost  ?  Are 

those 
Twin  tigers,  who  burst,  when  the  waters  arose, 
In  the  agony  of  terror,  their  chains  in  the  hold 
(What  now  makes  them  tame,  is  what  then  made 

them  bold) ; 
Who  crouch'd,  side  by  side,  and  ha\e  driven,  like  a 

crank. 
The  deep  grip  of  their  claws  through  (he  vibrating 

plank  ? 
Are  these  all?  Nine  weeks  the  tall  vessel  had  lain 
On  the  windless  expanse  of  the  watery  plain. 
Where  the  death-darting  sun  cast  no  shadow  at  noon, 
And  there  seem'd  to  be  fire  in  the  beams  of  the  moon, 
Till  a  lead-color'd  fog  gather'd  up  from  the  deep, 
Whose  breath  was  quick  pestilence ;  then,  the  cold 

sleep 
Crept,  like  blight  through  the  ears  of  a  thick  field  of 

corn. 
O'er  the  populous  vessel.    And  even  and  morn. 
With  their  hammocks  (or  coffins  the  seamen  aghast 
Like  dead  men  the  dead  limbs  of  iheir  comrades  cast 
Down  the  deep,  which  closed  on  them  above  and  around, 
And  the  sharks  and  the  dog-tish  their  grave-clothes 

unbound. 
And  were  glutted  like  Jews  with  this  manna  rain'd 

down 
From  God  on  their  wilderness.    One  after  one 
The  mariners  died  ;  on  the  eve  of  this  day, 
When  the  tempest  was  gatliering  in  cloudy  array. 
But  seven  remain'd.    Six  ihe  thunder  had  smitten. 
And  they  lie  black  as  mummies  on  which  Time  has 

written 
His  scorn  of  the  embalmer;  the  seventh,  from  Ihe  deck 
An  oak  splinter  pierced  ihroiighhis  breast  and  his  back, 
And  hung  out  lo  the  tempest,  a  wreck  on  the  wreck. 
No  more  >.    At  the  helm  siis  a  woman  more  fair 
Than  heaven,  when,  unbinding  its  star-l)raided  hair. 
It  sinks  with  the  sun  on  the  earth  and  ihe  sea. 
She  clasps  a  bright  child  on  her  upgaihcr'd  knee. 
It  laughs  at  the  lightning,  ii  mocks  the  inix'd  thunder 
Of  ihe  air  and  the  sea,  with  desire  and  with  wonder 
It  is  beckoning  the  tigers  to  rise  and  come  near. 
It  would  play  wiih  those  ej'es  where  Ihe  radiance  of  fear 
Is  oulshining  the  meteors ;  its  bosom  heals  high. 
The  heart-fire  of  pleasure  has  kindled  ils  eye; 
>Vliilc  Its  mother's  is  lustreless.  ".Smile  not,  my  child. 
But  sleep  deeply  and  sweetly,  and  so  be  beguiled 
455 


208 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  the  pang  that  awaits  us,  whatever  that  be, 
So  dreadful  since  thou  must  divide  it  with  me ! 
Dream,  sleep !  this  pale  blossom,  thy  cradle  and  bed, 
Will  it  rock  thee  not,  infant?  'Tis  beating  with  dread! 
Alas  !  what  is  life,  what  is  death,  what  are  we, 
That  when  the  ship  sinks  we  no  longer  may  be  ? 
What !  to  see  thee  no  more,  and  to  feel  thee  no  more  ? 
To  be  after  life  what  we  have  been  before  ? 
Not  to  touch  those  sweet  hands?  Not  to  look  on  those 

eyes. 
Those  lips,  and  that  hair,  all  that  smiling  disguise 
Thou  yet  wearest,  sweet  spirit,  which  I,  day  by  day. 
Have  so  long  call'd  my  child,  but  which  now  fades  away 
Like  a  rainbow,  and  I  the  fallen  shower?"  Lo!  the 

ship 
Is  settling,  it  topples,  the  leeward  ports  dip ; 
The  tigers  leap  up  when  they  feel  the  slow  brine 
Crawling  inch  by  inch  on  them ;  hair,  ears,  limbs, 

and  eyne. 
Stand  rigid  with  horror;  a  loud,  long,  hoarse  cry 
Bursts  at  once  from  their  vitals  tremendously, 
And  'tis  borne  down  the  mountainous  vale  of  the 

wave. 
Rebounding,  like  thunder,  from  crag  to  cave, 
Mix'd  with  the  clash  of  the  lashing  rain. 
Hurried  on  by  the  might  of  the  hurricane  : 
The  hurricane  came  from  the  west,  and  past  on 
By  the  path  of  the  gate  of  the  eastern  sun. 
Transversely  dividing  the  stream  of  the  storm; 
As  an  arrowy  serpent,  pursuing  the  form 
Of  an  elephant,  bursts  through  the  brakes  of  the  waste. 
Black  as  a  cormorant  the  screaming  blast, 
Between  ocean  and  heaven,  like  an  ocean,  past. 
Till  it  came  to  the  clouds  on  the  verge  of  the  world. 
Which,  based  on  the  sea  and  to  heaven  upcurl'd. 
Like  columns  and  walls  did  surround  and  sustain 
The  dome  of  the  tempest;  it  rent  them  in  twain, 
As  a  flood  rends  its  barriers  of  mountainous  crag : 
And  the  dense  clouds  in  many  a  ruin  and  rag. 
Like  the  stones  of  a  temple  ere  earthquake  has  past. 
Like  the  dust  of  its  fall,  on  the  whirlwind  are  cast; 
They  are  scatter'd  like  foam  on  the  torrent;  and  where 
The  wind  has  burst  out  through  the  chasm,  from  the  air 
Of  clear  morning,  the  beams  of  the  sunrise  flow  in. 
Unimpeded,  keen,  golden,  and  crystalline. 
Banded  armies  of  light  and  of  air;  at  one  gate 
They  encounter,  but  interpenetrate. 
And  that  breach  in  the  tempest  is  widening  away, 
And  tlie  caverns  of  cloud  are  torn  up  by  the  day, 
And  the  fierce  winds  are  sinking  with  weary  wings, 
LiiU'd  by  the  motion  and  murmurings. 
And  the  long  glassy  heave  of  the  rocking  sea, 
And  overhead  glorious,  but  dreadful  to  see. 
The  wrecks  of  the  tempest,  like  vapors  of  gold. 
Are  consuming  in  sunrise.  The  heap'd  waves  behold 
The  deep  calm  of  blue  heaven  dilating  above, 
And,  like  passions  made  still  by  the  presence  of  Love, 
Beneath  the  clear  surface  reflecting  it  slide 
Tremulous  with  soft  influence ;  extending  its  tide 
From  the  Andes  to  Atlas,  round  mountain  and  isle, 
Round  sea-birds  and  wrecks,   paved  with  heaven's 

azure  smile, 
The  wide  world  of  waters  is  vibrating.    Where 
Is  the  ship  ?   On  the  verge  of  the  wave  where  it  lay 
One  tiger  is  mingled  in  ghastly  aflfray 
With  a  sea-snake.    The  foam  and  the  smoke  of  the 

battle 
Slain  the  clear  air  with  sun-bows;  the  jar,  and  the 

rattle 


Of  solid  bones  crush'd  by  the  infinite  stress 

Of  the  snake's  adamantine  voluptuousness  ; 

And  the  hum  of  the  hot  blood  that  spouts  and  rains 

Where  the  gripe  of  the  tiger  has  wounded  the  veins 

Swoln  with  rage,  strength,  and  effort ;  the  whirl  and 

the  splash 
As  of  some  hideous  engine  whose  brazen  teeth  smash 
The  thin  winds  and  soft  waves  into  thunder !   the 

screams 
And  hissings  crawl  fast  o'er  the  smooth  ocean-streams, 
Each  sound  like  a  centipede.    Near  this  commotion, 
A  blue  shark  is  hanging  within  the  blue  ocean. 
The  fin-winged  tomb  of  the  victor.    The  other 
Is  winning  his  way  from  the  fate  of  his  brother, 
To  his  own  with  the  speed  of  despair.    Lo !  a  boat    . 
Advances ;  twelve  rowers  with  the  impulse  of  thought 
Urge  on  the  keen  keel,  the  brine  foams.  At  the  stern 
Three  marksmen  stand  levelling.    Hot  bullets  burn 
In  the  breast  of  the  tiger,  which  yet  bears  him  on 
To  his  refuge  and  ruin.    One  fragment  alone, 
'Tis  dwindling  and  sinking,  'tis  now  almost  gono 
Of  the  wreck  of  the  vessel  peers  out  of  the  sea. 
With  her  left  hand  she  grasps  it  impetuously, 
With  her  right  she  sustains  her  fair  infant.  Death,  Fear, 
Love,  Beauty,  are  mix'd  in  the  atmosphere, 
Which  trembles  and  burns  with  the  fervor  of  dread 
Around  her  wild  eyes,  her  bright  hand,  and  her  head, 
Like  a  meteor  of  light  o'er  the  waters!  her  child 
Is  yet  smiling,  and  playing,  and  murmuring :  so  smiled 
The  false  deep  ere  the  storm.  Like  a  sister  and  brothel 
The  child  and  the  ocean  still  smile  on  each  other, 
Whilst 


ODE  TO  HEAVEN. 

CHORUS  OF  SPIRITS. 
FIRST  SPIRIT. 

Palace-roof  of  cloudless  nights ! 
Paradise  of  golden  lights ! 

Deep,  immeasurable,  vast, 
Which  art  now,  and  which  w  ert  then ! 

Of  the  present  and  the  past. 
Of  the  eternal  where  and  when. 

Presence-chamber,  temple,  home, 

Ever-canopying  dome. 

Of  acts  and  ages  yet  to  come ! 

Glorious  shapes  have  life  in  thee. 
Earth,  and  all  earth's  company ; 

Living  globes  which  ever  throng 
Thy  deep  chasms  and  wildernesses  ; 

And  green  worlds  that  glide  along ; 
And  swift  stars  with  flashmg  tresses ; 

And  icy  moons  most  cold  and  bright, 

And  mighty  suns  beyond  the  night, 

Atoms  of  intensest  light. 

Even  thy  name  is  as  a  god. 
Heaven !  for  thou  art  the  abode 

Of  that  power  which  is  the  glass 
Wherein  man  his  nature  sees. 

Generations  as  they  pass 
Worship  thee  witli  bended  knees. 

Their  unremaining  gods  and  they 

Like  a  river  roll  away  : 

Thou  remainest  such  alway. 
456 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 


209 


SECOND  SPIRIT. 

Thou  art  but  the  mind's  first  chamber, 
Roiinil  which  its  young  fancies  clamber, 

Like  weak  insects  in  a  cave, 
Lighted  up  by  stalactites; 

But  the  portal  of  the  grave, 
Where  a  world  of  new  delights 

Will  make  ihy  best  glories  seem 

But  a  dim  and  noonday  gleam 

From  the  shadow  of  a  dream ! 

THIRD  SPIRIT. 

Peace  !  the  abyps  is  wreathed  with  scorn 
At  your  presumption,  atom-born! 

What  is  heaven  ?  and  what  are  ye 
Who  its  brief  expanse  inherit  ? 

What  are  suns  and  spheres  which  flee 
With  the  instinct  of  that  spirit 

Of  which  ye  are  but  a  part? 

Drops  which  Nature's  mighty  heart 

Drives  through  thinnest  veins.     Depart ! 

What  is  heaven  ?  a  globe  of  dew, 
Filling  in  Ihe  morning  new 

Some  eyed  flower,  whose  young  leaves  waken 
On  an  unimagined  world  : 

Constellated  suns  unshaken. 
Orbits  measureless  are  furl'd 

In  that  frail  and  fading  sphere. 

With  ten  millions  gather'd  there. 

To  tremble,  gleam,  and  disappear. 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND.* 

L 

O  wiT.D  West  Wind  I  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being! 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pnle,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes:  O,  thou. 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  w  intry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low. 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odors,  plain  and  hill  : 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere  ; 
Destroyer  and  preserver  ;  hear,  O,  hear ! 

*  Thia  poem  was  conceived  and  chiefly  written  in  a 
wood  tliat  skirts  the  Arno,  near  Florence,  and  on  a  day 
when  (hat  Icinpfstiiniis  wind,  \vh»<,-  tpiiipfrature  is  at 
once  mild  and  animating,  wascollecting  the  vapors  which 
pour  down  the  autumnal  rains.  Tliey  heyan,  as  I  foresaw, 
at  siin?ct  with  a  violent  tempest  of  hail  and  rain,  attend- 
ed by  that  magnificent  thunder  and  lightning  peculiar  to 
the  Cisalpine  regions. 

The  phenomenon  alluded  to  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
third  stanza  is  well  known  to  naturalists.  The  vegetation 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  of  rivers,  and  of  lakes,  sympa- 
thizi  s  with  that  of  the  land  in  the  rhanse  of  seasons,  and  is 
consequently  influenced  by  the  winds  which  announce  it. 
3H 


IL 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  commo 

tion. 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed. 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and  Ocean. 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning:  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge. 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Ma?nad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height. 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre. 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst :  O,  hear  I 


III. 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
Lull'd  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiaj's  bay. 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  vviihin  the  wave's  intenser  day. 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them! — Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea  blooms,  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear. 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves:  O,  hear! 

IV. 
If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear ; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee ; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O,  uncontrollable  !  If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven. 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 

Scarce  seem'd  a  vision ;  I  would  ne'er  have  stnven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh !  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life !  I  bleed  ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chain'd  and  bow'd 
One  too  like  thee :  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 
457 


210 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet,  thongli  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit '  Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  wither'd  leaves,  to  quicken  a  new  birth! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguish'd  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawaken'd  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !  O,  wind, 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  lar  behind  ? 


AN  ODE, 


WRITTEN,  OCTOBER,  1819,    BEFORE  THE  SPANIARDS 
HAD  RECOVERED  THEIR  LIBERTV. 

Arise,  arise,  arise ! 
There  is  blood  on  the    earth  that  denies  ye 
bread  ; 
Be  your  wounds  like  eyes 
To  weep  for  the  dead,  tlie  dead,  the  dead. 
What  other  grief  were  it  just  lo  pay  ? 
Your  sons,  your  wives,  your  brethren,  were  they; 
Who  said  they  were  slain  on  the  battle  day  ? 


Awaken,  awaken,  awaken ! 
The  slave  and  the  tyrant  are  twin-born  foes  ; 

Be  the  cold  chains  shaken 
To  the  dust  where  your  kindred  repose,  repose! 
Their  bones  in  the  grave  will  start  and  move, 
When  they  hear  the  voices  of  those  they  love, 
Most  loud  in  the  holy  combat  above. 


Wave,  wave  high  the  banner ! 
When  freedom  is  riding  lo  conquest  by; 

Though  the  slaves  that  fan  her 
Be  famine  and  toil,  giving  sigh  for  sigh. 
Arid  ye  who  allend  her  imperial  car. 
Lift  not  your  hands  in  the  banded  war. 
But  in  her  defence  whose  children  ye  are. 


Glory,  glory,  glory, 
To  those  who  have  greatly  suffer'd  and  done! 

Never  name  in  story 
Was  greater  than  that  which  ye  shall  have  won. 
Conquerors  have  conquer'd  their  foes  alone. 
Whose  revenge,  pride,  and  power  they  have  over- 
thrown : 
Ride  ye,  more  victorious,  over  your  own. 

Bind,  bind  every  brow 
With  coronals  of  violet,  ivy,  and  pine : 

Hide  the  blood-stains  now 
With  hues  wliich  sweet  nature  has  made  divine  : 
Green  strength,  azure  hope,  and  eternity: 
But  let  not  the  pansy  among  them  be  ; 
Ye  were  injured,  and  that  means  memory. 


ODE  TO  LIBERTY. 


Vet,  Freedom,  yet  thy  banner  torn  hut  flying. 
Streams  Uke  a  ihumlfcr-sturni  against  the  wind. 

Btros 

I. 

A  GLORIOUS  people  vibrated  again 

The  lightning  of  tlie  nations  :  Liberty 
From  heart  to  heart,  from  tower  to  lower,  o'er  Spain, 

Scattering  contagious  fire  into  the  sky, 
Gleam'd.     My  soul  spurn 'd  the  chains  of  its  dismay 
And,  in  the  rapid  plumes  of  song, 
Clothed  itself,  sublime  and  strong; 
As  a  young  eagle  soars  the  morning  clouds  among, 
Hovering  inverse  o'er  its  accuslom'd  prey ; 

Till  from  its  station  in  the  heaven  of  fame 
The  Spirit's  whirlwind  rapt  it,  and  the  ray 
Of  the  remotest  sphere  of  living  flame 
Which  paves  the  void  was  from  behind  it  flung 
As  foam  from  a  ship's  swiftness,  when  there  came 
A  voice  out  of  the  deep :  I  will  record  the  same 

II. 

The  Sun  and  the  serenest  Moon  sprang  forth  : 

The  burning  stars  of  the  abyss  were  hurl'd 

Into  the  depths  of  heaven.     The  dasdal  earth. 

That  island  in  the  ocean  of  the  world. 
Hung  in  its  cloud  of  all-sustaining  air; 
But  this  divinest  universe 
Was  yet  a  chaos  and  a  curse. 
For  thou  wert  not:  but  power  from  worst  prooucing 
worse,, 
The  spirit  of  the  beasts  was  kindled  there, 
And  of  the  birds,  and  of  the  watery  forms. 
And  there  was  war  among  them,  and  despair 

Within  ihem,  raging  without  truce  or  terms: 
The  bosom  of  their  violated  nurse 

Groan'd,  for  beasts  warr'd  on  beasts,  and  wormg 

on  worms, 
And  men  on  men  ;  each  heart  was  as  a  hell  of 
storms. 

III. 

Man,  the  imperial  shape,  then  multiplied 

His  generations  under  the  pavilion 
Of  the  Sun's  throne  :  palace  and  pyramid. 

Temple  and  prison,  to  many  a  swarming  million, 
Were,  as  lo  mountain-wolves  their  ragged  caves. 
This  human  living  multitude 
Was  savage,  cunning,  blind,  and  rude. 
For  thou  wert  not;  but  o'er  the  populous  solitude, 
Like  one  fierce  cloud  over  a  waste  of  waves, 

Hung  tyranny  ;  beneath,  sate  deified 
The  sister-pest,  congregator  of  slaves  ; 
Into  the  shadow  of  her  pinions  wide. 
Anarchs  and  priests  who  feed  on  gold  and  blood. 
Till  with  the  stain  their  inmost  souls  are  dyed, 
Drove  the  astonish 'd  herds  of  men  from  every  side 

IV. 

The  nodding  promontories,  and  blue  isles. 

And  cloud-like  mountains,  and  dividuous  waves 

Of  Greece,  bask'd  glorious  in  the  open  smiles 

Of  favoring  heaven :  from  their  enchanted  caves 
458 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 


211 


Prophetic  echoes  nung  iliin  melody 
On  the  unapprehensive  wild. 
The  vine,  the  corn,  ihc  oUve  mild. 
Grew  savage  yet,  to  iuiman  use  unreconciled ; 
And,  like  unfolded  (lowers  benealli  the  sea, 

Like  iJie  munV  tiiought  dark  in  the  inlimt's  brain, 
Like  aught  that  is  wliich  wrajjs  what  is  to  bn, 
Art's  deaililess  dreams  lay  veil'd  by  many  a  vein 
Of  Parian  stone;  and  yet  a  speechless  child, 
Verse  murmur'd,  and  Philosophy  did  strain 
Her  lidless  eyes  for  thee;  when  o'er  the  yEgean  main 

V. 

Athens  arose  :  a  city  such  as  vision 

Builds  from  the  purple  crags  and  silver  towers 
Of  hattlemented  cloud,  as  in  derision 

Of  kingliest  masonry  :  the  ocean-floors 
Pave  it ;  the  evening  sky  pavilions  it ; 
Its  portals  are  inhabited 
By  thunder-zoned  winds,  each  head 
Within  its  cloudy  wings  with  sun-fire  garlanded, 
A  divine  work!  Alliens  diviner  yet 

Glejim'd  with  its  crest  of  columns,  on  the  will 
Of  man,  as  on  a  mount  of  diamond,  set ; 
For  thou  wert,  and  thine  all-creative  skill 
Peopled  with  forms  that  mock  the  eternal  dead 
In  marble  immortality,  that  hill 
Which  was  thine  earliest  throne  and  latest  oracle 


vr. 

Within  the  surflice  of  Time's  fleeting  river 

Its  wrinkled  image  lies,  as  then  it  lay 
Immovably  unquiet,  and  for  ever 

It  trembles,  but  it  cannot  pass  away ! 
The  voices  of  thy  bards  and  sages  thunder 

With  an  earih-awakening  blast 
Through  the  caverns  of  the  past ; 
Religion  veils  her  eyes;  Oppression  shrinks  aghast: 
A  winged  sound  of  joy,  and  love  and  wonder, 
Which  soars  where  Expeclation  never  flew, 
Rending  the  veil  of  space  and  time  asunder ! 
One  ocean  feeds  the  clouds,  and  streams,  and 
dew ; 
One  sun  illumines  heaven;  one  spirit  vast 
With  life  and  love  makes  cliaos  ever  new, 
As  Athens  doih  the  world  with  thy  delight  renew. 

VII. 

Then  Rome  was,  and  from  thy  deep  bosom  fairest, 
Like  a  vvolf-euh  from  a  Cadmsran  Maenad,* 

She  drew  the  milk  of  greatness,  though  thy  dearest 
From  that  Elysian  food  was  yet  unwean'd  ; 

And  many  a  deed  of  terrible  uprightness 
By  thy  sweet  love  was  sanctified  ; 
.And  in  thy  smile,  and  by  thy  side. 

Saintly  Camillus  lived,  and  firm  Atilius  died. 

But  when  tears  stain'd  thy  robe  of  vestal  whiteness. 
And  gold  profaned  thy  capiiolian  throne, 
Thou  didst  desert,  with  spirit-winged  lightness, 
The  senate  of  the  tyrants ;  they  sunk  prone 

Slaves  of  one  tyrant :  Palatinus  sigh'd 
Faint  echoes  of  Ionian  song ;  that  tone 
Thou  didst  delay  to  hear,  lamenting  to  disown. 


*  See  the  BacchiE  of  Euripides. 


VFII. 

From  what  Ilyrcanian  glen  or  frozen  hill, 
Or  piny  promontory  of  the  Arctic  main. 
Or  utmost  islet  inaicessiblo. 

Didst  thou  lament  the  ruin  of  thy  reign. 
Teaching  the  woods  and  waves,  and  desert  rocks. 
And  every  Naiad's  ice-cold  urn, 
To  talk  in  echoes  sad  and  stern. 
Of  that  subliniest  lore  which  man  had  dared  nnleam? 
For  neither  didst  thou  watch  the  wizard  flocks 

Of  the  Scald's  dreams,  nor  haunt  the  Druid's  sleep. 
What  if  the  tears  raiu'd  through  thy  shalter'd  locks 
Were  quickly  dried?  for  thou  didst  groan,  not 
weep. 
When  from  its  sea  of  death  to  kill  and  burn, 
The  Galilean  serpent  forth  did  creep. 
And  made  thy  world  an  midistinguishable  heap 


IX. 

A  thousand  years  the  Earth  cried,  Where  art  thou  ? 

And  then  the  shadow  of  thy  coming  fell 
On  Saxon  Alfred's  olive-cinctured  brow  : 

And  many  a  warrior-peopled  citadel. 
Like  rocks  which  fire  lifts  out  of  the  flat  deep. 
Arose  in  sacred  Italy, 
Frowning  o'er  the  tempestuous  sea 
Of  kings,  and  priests,  and  slaves,  in  tower-crown'J 
majesty ; 
That  multitudinous  anarchy  did  sweep. 

And  burst  around  their  walls,  like  idle  foam. 
Whilst  from  the  human  spirit's  deepest  deep. 

Strange  melody  with  love  and  awe  struck  dumb 
Dissonant  arms ;  and  Art,  which  cannot  die. 
With  divine  wand  traced  on  our  earthly  home 
Fit  imagery  to  pave  heaveii's  everlasting  dome. 

X. 

Thou  huntress  swifter  than  the  Moon!  thou  terror 

Of  the  world's  wolves!  thou  bearer  of  the  quiver. 
Whose  sun-like  shafts  jiierce  tempest- winged  Error, 

As  light  may  pierce  the  clouds  when  they  dissever 
In  the  calm  regions  of  the  orient  day ! 

Luther  caught  thy  wakening  glance  : 
Like  lightning,  from  his  leaden  lance 
Reflected,  it  dissolved  the  visions  of  the  trance 
In  which,  as  in  a  tomb,  the  nations  lay ; 

And  England's  prophets  hail'd  thee. as  their  queen. 
In  songs  whose  music  cannot  pass  away. 
Though  it  must  flow  for  ever:  not  unseen 
Before  the  spirit-sighted  countenance 

Of  Milton  didsf  ihou  pass,  from  the  sad  scene 
Beyond  w  hose  night  he  saw,  with  a  dejected  mieru 

XI. 

The  eager  hours  and  unreluctant  years 

As  on  a  dawn-illumined  mountain  stood, 
Trampling  to  silence  their  loud  hopes  and  fears, 

Darkening  each  other  with  their  multitude. 
And  cried  aloud.  Liberty!    Indignation 
Answer'd  Pity  from  her  cave  ; 
Death  grew  pale  within  the  grave, 
And  desolation  howl'd  to  the  destroyer,  Save! 
When  like  heaven's  sun,  girt  by  the  exhalation 

Of  its  own  glorious  light,  thou  didst  arise, 
Chasing  thy  foes  from  nation  unto  nation 
■15'J 


212 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Like  shadows :  as  if  day  had  cloven  the  skies 
At  dreaming  midnight  o'er  the  western  wave, 
Men  started,  staggering  with  a  glad  surprise, 
Under  the  lightnings  of  thine  unfamiliar  eyes. 

xir. 

Thou  heaven  of  earth !  what  spells  could  pall  thee  then, 

In  ominous  eclipse  ?    A  thousand  years, 
Bred  from  the  slime  of  deep  oppression's  den. 

Dyed  all  thy  liquid  light  with  blood  and  tears, 
Till  thy  sweet  stars  could  weep  the  stain  away. 
How  like  Bacchanals  of  blood 
Round  France,  the  ghastly  vintage,  stood 
Destruction's  sceptred  slaves,  and  folly's  mitred  brood ! 
When  one,  like  them,  but  mightier  far  than  they, 

The  Anarch  of  thine  own  bewilder'd  powers, 
Rose  :  armies  mingled  in  obscure  array 

Like  clouds  with  clouds,  darkening  the  sacred 
bowers 
Of  serene  heaven.    He,  by  the  past  pursued. 
Rests  with  those  dead,  but  unforgotten  hours. 
Whose  ghosts  scare  victor  kings  in  their  ancestral 
towers. 

XIII. 

England  yet  sleeps  :  was  she  not  call'd  of  old  ? 

Spain  calls  her  now,  as  with  its  thrilling  thunder 
Vesuvius  wakens  /Etna,  and  tlie  cold 

Snow-crags  by  its  reply  are  cloven  in  sunder : 
O'er  the  lit  waves  every  yEolian  isle 
From  Pithecusa  to  Pelorus 
Howls,  and  leaps,  and  glares  in  chorus  : 
They  cry,  Be  dim,  ye  lamps  of  heaven  suspended 
o'er  us. 
Her  chains  are  threads  of  gold,  she  need  but  smile 
And  they  dissolve ;  but  Spain's  were  links  of  steel. 
Till  bit  to  dust  by  virtue's  keenest  file. 
Twins  of  a  single  destiny  !  appeal 
To  the  eternal  years  enthroned  before  us. 
In  the  dim  West ;  impress  us  from  a  seal, 
All  ye  have  thought  and  done !  Time  cannot  dare 
conceal. 

XIV. 
Tomb  of  Arminius  !  render  up  thy  dead. 

Till,  like  a  standard  from  a  watch-tower's  staff] 
His  soul  may  stream  over  the  tyrant's  head ! 

Thy  victory  shall  be  his  epitaph. 
Wild  Bacchanal  of  truth's  mysterious  wine. 
King-deluded  Germany, 
His  dead  spirit  lives  in  thee. 
Why  do  we  fear  or  hope  ?  thou  art  already  free  ! 
And  thou,  lost  Paradise  of  this  divine 

And  glorious  world  !  thou  flowery  wilderness  ! 
.  Thou  island  of  eternity !  thou  shrine 

Where  desolation,  clothed  with  loveliness, 
Worships  the  thing  thou  wert !  O  Italy, 
Gather  thy  blood  into  tliy  heart ;  repress 
The  beasts  who  make  their  dens  thy  sacred  palaces. 

XV. 

'  O,  that  the  free  would  stamp  the  impious  name 

Of  *  *  *  *  into  the  dust !  or  write  it  there. 
So  that  this  blot  upon  the  page  of  fame 

Were  as  a  serpent's  path,  which  the  light  air 
Erases,  and  the  flat  sands  close  behind ! 
Ye  the  oracle  have  heard  : 


Left  the  victory-flashing  sword. 
And  cut  the  snaky  knot.s  of  this  foul  gordian  word. 
Which  weak  itself  as  stubble,  yet  can  bind 

Into  a  mass,  irrefragably  firm, 
The  axes  and  the  rods  which  awe  mankind  ; 
The  sound  has  poison  in  it,  'tis  the  sperm 
Of  what  makes  life  foul,  cankerous,  and  abhorr'd; 
Disdain  not  thou,  at  thine  appouited  term. 
To  set  thine  armed  heel  on  this  reluctant  worm 

XVI. 

O,  that  the  wise  from  their  bright  minds  would  kindle 

Such  lamps  within  the  dome  of  this  dim  world. 
That  the   pale  name  of  Priest  might  shrink  and 
dwindle 
Into  the  hell  from  which  it  first  was  hurl'd, 
A  scoff"  of  impious  pride  from  fiends  impure  ; 
Till  human  thoughts  might  kneel  alone 
Each  before  the  judgment-throne 
Of  its  own  aweless  soul,  or  of  the  power  unknown ! 
O,  that  the  words  which  make  the  thoughts  obscure 
From  which  they  spring,  as  clouds  ofglimmering 
dew 
From  a  white  lake  blot  heaven's  blue  portraiture. 
Were  stript  of  their  thin  masks  and  various  hue, 
And  frowns  and  smiles  and  splendors  not  their  own. 
Till  in  the  nakedness  of  false  and  true 
They  stand  before  their  Lord,  each  to  receive  its  due. 

XVII. 
He  who  taught  man  to  vanquish  whatsoever 
Can  be  between  the  cradle  and  the  grave, 
Crown'd  him  the  King  of  Life.    O  vain  endeavor! 

If  on  his  own  high  will,  a  willing  slave. 
He  has  enthroned  the  oppression  and  the  oppressor. 
What  if  earth  can  clothe  and  feed 
Amplest  millions  at  their  need. 
And  power  in  thought  be  as  the  tree  within  the  seed 
Or  w-hat  if  Art,  an  ardent  intercessor 

Diving  on  fiery  wings  to  Nature's  throne. 

Checks  the  great  mother  stooping  to  caress  her. 

And  cries:  Give  me,  thy  child,  dominion 

Over  all  heighth  and  depth  ?  if  Life  can  breed 

New  wants,  and  wealth  from  those  who  toil  and  groan 

Rend  of  thy  gifts  and  hers  a  thousandlbld  for  one. 

XVIII. 
Come  Thou,  but  lead  out  of  the  inmost  cave 

Of  man's  deep  spirit,  as  the  morning-star 
Beckons  the  Sun  from  the  Eoan  wave. 

Wisdom.    I  hear  the  pennons  of  her  car 
Self-moving,  like  cloud  charioted  by  flame  ; 
Comes  she  not,  and  come  ye  not. 
Rulers  of  eternal  thought, 
To  judge,  with  solemn  truth,  life's  ill-apportion'd  lot? 
Blind  Love,  and  equal  Justice,  and  the  Fame 

Of  what  has  been,  the  Hope  of  what  will  be ! 
O,  Liberty !  if  such  could  be  thy  name, 

Wert  thou  disjoin'd  from  these,  or  they  from  thee 
If  thine  or  theirs  were  treasures  to  be  bought 

By  blood  or  tears,  have  not  the  wise  and  free 
Wept  tears,  and  blood  like  tears  ?  The  solemn  harmonj 

XIX. 

Paused,  and  the  spirit  of  that  mighty  singing 
To  its  abyss  was  suddenly  withdrawn ; 
460 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


213 


V      Then,  as  a  wild  swan,  when  sublimely  winging 
>     Its  path  athwart  the  llumder-smoke  of  dawn. 
Sinks  headlong  through  the  aerial  golden  light 
On  the  heavy-sounding  plain. 
When  the  bolt  has  pierced  its  brain  ; 
As  snminer  clouds  dissolve,  unhurihen'd  of  their  rain; 
As  a  far  taper  fades  with  fading  night, 

As  a  brief  insect  dies  with  dying  day, 
M\  song,  its  pinions  disarray 'd  of  might, 
Droop'd ;  o'er  it  closed  the  echoes  far  away 
Of  the  great  voice  which  did  its  flight  sustain. 

As  waves  which  lately  paved  his  watery  way 
Hiss  round  a  drowner's  head  in  their  tempestuous 
play. 


ODE  TO  NAPLES.* 

EPODE  I.  a. 

I  STOOD  within  the  city  disinterr'd  ;t 

And  heard  the  autumnal  leaves  like  light  footfalls 
Of  spirits  passing  through  the  streets ;  and  heard 
The  Mountain's  sluiuberous  voice  at  intervals 
Thrill  through  those  roofless  halls ; 
The  oracular  thunder  penetrating  shook 

The  listening  soul  in  my  suspended  blood  ; 
I  felt  that  Earth  out  of  her  deep  heart  spoke — 
I    felt,   but  heard  not : — through   white  columns 
glow'd 
Tiie  isle-sustaining  Ocean  flood, 
A  plane  of  light  between  two  Heavens  of  azure : 

Around  mc  gleam'd  many  a  bright  sepulchre 
Of  whose  pure  beauty.  Time,  as  if  his  pleasure 
Were  to  spare  Death,  had  never  made  erasure  ; 
But  every  living  lineament  was  clear 
.\s  in  the  sculptor's  thought ;  and  there 
The  wreaths  of  stony  myrtle,  ivy  and  pine, 

Like  winter  leaves  o'ergrown  by  moulded  snow, 
Seem'd  only  not  to  move  and  grow 
Because  the  crystal  silence  of  the  air 

Weigh'd  on  their  life ;  even  as  the  Power  divine, 
Which  then  luU'd  all  things,  brooded  upon  mine. 

EPODE  II.   a. 

Then  gentle  winds  arose. 
With  many  a  mingled  close 
Of  wild  ^olian  sound  and  mountain  odor  keen  ; 
And  where  the  Baiaen  ocean 
Welters  with  air-like  motion, 
Within,  above,  around  its  bowers  of  starry  green. 
Moving  the  sea-flowers  in  those  purple  caves, 
Even  as  the  ever  stormless  atmosphere 
Floats  o'er  the  Elysian  realm. 
It  bore  me  like  an  Angel,  o'er  the  waves 

Of  sunlight,  whose  swift  pinnace  of  dewy  air 
No  storm  can  overwhelm; 
I  sail'd,  where  ever  flows 
Under  the  calm  Serene 
A  spirit  of  deep  emotion, 

*  The  Author  has  connected  many  recollections  of  his 
visit  to  Pompeii  and  Baifc  with  the  enthusiasm  excited  by 
the  intelligence  of  the  proclamation  of  a  Constitutional 
Government  at  Naples.  This  has  given  a  tinge  of  pic- 
turesque and  descriptive  imagery  to  ihe  introductory 
Epoiles  which  depicture  these  scenes,  and  some  of  the 
majestic  feelinss  permanently  connected  with  the  scene 
of  ihi:?  animatinf  event.— ^at/ior's  JVote. 

f  Tompeii. 


From  the  unknown  graves 

Of  the  dead  kings  of  Melody.I 
Shadowy  Aornos  darken'd  o'er  the  helm 
The  horizontal  ether;  heaven  siript  i)are 
Its  depths  over  Elysium,  where  the  prow 
Made  the  invisible  water  white  as  snow ; 
From  that  Typhsean  mount,  Inarinie 
There  stream'd  a  sunlike  vapor,  like  the  standard 

Of  some  ethereal  host ; 

Whilst  from  all  the  coast. 
Louder  ancj  louder,  gathering  round,  there  wander'd 
Over  the  oracular  woods  and  divine  sea 
Prophesyings  which  grew  articulate — 
They  seize  me — I  must  speak  them — be  they  fate! 

STROPHE  a.  1. 

Naples !  thou  Heart  of  men  which  ever  pantest 

Naked  beneath  the  lidless  eye  of  heaven! 
Elysian  City,  which  to  calm  enchanlest 

The  mutinous  air  and  sea !  they  round  thee,  even 
As  sleep  round  Love,  are  driven  I 
Metropolis  of  a  ruin'd  Paradise 

Long  lost,  late  won,  and  yet  but  half  regain'd! 
Bright  Altar  of  the  bloodless  sacrifice. 
Which  armed  Victory  offers  up  uiistain'd 
To  Love,  the  flower-enchain'd  ! 
Thou  which  wert  once,  and  then  did  cease  to  be. 
Now  art,  and  henceforth  ever  shall  be,  free. 
If  Hope,  and  Truth,  and  Justice  can  avail. 
Hail,  hail,  all  hail ! 

STROPHE  p.  2. 

Thou  youngest  giant  birth 

Which  from  the  groaning  earth 
Leap'st,  clothed  in  armor  of  impenetrable  scale ! 

Last  of  the  Intercessors  ! 

Who  'gainst  the  Crown'd  Transgressors 
Pleadest  before  God's  love!  Array 'd  in  Wisdom's  mail. 

Wave  thy  lightning  lance  in  mirth ; 

Nor  let  thy  high  heart  fail. 
Though  from  their  hamdred  gates  the  leagued  Op- 
pressors 

With  hurried  legions  move  ! 

Hail,  hail,  all  hail ! 

ANTISTROPIIE  a. 

What  though  Cimmerian  Anarchs  dare  blaspheme 

Freedom  and  thee  ?  thy  shield  is  as  a  mirror 
To  make  their  blind  slaves  see,  and  with  fierce  gleam 

To  turn  his  hungry  sword  upon  the  wearer, 
A  new  Acteon's  error 
Shall   their's    have    been — devour'd    by   their   own 
hounds ! 

Be  thou  like  the  imperial  Basilisk, 
Killing  thy  foe  with  unapparent  wounds ! 

Gaze  on  oppression,  till  at  that  dread  risk 

Aghast  she  pass  from  the  Earth's  disk  : 
Fear  not,  but  gaze — for  freemen  mightier  grow. 
And  slaves,  more  feeble,  gazing  on  their  foe. 

If  Hope  and  Truth  and  Justice  may  avail. 

Thou  shall  be  great. — All  hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE  /?  2. 

From  Freedom's  form  divine. 
From  Nature's  inmost  shrine. 


I  Homer  and  Virgil. 
60  461 


214 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Strip  every  impious  gawd,  rend  Error  veil  by  veil : 

O'er  Uiiin  desolate. 

O'er  F'alsehood's  fallen  state, 
Sit  thou  sublime,  unawed  ;  be  the  Destroyer  pale! 

And  equal  laws  be  thine, 

And  wint,'ed  words  let  sail. 
Freighted  with  truth  even  from  the  throne  of  God  I 

That  wealth,  surviving  fate, 

Be  thou.— All  hail ! 

ANTISTROPUE  a.  y. 

Didst  thou  not  start  to  hear  Spain's  thrilling  pagan 

From  land  to  land  re-echoed  solemnly, 
Till  silence  became  music  ?  From  the  yEean* 
To  the  cold  Alps,  eternal  Italy 
Starts  to  hear  thine  I  The  Sea 
Which  paves  the  desert  streets  of  V^enice  laughs 

In  light  and  music ;  widow'd  Genoa  wan, 
By  moonlight  spells  ancestral  epitaphs. 
Murmuring,  where  is  Doria  ?  fair  Milan, 
Within  whose  veins  long  ran 
The  viper'st  palsying  venom,  lifts  her  heel 
To  bruise  his  head.     The  signal  and  the  seal 
(If  Hope  and  Truth  and  Justice  can  avail) 
Art  Thou  of  all  these  hopes. — O  hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE  j3.  y. 

Florence  !  beneath  the  sun, 

Of  cities  fairest  one, 
BlusJies  within  her  bower  for  Freedom's  expectation: 

From  eyes  of  quenchless  hope 

Rome  tears  the  priestly  cope, 
As  ruling  once  by  power,  so  now  by  admiration, 

An  athlete  stript  to  run 

From  a  remoter  station 
For  the  high  prize  lost  on  Philippi's  shore, — 
As  then  Hope,  Truth,  and  Justice  did  avail, 
So  now  may  Fraud  and  Wrong  !  O  hail ! 

EPODE  I.  /?. 
Hear  ye  the  march  as  of  the  Earth-bom  Forms 

Array'd  against  the  ever-living  Gods? 
The  crash  and  darkness  of  a  thousand  storms 
Bursting  their  inaccessible  abodes 

Of  crags  and  thunder-clouds  ? 
See  ye  the  banners  blazon'd  to  the  day. 

Inwrought  with  emblems  of  barbaric  pride? 
Dissonant  threats  kill  Silence  far  away. 

The  serene  Heaven  which  wraps  our  Eden  vdde 
With  iron  light  is  dyed. 
The  Anarchs  of  the  North  lead  forth  their  legions 

Like  Chaos  o'er  creation,  uncreating ; 
A  hundred  tribes  nourish'd  on  strange  religions 
And  lawless  slaveries,^dovvn  the  aerial  regions 
Of  the  white  Alps,  desolating, 
Famish'd  wolves  that  bide  no  waiting, 
Blotting  the  glowing  footsteps  of  old  glory, 
Trampling  our  colnmn'd  cities  into  dast. 

Their  dull  and  savage  lust 
On  Beauty's  corse  to  sickness  satiating — 
They  come!    The  fields  they  tread  look  black  and 

hoafy 
With  fire — from  their  red  feet  the  streams  run  gory  I 


*  iT^sea,  the  Island  of  Circe. 

t  The  viper  was  the  armorial  device  of  the  Visconti, 
(vrants  of  Milan. 


EPODE  II.  ;3. 

Great  Spirit,  deepest  Love! 
Which  rulest  and  dost  move 
All  things  which  live  and  are,  within  the  Italian  shorn 
Who  spreadest  heaven  around  it, 
Whose  woods,  rocks,  waves,  surround  it, 
Who  sittest  in  thy  star,  o'er  Ocean's  western  floor. 
Spirit  of  beauty !  at  whose  soft  command 
The  sunbeams  and  the  showers  distil  its  foiscn 
From  the  Earth's  bosom  chill ; 
0  bid  those  beams  be  each  a  blinding  brand 
Of  lightning !  bid  those  showers  be  dews  of  poison ' 
Bid  the  Earth's  plenty  kilJ ! 
Bid  thy  bright  Heaven  above. 
Whilst  light  and  darkness  bound  it. 
Be  their  tomb  who  plann'd 
To  make  it  ours  and  thine ! 
Or,  with  thine  harmonizing  ardors  fill 
And  raise  thy  sons,  as  o'er  the  prone  horizon 
Thy  lamp  feeds  every  twilight  wave  with  tire — 
Be  man's  high  hope  and  unextinct  desire 
The  instrument  to  work  thy  will  divine ! 
Then  clouds  from  sunbeams,  antelopes  from  leopards. 
And  frowns  and  fears  from  Thee, 
Would  not  more  swiftly  flee 
Than  Celtic  wolves  from  the  Ausonian  shepherds. — 
Whatever,  Spirit,  from  thy  starry  shrine 
Thou  yieldest  or  withholdest.  Oh  let  be 
This  city  of  thy  worship  ever  free  ! 
September,  1820. 


THE  CLOUD. 

I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers. 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 
I  bear  light  shades  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rock'd  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast. 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  undec 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain. 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white. 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers. 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits. 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fetter'd  the  thunder. 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits  ; 
Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me. 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea  ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills. 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains. 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream. 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smilo, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 
462 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


21J 


Tlie  sanguine  sunrise,  vvilli  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  phimes  outspread. 
Leaps  on  tiie  hack  of  my  sailing  rack, 

Wiien  the  morning-star  sliiiies  dead. 
As  on  the  jag  of"  a  mountain  crag. 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  be- 
neath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above. 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden,  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  Aoor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn  ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees. 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  tlie  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high. 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  a  burning  zone, 

And  tlie  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea. 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow. 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chain'd  to  my  chair. 

Is  the  million-color'd  bow  ; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  arKl  water. 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky  ; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores  ; 

1  change,  hut  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain,  when  with  never  a  stain. 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex 
gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph. 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain. 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  Uke  a  ghost  from  the 
tomb, 

!  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


TO  A  SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  bUthe  spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert. 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  luipremeditated  art 


Higher  still  and  higher. 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingcst. 
And  singing  still  dosl  soar,  and  soaring  eversingesl 

In  the  golden  liglilning 

Of  the  sunken  sun. 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening. 
Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  tinseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight, 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere. 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare. 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  over 
flow'd. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  i 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see. 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  meiudy 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought. 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not  • 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  lower. 

Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 

With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her 

bower : 

Like  a  glow-w-orm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew. 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  fecreen  it  from 
the  view : 

Like  a  rose  embower'd 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowcr'd. 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-vringed 
thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  snowera 
On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awaken'd  flowers. 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 
4C3 


216 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  : 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine 

Chorus  hymeneal. 

Or  triumphal  chaunt, 
Match'd  with  thine  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of 
pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be  : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest ;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep. 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught  ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 
thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  hsten  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 


AN  EXHORTATION. 

Chameleons  feed  on  light  and  air; 

Poets'  food  is  love  and  fame : 
If  in  this  wide  world  of  care 

Poets  could  but  find  the  same 
With  as  little  toil  as  they, 

Would  they  ever  change  their  hue 

As  the  light  chameleons  do, 
Suiting  it  to  every  ray 
Twenty  times  a-day? 


Poets  are  on  this  cold  earth, 

As  chameleons  might  be. 
Hidden  from  their  early  birth 

In  a  cave  beneath  the  sea. 
Where  light  is,  chameleon.s  change  ; 

Where  love  is  not,  poets  do  : 

Fame  is  love  disguised — if  few 
Find  either,  never  think  it  strange 
That  poets  range. 

Yet  dare  not  stain  with  wealth  or  powei 

A  poet's  free  and  heavenly  mind  : 
If  bright  chameleons  should  devour 

Any  food  but  beams  and  wind. 
They  would  grow  as  earthly  soon 

As  their  brother  lizards  are. 

Children  of  a  sunnier  star. 
Spirits  from  beyond  the  moon, 
O,  refuse  the  boon ! 


HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY 

The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power 
Floats,  though  unseen,  among  us ;  visiting 
This  various  world  with  as  inconstant  wing 
As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower  to  flower 
Like  moonbeams  that  behind  some  piny  mountain 
shower. 
It  visits  with  inconstant  glance 
Each  human  heart  and  countenance  ; 
Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening, 

Like  clouds  in  starlight  widely  spread. 
Like  memory  of  music  fled. 
Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 
Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 

Spirit  of  Beauty!  that  dost  consecrate 

With  thine  own  hues  all  thou  dost  shine  upon 
Of  human  thought  or  form,  where  art  thou  gone  ? 

Why  dost  thou  pass  away  and  leave  our  stale, 

This  dim  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and  desolate  ? 
Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  for  ever 
Weaves  rainbows  o'er  yon  moimtain  river , 

Why  aught  should  fail  and  fade  that  once  is  shown , 
Why  fear  and  dream  and  death  and  birth 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such  gloom,  why  man  has  such  a  scope 

For  love  and  hate,  despondency  and  hope  ? 

No  voice  from  some  sublimer  world  hath  ever 
To  sage  or  poet  these  responses  given: 
Therefore  the  names  of  Demon,  Ghost,  and  Heaven, 
Remain  the  records  of  their  vain  endeavor  : 
Frail  spells,  whose  utter'd  charm  might  not  avail  to 
sever. 
From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see, 
Doubt,  chance,  and  mutability. 
Thy  light  alone,  like  mist  o'er  mountains  driven. 
Or  music  by  the  night-wind  sent 
Through  strings  of  some  still  instrument. 
Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream. 
Gives  grace  and  truth  to  life's  unquiet  dream. 

Love,  Hope,  and  Self-esteem,  like  clouds,  depart 
And  come,  for  some  uncertain  moments  lent 
Man  were  immortal,  and  onmipolent, 

Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  thou  art, 
461 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


217 


Keep  with  thv  jilorions  train  firm  state  within  his  heart. 

Thou  messenger  of  sympathies 

That  wax  and  wane  in  lovers'  eyes ; 
Thou,  that  lo  human  thought  art  nourishment, 

Like  darkness  to  a  dying  flame ! 

Depart  not  as  thy  shadow  came ; 

Depart  not,  lest  the  grave  should  be, 
Like  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality. 

While  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and  sped 

Through  many  a  listening  chamber,  cave  and  ruin. 
And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps  pursuing 
Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed  dead : 
I  call'd  on  poisonous  names  with  which  our  youth  is  fed  : 

I  was  not  heard :  I  saw  them  not. 

When  musing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  life,  at  that  sweet  time  when  winds  are  wooing 

All  vital  tilings  that  wake  to  bring 

News  of  birds  and  blossoming, 

Sudden,  thy  shadow  fell  on  me : 
I  shriek'd,  and  clasp'd  my  hands  in  ecstasy! 

I  vow'd  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers 

To  thee  and  thine :  have  I  not  kept  the  vow  ? 
With  beating  heart  and  streaming  eyes,  even  now 
I  call  the  phantoms  of  a  thousand  hours 
Each  from  his  voiceless  grave :  they  have  in  vision'd 
bowers 

Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight 

Outwatch'd  with  me  the  envious  night: 
They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my  brow, 

Unlink'd  with  hope  that  thou  wouldst  free 

This  world  from  its  dark  slavery, 

That  thou,  O  awful  Loveliness, 
Wouldst  give  whate'er  these  words  cannot  express. 

The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 
When  noon  is  past :  there  is  a  harmony 
In  autumn,  and  a  lustre  in  its  sky. 
Which  through  the  summer  is  not  heard  or  seen. 
As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been ! 

Thus  let  thy  power,  which  like  the  truth 

Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 
Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply 

Its  calm,  to  one  who  worships  thee, 
And  every  form  containing  thee. 

Whom,  Spirit  fair,  thy  spells  did  bind 
To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  human-liind. 


MARIANNE'S  DREAM. 

A  PALE  dream  came  to  a  Lady  fair, 
And  said,  A  boon,  a  boon,  I  pray! 

I  know  the  secrets  of  the  air. 

And  things  lost  in  the  glare  of  day, 

Which  I  can  make  the  sleeping  see. 

If  they  will  put  their  trust  in  me. 

And  thou  shalt  know  of  things  unknown 
If  thou  wilt  let  me  rest  between 

The  veiny  lids,  whose  fringe  is  thrown 
Over  thine  eyes  so  dark  and  sheen: 

And  half  in  hope,  and  half  in  fright. 

The  Lady  closed  her  eyes  so  bright. 
3  I 


At  first  all  deadly  shapes  were  driven 
Tumultiiously  across  her  sleep. 

And  o'er  the  vast  cope  of  bending  Heaven 
All  ghastly  visaged  clouds  did  sweep; 

And  the  Lady  ever  look'd  to  spy 

If  the  gold  sun  shone  forth  on  high. 


And  as  towards  the  east  she  turn'd. 
She  saw  aloft  in  the  morning  air, 

Which  now  with  hues  of  sunrise  burn'd, 
A  great  black  Anchor  rising  there; 

And  wherever  the  Lady  turn'd  her  eyes. 

It  hung  beij.-e  her  in  the  skies. 


The  sky  was  blue  as  the  summer  sea. 
The  depths  were  cloudless  overhead. 

The  air  was  calm  as  il  could  be, 

There  was  no  sight  or  sound  of  dread. 

But  that  black  Anchor  floating  still 

Over  the  piny  eastern  hill. 

The  Lady  grew  sick  with  a  weight  of  fear. 

To  see  that  Anchor  ever  hanging 
And  veil'd  her  eyes  ;  she  then  did  hear 
The  sound  as  of  a  dim  low  clanging. 
And  look'd  abroad  if  she  might  know 
Was  it  aught  else,  or  but  the  flow 
Of  the  blood  in  her  own  veins,  to  and  fro. 


There  was  a  mist  in  the  sunless  air, 

Which  shook  as  it  were  with  an  earthquake's 
shock, 
But  the  very  weeds  that  blossom'd  tnere 

Were  moveless,  and  eacli  mighty  rock 
Stood  on  its  basis  stedfastly; 
The  Anchor  was  seen  no  more  on  high. 

But  piled  around,  with  summits  hid 

In  lines  of  cloud  at  intervals. 
Stood  many  a  mountain  pyramid. 

Among  whose  everlasting  walls 
Two  mighty  cities  shone,  and  ever 
Through  the  red  mist  their  domes  did  quiver, 

On  two  dread  mountains,  from  whose  crest, 
Might  seem,  the  eagle,  for  her  brood, 

Would  ne'er  have  hung  her  dizzy  nesJ, 
Those  tower-encircled  cities  stood. 

A  vision  strange  such  towers  to  see. 

Sculptured  and  wrought  so  gorgeously. 

Where  human  art  could  never  be. 

And  columns  framed  of  marble  white. 

And  giant  fanes,  dome  over  dome 
Piled,  and  triumphant  gates,  all  bright 

With  workmanship,  which  could  not  come 
From  touch  of  mortal  instrument. 
Shot  o'er  the  vales,  or  lustre  lent 
From  its  own  shapes  magnificent. 

But  still  the  Lady  heard  that  clang 

Filling  the  wide  air  far  away; 
And  still  the  mist  whose  light  did  hang 

Among  the  mountains  shook  alway, 
465 


218 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


So  that  the  Lady's  heart  beat  fast, 

As,  half  ill  joy  and  half  aahast, 

On  those  high  domes  her  look  she  cast. 

Sudden,  from  out  that  city  pprung 

A  light  that  made  the  earth  grow  red  ; 

Two  flames  that  each  with  quivering  tongue 
Lick'd  its  high  domes,  and  overhead 

Among  those  mighty  towers  and  fanes 

Dropp'd  fire,  as  a  volcano  rains 

Its  sulphurous  ruin  on  the  plains. 

And  hark !  a  rush  as  if  the  deep 

Had  burst  its  bounds ;  she  look'd  behind, 

And  saw  over  the  western  steep 
A  raging  flood  descend,  and  wind 

Through  that  wide  vale ;  she  felt  no  fear, 

But  said  within  herself  'tis  clear 

These  towers  are  Nature's  own,  and  she 

To  save  them  has  sent  forth  the  sea. 

And  now  those  raging  billows  came 

Where  that  fair  Lady  sate,  and  she 
Was  borne  towards  the  showering  flame 
By  the  wild  waves  heap'd  tumultuously, 
And  on  a  little  plank,  the  flow 
Of  the  whirlpool  bore  her  to  and  fro. 

The  waves  were  fiercely  vomited 
From  every  tower  and  every  dome, 

And  dreary  light  did  widely  shed 

O'er  that  vast  flood's  suspended  foam. 

Beneath  the  smoke  which  hung  its  night 

On  the  stain'd  cope  of  Heaven's  light. 

The  plank  whereon  that  Lady  sate 

Was  driven  through  the  chasms,  about  and  about. 
Between  the  peaks  so  desolate 

Of  the  drowning  mountain,  in  and  out. 
As  the  thistle-beard  on  a  whirlwind  sails — 
While  the  flood  was  filling  those  hollow  vales. 

At  last  her  plank  an  eddy  crost. 

And  bore  her  lo  the  city's  wall, 
Which  now  the  flood  had  reach'd  almost : 

It  might  the  stoutest  heart  appal 
To  hear  the  fire  roar  and  hiss 
Through  the  domes  of  those  mighty  palaces. 

The  eddy  whirl'd  her  round  and  round 
Before  a  gorgeous  gate,  which  stood 

Piercing  the  clouds  of  smoke  which  bound 
Its  aery  arch  with  light  like  blood  ; 

She  look'd  on  that  gate  of  marble  clear, 

Wilh  wonder  that  extinguish'd  fear. 


For  it  was  fill'd  with  sculptures  rarest, 
Of  forms  most  beautiful  and  strange, 

Like  nothing  human,  but  Ihe  fairest 
Of  winged  shapes,  whose  legions  range 

Throughout  Ihe  sleep  of  those  that  are. 

Like  this  same  Lady,  good  and  fair. 

And  as  she  look'd,  still  lovelier  grew 

Those  marble  forms  ; — the  sculptor  sure 
Was  a  strong  spirit,  and  the  hue 


Of  his  own  mind  did  there  endure 
After  the  touch,  whose  power  had  braided 
Such  grace,  was  in  some  sad  change  faded. 

She  look'd,  the  flames  were  dim,  the  flood 
Grew  tranquil  as  a  woodland  river 

Winding  through  hills  in  solitude  ; 

Those  marble  shapes  then  seem'd  to  quivei 

And  their  fair  limbs  to  float  in  motion, 

Like  weeds  unfolding  in  the  ocean. 

And  their  lips  moved  ;  one  seem'd  to  speak, 
When  suddenly  the  mountain  crackt. 

And  through  the  chasm  the  flood  did  break 
With  an  earlh-uplifting  cataract : 

The  statues  gave  a  joyous  scream. 

And  on  its  wings  the  pale  thin  dream 

Lifted  the  Lady  from  the  stream. 

The  dizzy  flight  of  that  phantom  pale 
Waked  the  fair  Lady  from  her  sleep. 

And  she  arose,  while  from  the  veil 

Of  her  dark  eyes  the  dream  did  creep, 

And  she  walk'd  about  as  one  who  knew 

That  sleep  has  sights  as  clear  and  true 

As  any  waking  eyes  can  view. 
Marlow,  1817. 


MONT  BLANC. 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  THE  VALE  OF  CHAMOUNI. 
I. 

The  everlasting  universe  of  things 

Flows  through  the  mind,  and  rolls  its  rapid  waves, 

Now  dark — now  glittering — now  reflecting  gloom-— 

Now  lending  splendor,  where  from  secret  springs 

The  source  of  human  thought  its  tribute  brings 

Of  waters, — with  a  sound  but  half  its  own. 

Such  as  a  feeble  brook  will  oft  assume 

In  the  wild  woods,  among  the  mountains  lone. 

Where  waterfalls  around  it  leap  for  ever,  , 

Where  woods  and  winds  contend,  and  a  vast  river 

Over  its  rocks  ceaselessly  bursts  and  raves. 


n. 

Thus  thou.  Ravine  of  Arve — dark,  deep  Ravine — 
Thou  many-color'd,  many-voiced  vale. 
Over  whose  pines  and  crags  and  caverns  sail 
Fast  clouds,  shadows,  and  sunbeams :  awful  scene, 
Where  Power  in  likeness  of  Ihe  Arve  comes  down 
From  the  ice-gulfs  that  gird  his  secret  throne, 
Bursting  through  these  dark  mountains,  like  the  flamft 
Of  lightning  through  the  tempest;  thou  dost  lie. 
Thy  giant  brood  of  pines  aroiuid  thee  clinging. 
Children  of  elder  time,  in  whose  devotion 
The  chainless  winds  still  come  and  ever  came 
To  drink  their  odors,  and  their  mighty  swinging 
To  hear — an  old  and  solemn  harmony : 
Thine  earthly  rainbows  stretch'd  across  the  sweep 
Of  the  ethereal  waterfall,  whose  veil 
Robes  some  unsculptured  image ;  the  strange  sleep 
Which,  when  the  voices  of  the  desert  fail. 
Wraps  all  in  its  own  deep  eternity ; — 
Thy  caverns,  echoing  lo  the  Arve's  commotion 
A  loud  lone  sound,  no  other  sound  can  tame : 
466 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


219 


Thou  an  pervaded  with  that  ceaseless  motion, 
Thou  art  the  path  of  that  unresting  sound- 
Dizzy  Ravnie  I   and  wlien  I  gaze  on  thee 
I  seem  as  in  a  tiance  subhme  and  strange 
To  muse  on  my  own  separate  phantasy, 
My  own,  my  human  mmd,  wliich  passively 
Now  rendoi-s  and  receives  fast  influencings. 
Holding  an  unrcmilling  interchange 
With  the  clear  universe  of  things  around  ; 
One  legion  of  wild  thoughts,  whose  wandering  wings 
Now  float  above  thy  darkness,  and  now  rest 
Where  that  or  thou  art  no  unbidden  guest, 
Tn  the  still  cave  of  the  witch  Poesy, 
Seeking  among  the  shadows  that  pass  by. 
Ghosts  of  all  things  that  are,  some  shade  of  thee. 
Some  phantom,  some  faint  image  ;  till  the  breast 
From  which  they  fled  recalls  them,  thou  art  there ! 

III. 
Some  say  that  gleams  of  a  remoter  world 
Visit  the  sou!  in  sleep, — that  death  is  slumber. 
And  that  its  shapes  the  busy  thoughts  outnumber 
Of  those  who  wake  and  live. — I  look  on  high; 
Has  some  unknown  omnipotence  unfurl'd 
The  veil  of  life  and  death  ?  or  do  I  lie 
In  dream,  and  does  the  mightier  world  of  sleep 
Spread  fai  around  and  inaccessibly 
Its  circles  ?    For  the  very  spirit  fails. 
Driven  like  a  homeless  cloud  from  steep  to  steep 
That  vanishes  among  the  viewless  gales ! 
Far,  far  abov^,  piercing  the  infinite  sky, 
Mont  Blanc  appears, — still,  snowy,  and  serene — 
Its  subject  mountains  their  unearthly  forms 
Pile  around  it,  ice  and  rock  ;  broad  vales  between 
Of  frozen  floods,  unfathomable  deeps. 
Blue  as  the  overhanging  heaven,  that  spread 
And  wind  among  the  accumulated  sleeps ; 
A  desert  peopled  by  the  storms  Jilone, 
Save  when  the  eagle  brings  some  hunter's  bone, 
And  the  wolf  tracks  her  there — how  hideously 
Its  shapes  ire  heap'd  around  !  rude,  bare,  and  high, 
Ghastly,  and  scarr'd,  and  riven. — Is  this  the  scene 
Where  the  old  Earlhquake-demon  taught  her  young 
Ruin  ?    Were  these  their  toys  ?  or  did  a  sea 
Of  fire  envelop  once  this  silent  snow  ? 
None  can  reply — all  seems  eternal  now. 
The  wilderness  has  a  mysterious  tongue 
Which  teaches  awful  doubt,  or  faith  so  mild, 
So  solemn,  so  serene,  that  man  may  be 
But  for  such  faith  with  nature  reconciled  : 
Thou  hast  a  voice,  great  Mountain,  to  repeal 
Large  codes  of  fraud  and  woe ;  not  understood 
By  all,  but  which  the  wise,  and  great,  and  good 
Interpret,  or  make  felt,  or  deeply  feel. 

IV. 

Tlie  fields,  the  lakes,  the  forests,  and  the  streams, 
Ocean,  and  all  the  living  things  that  dwell 
Within  the  daedal  earth ;  lightning,  and  rain, 
Knrthquake,  and  fiery  flood,  and  iiurricane. 
The  torpor  of  the  year  when  feel)le  dreams 
Visit  the  hidden  buds,  or  dreamless  sleep 
Holds  every  future  leaf  and  flower; — the  bound 
With  which  from  that  detested  trance  they  leap  ; 
The  works  and  ways  of  man,  their  death  and  birth, 
A"d  that  of  him  and  all  that  his  may  be ; 


All  things  that  move  and  breathe  with  toil  and  bound 

Arc  born  and  die,  revolve,  sub'-ide  and  swell. 

Power  dwells  apart  in  its  tranquillity, 

Remote,  serene,  and  inaccessible: 

.And  this,  tlie  naked  countenance  of  earth. 

On  which  I  gaze,  even  these  primeval  mountains, 

Teach  tiie  adverting  mind.     The  glaciers  creep, 

Like  snakes  that  watch  their   prey,  from  their  far 

fountains. 
Slow  rolling  on  ;  there,  many  a  precipice 
Frost  and  the  Sun  in  scorn  of  mortal  power 
Have  piled — dome,  pyramid,  and  pinnacle, 
A  city  of  death,  distinct  with  many  a  tower 
And  wall  impregnable  of  beaming  ice. 
Yet  not  a  city,  but  a  flood  of  ruin 
Is  there,  that  from  the  boundaries  of  the  sky 
Rolls  its  perpetual  stream  ;  vast  pines  are  strewing 
Its  destined  path,  or  in  the  mangled  soil 
Branchlessandshatter'd  stand;  the  rocks,  drawn  down 
From  yon  remotest  waste,  have  overthrown 
The  limits  of  the  dead  and  living  world. 
Never  to  be  reclaim'd.     The  dwelling-place 
Of  insects,  beasts,  and  birds  becomes  its  spoil  ; 
Their  food  and  their  retreat  for  ever  gone. 
So  much  of  life  and  joy  is  lost     The  race 
Of  man  flies  far  in  dread  ;  his  work  and  dwelling 
Vanish,  like  smoke  before  the  tempest's  stream. 
And  their  place  is  not  known.     Below,  vast  caves 
Shine  in  the  rushing  torrents'  restless  gleam. 
Which,  from  those  secret  chasms  in  tumult  welling. 
Meet  in  the  vale,  and  one  majestic  River, 
The  breath  and  blood  of  distant  lands,  for  ever 
Rolls  its  loud  waters  to  the  ocean  waves. 
Breathes  its  swift  vapors  to  the  circling  air. 

V. 

Mont  Blanc  yet  gleams  on  high  : — the  power  is  there. 
The  still  and  solemn  power  of  many  sights 
And  many  sounds,  and  nmch  of  life  and  death. 
In  the  calm  darkness  of  the  moonless  nights. 
In  the  lone  glare  of  day,  the  snows  descend 
Upon  that  Mountain  ;  none  beholds  them  there. 
Nor  when  the  flakes  burn  in  the  sinking  sun 
Or  the  star-beams  dart  through  them: — Winds  contend 
Silently  there,  and  heap  the  snow  with  breath 
Rapid  and  strong,  but  silently  !    Its  home 
The  voiceless  lightning  in  these  solitudes 
Keeps  innocently,  and  like  vapor  broods 
Over  the  snow.     The  secret  strength  of  things 
Which  governs  thought,  and  to  the  infinite  dome 
Of  heaven  is  as  a  law,  inhabits  thee  ! 
.Vnd  what  were  thou,  and  earth,  and  stars,  and  sea. 
If  to  the  human  mind's  imaginings 
Silence  and  solitude  were  vacancy  ? 
Switzerland,  June  '23,  1816. 


ON  THE  MEDUSA  OF  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI, 

I\  THE  FLORENTINE  GALLERY. 

It  licth,  gazing  on  the  midnight  sky. 

Upon  the  cloudy  mountain  peak  supine  ; 

Below,  far  lands  are  seen  but  tremblingly  ; 
Its  horror  and  its  beauty  are  divine. 

U[ion  its  lips  and  eyehds  seems  to  lie 

Loveliness  like  a  .shadow,  froin  which  shrine, 
467 


220 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Fiery  and  lurid,  struggling  underneath, 
The  agonies  of  anguish  and  of  death. 

Yet  it  is  less  the  horror  than  the  grace 
Which  turns  the  gazer's  spirit  into  stone  ; 

Whereon  the  lineaments  of  that  dead  face 
Are  graven,  till  the  characters  be  grown 

Into  itself,  and  thought  no  more  can  trace  ; 
'Tis  the  melodious  hue  of  beauty  thrown 

Athwart  the  darkness  and  the  glare  of  pain, 

Which  humanize  and  harmonize  the  strain. 

And  from  its  head  as  from  one  body  grow, 
As  [  ]  grass  out  of  a  watery  rock. 

Hairs  which  are  vipers,  and  they  curl  and  flow, 
And  their  long  tangles  in  each  other  lock. 

And  with  unending  involutions  show 

Their  mailed  radiance,  as  it  vsere  to  mock 

The  torture  and  the  death  within,  and  saw 

The  solid  air  with  many  a  ragged  jaw. 

And  from  a  stone  beside,  a  poisonous  eft 
Peeps  idly  into  these  Gorgonian  eyes ; 

Whilst  in  the  air  a  ghastly  bat,  bereft 
Of  sense,  has  flitted  with  a  mad  surprise 

Out  of  the  cave  this  hideous  light  had  cleft. 
And  he  comes  hastening  like  a  moth  that  hies 

After  a  taper  ;  and  the  midnight  sky 

riares,  a  light  more  dread  than  obscurity. 

'Tis  the  tempestuous  loveliness  of  terror ; 

For  from  the  serpents  gleams  a  brazen  glare 
Kindled  by  that  inextricable  error. 

Which  makes  a  thrilling  vapor  of  the  air 
Become  a  [  ]  and  ever-shifling  mirror 

Of  all  the  beauty  and  the  terror  there — 
A  woman's  countenance,  with  serpent  locks. 
Gazing  in  death  on  heaven  from  those  wet  roclvs. 

Florence,  1819. 


SONG. 

Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou, 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 
Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 

Many  a  day  and  night  ? 
Many  a  weary  night  and  day 
'Tis  since  thou  art  fled  away. 

How  shall  ever  one  like  me 

Win  thee  back  again  ? 
With  the  joyous  and  the  free 

Thou  will  scoff  at  pain. 
Spirit  false  !  thou  hast  forgot 
All  but  those  who  need  thee  not. 

As  a  lizard  with  the  shade 

Of  a  trembling  leaf, 
Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismay'd  ; 

Even  the  sighs  of  grief 
Reproach  thee,  that  thou  art  not  near, 
And  reproach  thou  wilt  not  hear. 

Let  me  set  my  mournful  ditty 

To  a  merry  measure. 
Thou  wilt  never  come  for  pity. 

Thou  wilt  come  for  pleasure : 


Pity  then  will  cut  away 

Those  cruel  wings,  and  thou  wilt  stay. 

I  love  all  that  thou  lovest. 

Spirit  of  Delight! 
The  fresh  Earth  in  new  leaves  drest, 

And  the  starry  night, 
Autumn  evening,  and  the  mom 
When  the  golden  mists  are  born. 

I  love  snow,  and  all  the  forms 

Of  the  radiant  frost ; 
I  love  waves,  and  winds,  and  storms, 

Every  thing  almost 
Which  is  Nature's,  and  may  be 
Untainted  by  man's  misery. 

I  love  tranquil  solitude, 

And  such  society 
As  is  quiet,  wise  and  good. 

Between  thee  and  me 
What  difl^erence  ?  but  thou  dost  possess 
The  things  I  seek,  not  love  them  less. 

I  love  Love — though  he  has  wings, 

And  like  light  can  flee. 
But  abt>ve  all  other  things, 

Spirit,  I  love  thee — 
Thou  art  love  and  life !  O  come, 
Make  once  more  my  heart  thy  home. 


TO  CONSTANTIA, 
SINGING. 

Thus  to  be  lost,  and  thus  to  sink  and  die. 

Perchance  were  death  indeed  ! — Constantia,  turn  ' 

In  thy  dark  eyes  a  power  like  light  doth  lie, 

Even  though  the  sounds  which  were  thy  voice, 
which  burn 

Between  thy  lips,  are  laid  to  sleep  ; 

Within  thy  breath,  and  on  thy  hair,  like  odor  it  is 
yet. 

And  from  thy  touch  like  fire  doth  leap. 

Even  while  I  write,  my  burning  cheeks  are  wet — 
Alas,  that  the  torn  heart  can  bleed,  but  not  forget ' 

A  breathless  awe,  like  the  swift  change 
Unseen,  but  felt  in  youthful  slumbers. 

Wild,  sweet,  but  uncommunicably  strange. 

Thou  breathest  now  in  fast  ascending  numbers. 

The  cope  of  heaven  seems  rent  and  cloven 
By  the  enchantment  of  thy  strain. 

And  on  my  shoulders  wings  are  woven, 
To  follow  its  sublime  career. 

Beyond  the  mighty  moons  that  wane 

Upon  the  verge  of  nature's  utmost  sphere. 
Till  the  world's  shadowy  walls  are  past  and  dis 
appear. 

Her  voice  is  hovering  o'er  my  soul — it  lingers, 

O'ershadowing  it  with  soft  and  lulling  wings , 
The  blood  and  life  within  those  snowy  fingers 

Teach  witchcraft  to  the  instrumental  strings 
My  brain  is  wild,  my  breath  comes  quick — 

The  blood  is  listening  m  my  frame. 
And  thronging  shadows,  fast  and  thick, 

Fall  on  my  overflowing  eyes  ; 
My  heart  is  quivering  like  a  flame  ; 
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221 


As  morning  dew,  that  in  the  sunbeam  dies, 
I  am  dissolved  in  these  consuming  ecstasies. 

I  have  no  hfe,  Constantia,  now,  but  thee. 

Whilst,  like  the  world-surrounding  air,  thy  song 
Flows  on,  and  fills  all  things  with  melody. — 

Now  is  thy  voice  a  tempest  swift  and  strong, 
On  which,  like  one  in  trance  upborne, 

Secure  o'er  rocks  and  waves  I  sweep, 
Rejoicing  like  a  cloud  of  morn. 

Now  'tis  the  breath  of  summer  night. 
Which,  when  the  starry  waters  sleep. 

Round  western  isles,  with  incense-blossoms  briglit, 
lingpring,  suspends  my  soul  in  its  voluptuous  flight. 


THE  FUGITIVES. 

I. 
TiTE  W'aters  are  flashing, 
The  white  hail  is  dashing, 
The  lightnings  are  glancing, 
The  hoar-spray  is  dancing — 
Away ! 

The  whirlwind  is  rolling, 
The  thunder  is  tolling, 
The  forest  is  swinging. 
The  minster-bells  ringing — 
Come  away ! 

The  Earth  is  like  Ocean, 
Wreck-strewn  and  in  motion : 
Bird,  beast,  man  and  worm 
Have  crept  out  of  the  storm — 
Come  away ! 

II. 

"  Our  boat  has  one  sail, 
And  the  helmsman  is  pale ; — 
A  bold  pilot  I  trow. 
Who  should  follow  us  now,"^ 
Shouted  He — 

And  she  cried  :  "  Ply  the  oar ! 
Put  off  gaily  from  shore  !" — 
As  she  spoke,  bolts  of  death 
Mix'd  with  hail  speck'd  their  path 
O'er  the  sea. 

And  from  isle,  tower  and  rock, 
The  blue  beacon  cloud  broke. 
And  though  dumb  in  the  blast, 
The  red  cannon  flash'd  fast 
From  the  lee. 

III. 
"  And  fear'st  thou,  and  fear'st  thou  f 
And  see'st  ihou,  and  hear'st  thou  ? 
And  drive  we  not  free 
O'er  the  terrible  sea, 
I  and  thou  ? " 

One  boat-cloak  did  cover 
The  loved  and  the  lover — 
Their  blood  beats  one  measure 
They  murmur  proud  pleasure 
Soft  and  low  ;-^ 


While  around  the  lash'd  Ocean, 
Like  mountains  in  motion. 
Is  withdrawn  and  uplifted. 
Sunk,  shatter'd  and  shifted, 
To  and  fro. 

IV. 

In  the  court  of  the  fortress, 
Beside  the  pale  portress. 
Like  a  blood-hound  well  beaten, 
The  bridegroom  stands,  eaten 
By  shame  ,• 

On  the  topmost  watch-turret. 
As  a  death-boding  spirit, 
Stands  the  gray  tyrant  father, 
To  his  voice  the  mad  weather 
Seems  tame ; 

And  with  curses  as  wild 
As  ere  clung  to  child. 
He  devotes  to  the  blast 
The  best,  loveliest,  and  last 
Of  his  name  ! 


A  LAMENT. 

Swifter  far  than  summer's  flight, 
Swifter  far  than  youth's  delight. 
Swifter  far  than  happy  night, 

Art  thou  come  and  gone  : 
As  the  earth  when  leaves  are  dead, 
As  the  night  when  sleep  is  sped. 
As  the  heart  when  joy  is  fled, 

I  am  left  lone,  alone. 

The  swallow  Summer  comes  again. 
The  owlet  Night  resumes  her  reign. 
But  the  wild  swan  Youth  is  fain 

To  fly  with  thee,  false  as  thou. 
My  heart  each  day  desires  the  morrow, 
Sleep  itself  is  turn'd  to  sorrow. 
Vainly  would  my  winter  borrow 

Sunny  leaves  li-om  any  bough. 

Lilies  for  a  bridal  bed, 
Roses  for  a  matron's  head, 
Violets  for  a  maiden  dead, 

Pansies  let  my  flowers  be: 
On  the  living  grave  I  bear. 
Scatter  them  without  a  tear. 
Let  no  friend,  however  dear, 

Waste  one  hope,  one  fear,  for  me. 


THE  PINE  FOREST  OP  THE  CASCINE 
NEAR    PISA. 

Dearest,  best  and  brightest. 

Come  away, 
To  the  woods  and  to  the  fields ! 
Dearer  than  this  fairest  day, 
Which  like  thee  to  those  in  sorrow. 
Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-morrow 
To  the  rough  year  just  awake 
In  its  cradle  in  the  brake. 

61  469 


222 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  eldest  of  tlie  hours  of  spring, 
Into  the  winter  wandering, 
Looks  upon  the  leafless  wood ; 
And  the  banks  all  bare  and  rude 
Found  it  seems  this  halcyon  mom, 
In  February's  bosom  born, 
Bending  from  Heaven,  in  azure  mirth, 
Kiss'd  the  cold  forehead  of  the  earth, 
And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea, 
And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free ; 
And  waked  to  music  all  the  fountains. 
And  breathed  upon  the  rigid  mountains, 
And  made  the  wintry  world  appear 
Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear. 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day, 
Awake!  arise!  and  come  away! 
To  the  wild  woods  and  the  plains, 
To  the  pools  where  winter  rains 
Image  all  the  roof  of  leaves ; 
Where  the  Pine  its  garland  weaves, 
Sapless,  gray,  and  ivy  dun, 
Round  stones  that  never  kiss  the  sun ; 
To  the  sand-hills  of  the  sea. 
Where  the  earliest  violets  be. 

Now  the  last  day  of  many  days, 
All  beautiful  and  bright  as  thou, 
The  loveliest  and  the  last,  is  dead. 
Rise  Memory,  and  write  its  praise. 
And  do  thy  wonted  work,  and  trace 
The  epitaph  of  glory  fled : 
For  the  Earth  hath  changed  its  face, 
A  frown  is  on  the  Heaven's  brow. 

We  wander'd  to  the  Pine  Forest 
That  skirts  the  Ocean's  foam. 

The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest, 
The  tempest  in  its  home. 

The  whispering  waves  were  half  asleep, 
The  clouds  were  gone  to  play, 

And  on  the  woods,  and  on  the  deep. 
The  smile  of  Heaven  lay. 

It  seem'd  as  if  the  day  were  one 

Sent  from  beyond  the  skies. 
Which  shed  to  earth  above  the  sun 

A  light  of  Paradise. 

We  paused  amid  the  Pines  that  stood 

The  giants  of  the  waste. 
Tortured  by  storms  to  shapes  as  rude. 

With  stems  like  serpents  interlaced. 

How  calm  it  was  ! — the  silence  there 
By  such  a  chain  was  bound, 

That  even  the  busy  woodpecker 
Made  stiller  by  her  sound 

The  inviolable  quietness; 

The  breath  of  peace  we  drew. 
With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew 


It  seem'd  that  from  the  remotest  seat 
Of  the  white  mounlain's  waste. 

To  the  bright  flower  beneath  our  feet, 
A  magic  circle  traced  ; — 

A  spirit  interfused  around, 

A  thinking  silent  life, 
To  momentary  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  Nature's  strife. — 

For  still  it  seem'd  the  centre  of 

The  magic  circle  there. 
Was  one  whose  being  fill'd  with  love 

The  breathless  atmosphere. 

Were  not  the  crocuses  that  grew 

Under  that  ilex-tree. 
As  beautiful  in  scent  and  hue 

As  ever  fed  the  bee  ? 

We  stood  beside  the  pools  that  lie 

Under  the  forest  bough, 
And  each  seem'd  like  a  sky 

Gulf 'd  in  a  world  below ; — 

A  purple  firmament  of  light. 

Which  in  the  dark  earth  lay. 
More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night. 

And  clearer  than  the  day — 

In  which  the  massy  forests  grew. 

As  in  the  upper  air. 
More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue 

Than  any  waving  there. 

Like  one  beloved,  the  scene  had  lent 

To  the  dark  water's  breast 
Its  every  leaf  and  lineament, 

With  that  clear  truth  express'd. 

There  lay  far  glades  and  neighboring  lawn 
And,  through  the  dark-green  crowd, 

The  white  sun  twinkling  like  the  dawn 
Under  a  speckled  cloud. 

Sweet  views,  which  in  our  world  above 

Can  never  well  be  seen, 
Were  imaged  by  the  water's  love 

Of  that  fair  forest  green. 

And  all  was  interfused  beneath 

Within  an  Elysium  air. 
An  atmosphere  without  a  breath, 

A  silence  sleeping  there. 

Until  a  wandering  wind  crept  by. 

Like  an  unwelcome  thought, 
Which  from  my  mind's  too  faithful  eye 

Blots  thy  bright  image  out. 

For  thou  art  good  and  dear  and  kind, 

The  forest  ever  green. 
But  less  of  peace  in  S 's  mind, 

Than  calm  in  waters  seen. 


February  2,  1822. 


470 


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223 


TO  NIGHT. 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night ! 
")ut  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where,  all  the  long  and  -lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 

Swift  be  thy  flight ! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray, 

Star-inwrought! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  diiy 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out, 
Then  wander  o'er  cily,  and  sea,  and  land, 
rouching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 

Come,  long  sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee  ; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone. 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree. 
And  the  weary  Day  turn'd  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

Wouklst  thou  me  ? 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 

Murmur'd  like  a  noontide  bee. 
Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  ? 
Wouldst  thou  me  ? — And  I  replied. 

No,  not  thee ! 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead. 

Soon,  too  soon — 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled ; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon ! 


EVENING. 

PONTE  A  MARE,  PISA. 

Thk  sun  is  set  •  the  swallows  are  asleep ; 

The  bats  are  flitting  fast  in  the  gray  air ; 
The  slow  soft  toads  out  of  damp  corners  creep. 

And  evening's  breath,  wandering  here  and  there 
Over  the  quivering  surface  of  tlie  stream. 
Wakes  not  one  ripple  from  its  silent  dream. 

There  is  no  dew  on  the  dry  grass  to-night. 
Nor  damp  within  the  shadow  of  the  trees; 

The  wind  is  inlerniitiing,  dry,  and  light; 
And  in  the  inconstant  motion  of  the  breeze 

The  dust  and  straws  are  driven  up  and  down, 

And  whirl'd  about  the  pavement  of  the  town. 

Within  the  surface  of  the  fleeting  river 
The  wrinkled  image  of  tlie  city  lay. 

Immovably  unquiet,  and  for  ever 

It  trembles,  but  it  never  fades  away; 

Go  to  the  [  ] 

You,  being  changed,  will  find  it  then  as  now. 


The  chasm  in  which  the  surf  has  sunk  is  shut 
By  darkest  barriers  of  enormous  cloud. 

Like  mountain  over  mounlain  huddled — but 
Growing  and  moving  upwards  in  a  crowd, 

And  over  it  a  space  of  watery  blue. 

Which  the  keen  evening-slar  is  shining  through. 


ARETHUSA. 

Arethusa  arose 

From  her  couch  of  snows 
In  the  Acroceraunian  mountains, — 

From  cloud  and  from  crag. 

With  many  a  jag, 
Shepherding  her  bright  fountains, 

She  leapt  down  the  rocks, 

With  her  rainbow  locks 
Streaming  among  the  streams; — 

Her  steps  paved  with  green 

The  downward  ravine 
Which  slopes  to  the  western  gleams  : 

And  gliding  and  springing. 

She  went,  ever  singing. 
In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep ; 

The  Earth  seem'd  to  love  her, 

And  Heaven  smiled  above  her. 
As  she  linger'd  towards  the  deep. 

Then  Alpheus  bold. 

On  his  glacier  cold. 
With  his  trident  the  mountains  strook; 

And  open'd  a  chasm 

In  the  rocks  ; — with  the  spasm 
All  Erymanthus  shook. 

And  the  black  south  wind 

It  conceal'd  behind 
The  urns  of  the  silent  snow. 

And  earthquake  and  thunder 

Did  rend  in  sunder 
The  bars  of  the  springs  below . 

The  beard  and  the  hair 

Of  the  river  God  were 
Seen  through  the  torrent's  sweep. 

As  he  follow'd  the  light 

Of  the  fleet  nymph's  flight 
To  the  brink  of  the  Dorian  deep. 

"  Oh,  save  me !  Oh,  guide  me  I 

And  bid  the  deep  hide  me. 
For  he  grasps  me  now  by  the  hair ! " 

The  loud  Ocean  heard. 

To  its  blue  depth  stirr'd, 
And  divided  at  her  prayer ; 

And  under  the  water 

The  Earth's  white  daughter 
Fled  like  a  sunny  beam  ; 

Behind  her  descended. 

Her  billows  unblended 
With  the  brackish  Dorian  stream : 

Like  a  gloomy  slain 

On  the  emerald  main, 
Alpheus  rush'd  behind, — 

As  an  eagle  pursuing 

A  dove  to  its  ruin, 
Down  the  streams  of  the  cloudy  wind. 
471 


224 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Under  the  bowers 

Where  the  Ocean  Powers 
Sit  on  their  pearled  thrones, 

Through  the  coral  woods 

Of  the  weltering  floods, 
Over  heaps  of  unvalued  stones : 

Through  the  dim  beams 

Which  amid  the  streams 
Weave  a  net-work  of  color'd  light; 

And  under  the  caves. 

Where  the  shadowy  waves 
Are  as  green  as  the  forest's  night : — 

Outspeeding  the  shark. 

And  the  sword-fish  dark, 
Under  the  ocean  foam, 

And  up  through  the  rifts 

Of  the  mountain  clifts, 
They  pass'd  to  their  Dorian  home. 

And  now  from  their  fountains 

In  Enna's  mountains, 
Down  one  vale  where  the  morning  basks, 

Like  friends  once  parted 

Grown  single-hearted. 
They  ply  their  watery  taslcs. 

At  sunrise  they  leap 

From  their  cradles  steep 
In  the  cave  of  the  shelving  hill ; 

At  noontide  they  flow 

Through  the  woods  below. 
And  the  meadows  of  Asphodel ; 

And  at  night  they  sleep 

In  the  rocking  deep 
Beneath  the  Ortygian  shore ; — 

Like  spirits  that  lie 

In  the  azure  sky 
When  they  love  but  live  no  more. 

Pisa,  1820. 


THE  QUESTION. 

I  dream'd  that,  as  I  wander'd  by  the  way. 
Bare  winter  suddenly  was  changed  to  spring, 

And  gentle  odors  led  my  steps  astray, 

Mix'd  with  a  sound  of  waters  murmuring 

Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf  which  lay 
Under  a  copse,  and  hardly  dared  to  fling 

Its  green  arms  round  the  bosom  of  the  stream. 

But  kiss'd  it  and  then  fled,  as  thou  mightest  in  dream. 

There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets. 

Daisies,  those  pearl'd  Arcturi  of  the  earth, 
The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets  ; 

Faint  oxlips;  tender  blue-bells,  at  whose  birth 
The  sod  scarce  heaved ;  and  that  tall  flower  that  wets 
Its  mother's  face  with  iieaven-collected  tears. 
When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate's  voice,  it  hears. 

And  in  the  warm  hedge  grew  lush  eglantine. 
Green  cow-bind  and  the  moonlight-color'd  May, 

And  cherry  blossoms,  and  white  cups,  whose  wine 
Was  the  bright  dew  yet  drain'd  not  by  the  day ; 

And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine. 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves,  wandering  astray ; 

And  flowers  azure,  black  and  streak'd  with  gold, 

Fairer  than  any  waken'd  eyes  behold. 


And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge 

There  grew  broad  flag-flowers,  purple  prankt  with 
white. 

And  starry  river  buds  among  the  sedge, 
And  floating  water-lilies,  broad  and  bright, 

Which  lit  the  oak  that  overhung  the  hedge 

With  moonlight  beams  of  their  own  watery  light 

And  bulrushes,  and  reeds  of  such  deep  green 

As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober  sheen. 

Methought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 
I  made  a  nosegay,  bound  in  such  a  way 

That  the  same  hues,  which  in  their  natural  bower* 
Were  mingled  or  opposed,  the  like  array 

Kept  these  imprison'd  children  of  the  Hours 
Within  my  hand,— and  then,  elate  and  gay, 

I  hasten'd  to  the  spot  whence  I  had  come. 

That  I  might  there  present  it ! — Oh !  to  whom  ? 


LINES  TO  AN  INDIAN  AIR. 

I  ARISE  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night. 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright : 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee. 
And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me — who  knows  how  ? 
To  thy  chamber  window,  sweet! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream — 
The  champak  odors  fail 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 
It  dies  upon  her  heart, 
As  I  must  on  thine. 
Beloved  as  thou  art ! 

0  lift  me  from  the  grass ! 

1  die,  I  faint,  I  fail ! 

Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas ! 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast. 
Oh !  press  it  close  to  thine  again. 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN  IN  DEJECTION,  NEAR  NAPLES. 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear. 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 

Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  moon's  transparent  light 

Around  its  unexpanded  buds  ; 

Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight. 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean-floods, 
The  city's  voice  itself  is  soft,  like  Solitude's. 

I  see  the  deep's  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  sea-weeds  strown  ; 

I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers,  thrown . 
472 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


225 


I  sit  upon  the  saiuls  alone, 

The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 

Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  nioiion, 
How  sweet!  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion. 

Alas !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 

A'or  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 
Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 

The  sage  in  meditation  ti)und. 
And  walk'd  with  inward  glory  crown'd — 

Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure. 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround — 

Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure  : 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild. 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 

And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne  and  yet  must  bear, 

Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  rae, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Jreathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

Some  might  lament  that  J  were  cold. 

As  I,  when  this  sweet,  day  is  gone, 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan; 
They  might  lament — for  I  am  one 

^Vhom  men  love  not, — and  yet  regret. 
Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 

Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set, 
(Vill  linger,  though  enjoy 'd,  like  joy  in  memory  yet 

December,  1818. 


AUTUMN : 

A    DIRGE. 


The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is  wailing, 
The  bare  boughs  are  sighing,  the  pale  flowers  are  dying, 

And  the  year 
On  the  earth  her  death-bed,  in  a  shroud  of  leaves  dead, 
Is  lying. 

Come,  months,  come  away, 

From  November  to  May, 

In  your  saddest  array ; 

Follovv  the  bier 

Of  the  dead  cold  year, 
And  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her  sepulchre. 

The  chill  rain  is  falling,  the  nipt  worm  is  crawling, 
The  rivers  are  swelling,  the  thunder  is  kneUing 

For  the  year; 
The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the  lizards  each 
gone 
To  his  dwelling ; 
Come,  months,  come  away ; 
Put  on  while,  black,  and  gray, 
Let  your  light  sisters  play — 
Ye,  follovv  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  cold  year. 
And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on  tear. 
3  K 


HYMN  OF  APOLLO. 

The  sleepless  Hours  who  watch  me  as  I  lie, 
Curtain'd  with  star-inwoven  tapestries. 

From  the  broad  moonlight  of  the  sky. 

Fanning  the  busy  dreams  from  my  dim  eyes, — 

Waken  me  when  their  Mother,  tiie  gray  Dawn, 

Tells  them  that  dreams  and  that  the  moon  is  gone. 

Then  I  arise,  and  climbing  Heaven's  blue  dome, 
I  walk  over  the  mountains  and  the  waves, 

Leavmg  my  robe  upon  the  ocean  foam ; 

My  footsteps  pave  the  clouds  with  fire ;  the  caves 

Are  flll'd  with  my  bright  presence,  and  the  air 

Leaves  the  green  earth  to  my  embraces  bare. 

The  sunbeams  are  my  shafts,  with  which  I  kill 
Deceit,  that  loves  the  night  and  fears  the  day ; 

All  men  who  do  or  even  imagine  ill 
Fly  me,  and  from  the  glory  of  my  ray 

Good  minds  and  open  actions  take  new  might, 

Until  diminish'd  by  the  reign  of  night. 

I  feed  the  clouds,  the  rainbows  and  the  flowers. 
With  their  ethereal  colors ;  the  Moon's  globe 

And  the  pure  stars  in  their  eternal  bowers 

Are  cinctured  with  my  power  as  with  a  robe  ; 

Whatever  lamps  on  Earth  or  Heaven  may  shine 

Are  portions  of  one  power,  which  is  mine. 

I  stand  at  noon  upon  the  peak  of  Heaven, 
Then  with  unwilling  steps  I  wander  down 

Into  the  clouds  of  the  Atlantic  even ; 

For  grief  that  I  depart  they  weep  and  frown : 

What  look  is  more  delightful  than  the  smile 

With  which  I  soothe  them  from  the  western  isle  ? 

I  am  the  eye  with  which  the  Universe 
Beholds  itself  and  knows  itself  divine  ; 

All  harmony  of  instrument  or  verse. 
All  prophecy,  all  medicine  are  mine, 

All  light  of  art  or  nature  ; — to  my  song 

Victory  and  praise  in  their  own  right  belong. 


HYMN  OF  PAN. 
From  the  forests  and  highlands 

We  come,  wc  come; 
From  the  river-girt  islands. 

Where  loud  waves  are  dumb 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  wind  in  the  reeds  and  the  rushes, 

The  bees  on  the  bells  of  thyme. 
The  birds  on  the  myrtle  bushes, 
The  cicale  above  in  the  lime. 
And  the  lizards  below  in  the  grass. 
Were  as  silent  as  ever  old  Tmolus*  was, 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 

Liquid  Peneus  was  flowing. 

And  all  dark  Tompe  lay 

In  Pelion's  shadow,  outgrowing 

The  light  of  the  dying  day. 


*  This  and  the  former  poem  were  written  at  the  reques* 
of  a  friend,  to  be  inserted  in  a  drama  on  the  subject  of 
Midas.  Apollo  and  Pan  contended  before  Tmolns  for  the 
prize  in  music. 

473 


226 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Speeded  by  my  sweet  pipings, 
The  Sileni,  and  Sylvans,  and  Fauns, 

And  the  JVymphs  ol'  the  woods  and  waves, 
To  the  edge  of  the  moist  river-lawns, 
And  the  brink  of  the  dewy  caves. 
And  all  that  did  then  attend  and  Ibllow, 
Were  silent  with  love,  as  you  now,  Apollo, 
With  envy  of  my  sweet  pipings. 

I  sang  of  the  dancing  stars, 

I  sang  of  the  daedal  Earth, 
And  of  Heaven — and  the  giant  wars. 
And  Love,  and  Death,  and  Birth, — 
And  then  I  changed  my  pipings, — 
Singing  how  down  ihe  vale  of  Menalus 

I  pursued  a  maiden  and  clasp"d  a  reed : 
Gods  and  men,  we  are  all  deluded  thus! 

It  breaks  in  our  bosom,  and  then  we  bleed: 
All  wept,  as  I  think  both  ye  now  would. 
If  envy  or  age  had  not  frozen  your  blood, 
At  the  sorrow  of  my  sweet  pipings. 


THE  BOAT 

ON    THE    SERCHIO. 

Our  boat  is  asleep  in  Serchio's  stream, 
Its  sails  are  folded  like  thoughts  in  a  dream. 
The  helm  sways  idly,  hither  and  thither; 
Dominic,  the  boatman,  has  brought  the  mast. 
And  the  oars  and  the  sails ;  but  'tis  sleeping  fast, 
Like  a  beast,  unconscious  of  its  tether. 

The  stars  burnt  out  in  the  pale  blue  air. 

And  the  thin  while  moon  lay  withering  there  ; 

To  tower,  and  cavern,  and  rift  and  tree, 

The  owl  and  the  bat  fled  drowsily. 

Day  had  kindled  the  dewy  woods. 

And  the  rotks  above  and  the  stream  below, 

And  the  vapors  in  their  multitudes, 

And  the  Apennine  shroud  of  summer  snow, 

And  clothed  vvilh  light  of  aery  gold 

The  mists  in  their  eastern  caves  uproU'd. 

Day  had  awaken'd  all  things  that  be. 
The  lark  and  the  thrush  and  the  swallow  free. 
And  the  milkmaid's  song  and  the  mower's  scythe, 
And  the  matin-bell  and  the  mountain  bee : 
Fire-flies  were  quench'd  on  the  dewy  corn. 
Glow-worms  went  out  on  the  river's  brim. 
Like  lamps  which  a  student  forgets  to  trim  : 
The  beetle  forgot  to  wind  his  horn. 
The  crickets  were  still  in  the  meadow  and  hill : 
Like  a  flock  of  rooks  at  a  farmer's  gun. 
Night's  dreams  and  terrors,  every  one, 
Fled  from  the  brains  which  are  their  prey, 
From  the  lamp's  death  to  the  morning  ray. 

All  rose  to  do  the  task  He  set  to  each. 
Who  shaped  us  to  his  ends  and  not  our  own ; 
Tlie  million  rose  to  learn,  and  one  to  teach 
What  none  yet  ever  knew  or  can  be  known ; 

And  many  rose 
Whose  woe  was  such  that  fear  became  desire  ;— 
Melchior  and  Lionel  were  not  among  those ; 


They  from  the  throng  of  men  had  stepp'd  aside, 
And  made  their  home  under  the  green  hill  side 
It  was  that  hill,  wiiose  intervening  brow 
Screens  Lucca  from  the  Pisan's  envious  eye, 
Which  the  circumfluous  plain  waving  below, 
Like  a  wide  lake  of  green  feriilily, 
With  streams  and  fields  and  marshes  bare. 
Divides  from  the  far  Apennines — which  lie 
Islanded  in  the  immeasurable  air. 

"  What  think  you,  as  she  lies  in  her  green  cove 

Our  little  sleeping  boat  is  dreaming  of? 

If  morning  dreams  are  true,  why  1  should  guea 

That  she  was  dreaming  of  our  idleness. 

And  of  the  miles  of  watery  way 

We  should  have  led  her  by  this  time  of  day?" 


"  Never  mind,"  said  Lionel, 

"  Give  care  to  the  winds,  they  can  bear  it  well 

About  yon  poplar  tops  ;  and  see. 

The  white  clouds  are  driving  merrily. 

And  the  stars  we  miss  this  morn  will  light 

More  willingly  our  return  to-night. — 

List,  my  dear  fellow,  the  breeze  blows  fair; 

How  it  scatters  Dominic's  long  black  hair. 

Singing  of  us,  and  our  lazy  motions. 

If  I  can  guess  a  boat's  emotions. — " 

The  chain  is  loosed,  the  sails  are  spread. 
The  living  breath  is  fresh  behind, 
As  with  dews  and  sunrise  fed. 
Comes  the  laughing  morning  wind  ; — 
The  sails  are  full,  the  boat  makes  head 
Against  the  Serchio's  torrent  fierce, 
Then  flags  with  intermitting  course. 
And  hangs  upon  the  wave,  [  ] 

Which  fervid  from  its  mountain  source 
Shallow,  smooth  and  strong  doth  come, — 
Swift  as  fire,  tempestuously 
It  sweeps  into  the  affrighted  sea ; 
In  morning's  smile  its  eddies  coil, 
Its  billows  sparkle,  toss  and  boil, 
Torturing  all  its  quiet  light 
Into  columns  fierce  and  bright. 

The  Serchio,  twisting  fortJ 
Between  the  marble  barriers  which  it  clove 
At  Ripafratta,  leads  through  the  dread  chasm 
The  wave  that  died  the  death  that  lovers  love 
Living  in  what  it  sought  ;  as  if  this  spasm 
Had  not  yet  past,  the  toppling  mountains  cling 
But  the  clear  stream  in  full  enthusiasm 
Pours  itself  on  the  plain,  until  wandering, 
Down  one  clear  patii  of  eflFluence  crystalline 
Sends  its  clear  waves,  that  they  may  fling 
At  Arno's  feet  tribute  of  corn  and  wine. 
Then,  through  the  pestilential  deserts  wild 
Of  tangled  marsh  and  woods  of  stunted  fir, 
It  rushes  to  the  Ocean. 
July,  1821. 


THE  ZUCCA.* 
I 

Summer  was  dead  and  Autumn  was  expiring 
And  infant  Winter  laugh'd  upon  the  land 


*  Pumpkin. 


474 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


227 


All  cloudlessly  and  cold  ; — vviien  I,  desiring 
More  ill  this  world  than  any  understand, 

Wept  o'er  the  beauty,  which,  like  sea  retirin,^. 
Had  left  the  earih  bare  as  the  wave-worn  sand 

Of  my  poor  heart,  and  o'er  the  grass  and  flowers 

Pale  for  the  falsehood  of  the  flattering  hours. 

II. 

Summer  was  dead,  but  I  yet  lived  to  weep 

The  instability  of  all  but  weeping ; 
And  on  the  earth  luU'd  in  her  winter  sleep 

I  woke,  and  envied  her  as  she  was  sleeping. 
Too  happy  Earth  I  over  thy  face  shall  creep 

The  wakening  vernal  airs,  until  thou,  leaping 
From  unremember'd  dreams,  shalt  [  ]  see 

No  death  divide  thy  immortality ! 

m. 

I  loved — O  no,  I  mean  not  one  of  ye, 

Or  any  earthly  one,  though  ye  are  dear 
As  human  heart  to  human  heart  may  be ; — 

I  loved,  I  know  not  what — but  this  low  sphere, 
And  all  that  it  contains,  contains  not  thee, 

Thou,  whom  seen  nowhere,  I  feel  everywhere, 
Dim  object  of  my  soul's  idolatry. 

Veiled  art  thou  like — 

IV. 
By  Heaven  and  Earth,  from  all  whose  shapes  thou 
flowest. 

Neither  to  be  contain'd,  delay 'd,  or  hidden, 
Making  divine  the  loftiest  and  the  low-est. 

When  for  a  moment  thou  art  not  forbidden 
To  live  within  the  life  which  thou  bestowest  ; 

And  leaving  noblest  things  vacant  and  chidden, 
Cold  as  a  corpse  after  the  spirit's  flight, 
Blank  as  the  sun  after  the  birth  of  night. 

V. 

In  winds,  and  trees,  and  streams,  and  all  things  common, 
In  music,  and  the  sweet  unconscious  tone 

Of  animals,  and  voices  which  are  human. 

Meant  to  express  some  feelings  of  their  own ; 

In  the  soft  motions  and  rare  smile  of  woman, 

In  flowers  and  leaves,  and  in  the  fresh  grassshown. 

Or  dying  in  the  autumn,  I  the  most 

Adore  thee  present  or  lament  thee  lost. 

"VI. 
And  thus  I  went  lamenting,  when  I  saw 

A  plant  upon  ihe  river's  margin  lie. 
Like  one  who  loved  beyond  his  Nature's  law, 

And  in  despair  had  cast  him  down  to  die; 
Its  leaves  which  had  outlived  the  frost,  the  thaw 

Had  blighted  as  a  heart  which  hatred's  eye 
Can  blast  not,  but  which  pity  kills;  the  dew 
Lay  on  its  spotted  leaves  like  tears  too  true. 

VII. 

The  Heavens  had  wept  upon  it,  but  the  Earth 
Had  crush'd  it  on  her  unmaternal  breast 

VIII. 
I  bore  it  to  my  chamber,  and  I  planted 

It  in  a  vase  full  of  the  lightest  mould  ; 
The  winter  beams  which  out  of  Heaven  slanted 

Fell  through  the  window  panes  disrobed  of  cold, 


Upon  its  leaves  and  flowers  ;  the  star  which  panted 

In  evening  for  the  Day,  whose  car  has  roU'd 
Over  the  horizon's  wave,  wiih  looks  of  light 
Smiled  on  it  from  the  threshold  of  the  night. 

IX. 

The  mitigated  influences  of  air 

And  light  revived  the  plant,  and  from  it  grew 
Strong  leaves  and  tendrils,  and  its  flowers  fair, 

Full  as  a  cup  with  the  vine's  burning  dew, 
O'erflowed  with  golden  colors ;  an  atmosphere 

Of  vital  warmth  infolded  it  anew, 
And  every  impulse  sent  to  every  part 
The  unbeheld  pulsations  of  its  heart. 


Well  might  the  plant  grow  beautiful  and  strong. 
Even  if  the  sun  and  air  smiled  not  On  it ; 

For  one  wept  o'er  it  all  the  winter  long 

Tears  pure  as  Heaven's  rain,  which  fell  upon  it 

Hour  after  hour;  for  sounds  of  softest  song, 
Mix'd  with  the  stringed  melodies  that  won  it 

To  leave  the  gentle  lips  on  which  it  slept. 

Had  loosed  the  heart  of  him  who  sat  and  wept. 

XI. 

Had  loosed  his  heart,  and  shook  the  leaves  and  flowers 
On  which  ne  wept,  the  while  the  savage  storm. 

Waked  by  the  darkest  of  December's  hours. 

Was  raving  round  the  chamber  hush'd  and  warm, 

The  birds  were  shivering  in  their  leafless  bowers. 
The  fish  were  frozen  in  the  pools,  the  form 

Of  every  summer  plant  was  dead  [       ] 

Whilst  this  *  *  * 

January,  1822. 


THE  TWO  SPIRITS. 

AN  ALLEGORY. 

FIRST  SPIRIT. 

Oh  thou,  who  plumed  with  strong  desire 
W^ould  float  above  the  earth,  beware! 
A  Shadow  tracks  thy  flight  of  lire — 

Night  is  coming ! 
Bright  are  the  regions  of  the  air. 

And  among  the  winds  and  beams 
It  were  delight  to  wander  there — 
Night  is  coming ! 

SECOND  SPIRIT. 

The  deathless  stars  are  bright  above  ; 
If  I  would  cross  the  shade  of  night 
Within  my  heart  the  lamp  of  love. 

And  that  is  day  I 
And  the  moon  will  smile  with  gentle  light 

On  my  golden  plumes  where'er  they  move; 
The  meteors  will  linger  round  my  flight. 
And  make  night  day. 

FIRST  SPIRIT. 

But  if  the  whirlwinds  of  darkness  waken 

Hail  and  lightning  and  stormy  rain  ? 
See,  the  bounds  of  the  air  are  shaken — 
Night  is  coming  I 

475 


228 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  red  swift  clouds  of  the  hurricane 
Yon  declining  sun  have  overtaken, 
The  clash  of  the  hail  sweeps  over  the  plain — 
Night  is  coming ! 

SECOND  SPIRIT. 

I  see  the  light,  I  hear  the  sound  ; 

I  '11  sail  on  the  flood  of  the  tempest  dark 
With  the  calm  within  and  the  light  around 

Which  makes  night  day  : 
And  thou,  when  the  gloom  is  deep  and  stark, 

Look  from  the  dull  earth,  slumber-bound. 
My  moon-like  flight  then  thou  mayest  mark 
On  high,  far  away. 

Some  say,  there  is  a  precipice 

Where  one  vast  pine  is  frozen  to  ruin 
O'er  piles  of  snow  and  chasms  of  ice 

'Mid  Alpine  mountains ; 
And  that  the  languid  storm,  pursuing 

That  winged  shape,  for  ever  flies 
Round  those  hoar  branches,  aye  renewing 
Its  aery  fountains. 

Some  say,  when  nights  are  dry  and  clear. 

And  the  death-dews  sleep  on  the  morass. 
Sweet  whispers  are  heard  by  the  traveller 

Which  makes  night  day  : 
And  a  silver  shape  like  his  early  love  doth  pass 

Upborne  by  her  wild  and  glittering  hair, 
And  when  he  awakes  on  the  fragrant  grass, 
He  finds  night  day. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

TiiEV  were  two  cousins,  almost  like  to  twins. 

Except  that  from  the  catalogue  of  sins 

Nature  had  razed  their  love — which  could  not  be 

But  by  dissevering  their  nativity. 

And  so  they  grew  together,  like  two  flowers 

Upon  one  stem,  which  the  same  beams  and  showers 

Lull  or  awaken  in  their  purple  prime. 

Which  the  same  hand  will  gather — the  same  clime 

Shake  with  decay.    This  fair  day  smiles  to  see 

All  those  who  love, — and  who  e'er  loved  like  thee, 

Fiordispina  ?  Scarcely  Cosimo, 

Within  whose  bosom  and  whose  brain  now  glow 

The  ardors  of  a  vision  which  obscure 

The  very  idol  of  its  portraiture ; 

He  faints,  dissolved  into  a  sense  of  love ; 

But  thou  art  as  a  planet  sphered  above. 

But  thou  art  Love  itself — ruling  the  motion 

Of  his  subjected  spirit. — Such  emotion 

Must  end  in  sin  or  sorrow,  if  sweet  May 

Had  not  brought  forth  this  morn — your  wedding-day. 


A  BRIDAL  SONG. 

The  golden  gates  of  sleep  unbar 

Wliere  strength  and  beauty  met  together, 

Kindle  their  image  like  a  star 
In  a  sea  of  glassy  weather. 

Night,  with  all  thy  stars  look  down, — 
Darkness,  weep  thy  holiest  dew, — 

Never  smiled  the  inconstant  moon 


On  a  pair  so  true. 
Let  eyes  not  see  their  own  delight ; — 
Haste,  swiSt  Hour,  and  thy  flight 

Oft  renew. 

Fairies,  sprites,  and  angels,  keep  her! 

Holy  stars,  permit  no  wrong  I 
And  return  to  wake  the  sleeper. 

Dawn, — ere  it  be  long. 
Oh  joy  I  oh  fear !  what  will  be  done 

In  the  absence  of  the  sun ! 
Come  along ! 


THE  SUNSET. 

There  late  was  One  within  whose  subtle  being, 
As  light  and  wind  within  some  delicate  cloud 
That  fades  amid  the  blue  noon's  burning  sky. 
Genius  and  youth  contended.    None  may  knovi' 
The  sweetness  of  the  joy  which  made  his  breath 
Fail,  like  the  trances  of  a  summer  air. 
When,  with  the  Lady  of  his  love,  who  then 
First  knew  the  unreserve  of  mingled  being. 
He  walk'd  along  the  pathway  of  the  field 
Which  to  the  east  a  hoar  wood  shadow'd  o'er, 
But  to  the  west  was  open  to  the  sky. 
There  now  the  sun  had  sunk,  but  lines  of  gold 
Hung  on  the  ashen  clouds,  and  on  the  points 
Of  the  far  level  grass  and  nodding  flowers. 
And  the  old  dandelion's  hoary  beard, 
And,  mingled  with  the  shades  of  twilight  lay 
On  the  brown  massy  woods — and  in  the  east 
The  broad  and  burning  moon  lingeringly  rose 
Between  the  black  trunks  of  the  crowded  trees. 
While  the  faint  stars  were  gathering  overhead. — 
"  Is  it  not  strange,  Isabel,"  said  the  youth, 
"  I  never  saw  the  sun  ?    We  will  walk  here 
To-morrow ;  thou  shalt  look  on  it  with  me  '" 

That  night  the  youth  and  lady  mingled  lay 

In  love  and  sleep — but  when  the  morning  came, 

The  lady  found  her  lover  dead  and  cold. 

Let  none  beheve  that  God  in  mercy  gave 

That  stroke.    The  lady  died  not,  nor  grew  wild. 

But  year  by  year  lived  on — in  truth  I  think 

Her  gentleness  and  patience  and  sad  smiles. 

And  that  she  did  not  die,  but  lived  to  tend 

Her  aged  father,  were  a  kind  of  madness. 

If  madness  't  is  to  be  unlike  the  world. 

For  but  to  see  her  were  to  read  the  tale 

Woven  by  some  subtlest  bard,  to  make  hard  hearts 

Dissolve  away  in  wisdom-working  grief; — 

Her  eye-lashes  were  worn  away  with  tears, 

Her  lips  and  cheeks  were  like  things  dead — so  pale; 

Her  hands  were  thin,  and  through  their  wandering 

veins 
And  weak  articulations  might  be  seen 
Day's  ruddy  light.    The  tomb  of  thy  dead  self 
Which  one  vex'd  ghost  inhabits,  night  and  day, 
Is  all,  lost  child,  that  now  remains  of  thee ! 

"  Inheritor  of  more  than  earth  can  give, 
Passionless  calm,  and  silence  unreproved. 
Whether  the  dead  find,  oh,  not  sleep!  but  rest, 
476 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


229 


AnJ  are  the  uncomplaining  things  they  seem, 
Or  live,  or  drop  in  the  deep  sea  of  Love  ; 
Oh  that  like  ihine,  mine  epitaph  were— Peace ! ' 
This  was  the  only  nioan  she  ever  made. 

1816. 


SONG. 

ON  A.  FADED  VIOLET. 

The  odor  from  the  flower  is  gone, 

Which  like  thy  kisses  breathed  on  me  ; 

The  color  from  the  flower  is  flown, 
Which  glow'd  of  thee,  and  only  thee ! 

A  shrivell'd,  lifeless,  vacant  form. 
It  lies  on  my  abandoned  breast. 

And  mocks  the  heart  which  yet  is  warm 
With  cold  and  silent  rest. 

I  weep — my  tears  revive  it  not ! 

I  sigh — it  breathes  no  more  on  me ; 
Its  mute  and  uncomplaining  lot 

Is  such  as  mine  should.be. 


LINES  TO  A  CRITIC. 

HoNEV  from  silk- worms  who  can  gather, 
Or  silk  from  the  yellow  bee  ? 

The  grass  may  grow  in  winter  weather 
As  soon  as  hate  in  me. 

Hate  men  who  cant,  and  men  who  pray, 
And  men  who  rail  like  thee : 

An  equal  passion  to  repay, 
They  are  not  coy  like  me. 

Or  seek  some  slave  of  power  and  gold. 
To  be  thy  dear  heart's  mate; 

Thy  love  will  move  that  bigot  cold, 
Sooner  than  me  thy  hate. 

A  passion  like  the  one  I  prove 

Cannot  divided  be ; 
I  hate  thy  want  of  truth  and  love — 
How  should  I  then  hate  thee  ? 
Decemher,  1817. 


GOOD  NIGHT. 

Good  night  ?  ah  !  no  ;  the  hour  is  ill 
Which  severs  those  it  should  unite ; 

Lot  us  remain  together  still, 
Then  it  will  be  good  night. 

How  can  I  call  the  lone  night  good, 

Though  thy  sweet  wishes  wing  its  flight  ? 

Be  it  not  said,  thought,  imderstood, 
Then  it  w-ill  be  good  night. 

To  hearts  which  near  each  other  move 
From  evening  close  to  morning  light. 

The  night  is  good  ;  because,  my  love, 
They  never  say  good  night. 


TO-MORROW. 

Where  art  thou,  beloved  To-morrow  ? 

Whom  young  and  old  and  strong  and  weak. 
Rich  and  poor,  through  joy  and  sorrow. 

Thy  sweet  smiles  we  ever  seek : — 
In  thy  place — ah !  well-a-day  ! 
We  find  the  thing  we  fled — To-day. 


DEATH. 

They  die — the  dead  return  not — Misery 

Sits  near  an  open  grave  and  calls  them  over, 
A  Youth  with  hoary  hair  and  haggard  eye — 

They  are  the  names  of  kindred,  friend,  and  lover. 
Which  he  so  feebly  call'd — they  all  are  gone ! 
Fond  wretch,  all  dead,  those  vacant  names  alone, 
This  most  familiar  scene,  my  pain — 
These  tombs  alone  remain. 

Misery,  my  sweetest  friend — oh  !  weep  no  more  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  be  consoled — I  wonder  not ! 
For  I  have  seen  thee  from  thy  dwelling's  door 

Watch  the  calm  sunset  with  them,  and  this  spot 
Was  even  as  bright  and  calm,  but  transitory. 
And  now  thy  hopes  are  gone,  thy  hair  is  hoary ; 
This  most  familiar  scene,  my  pain — 
These  tombs  alone  remain. 


A  LAMENT. 

Oh,  world  !  oh,  life !  oh,  time ! 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb. 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before ; 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime  ? 
No  more — O,  never  more ! 

Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight ; 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter  hoar. 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  delight 
No  more — O,  never  more ! 


LOVE'S  PHILOSOPHY. 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river. 

And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean ; 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  for  ever 

With  a  sweet  emotion  ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single  ; 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  another's  being  mingle — 

Why  not  I  with  thine  ? 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven. 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another  , 
No  sister  flower  would  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdain'd  its  brother : 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea, 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth. 

If  thou  kiss  not  me  ? 
January,  1820. 

62  477 


230 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


TO  E***    V***. 

Madonn'a,  wherefore  hast  thou  sent  to  me 

Sweet  basil  and  mignionette  ? 
Embleming  love  and  health,  which  never  yet 
In  the  same  wreath  might  be. 
Alas,  and  they  are  wet ! 
Is  it  with  thy  kisses  or  thy  tears  ? 
For  never  rain  or  dew 
Such  fragrance  drew 
From  plant  or  flower — the  very  doubt  endears 

My  sadness  ever  new, 
The  sighs  I  breathe,  the  tears  I  shed  for  thee. 
March,  1821. 


TO 


I  FEAR  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden. 
Thou  needest  not  fear  mine  ; 

My  spirit  is  too  deeply  laden 
Ever  to  burthen  thine. 

I  fear  thy  mien,  thy  tones,  thy  motion, 
Thou  needest  not  fear  mine  ; 

Innocent  is  the  heart's  devotion 
With  which  I  worship  thine. 


LINES. 

WiiEN  the  lamp  is  shatter'd, 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead— 

When  the  cloud  is  scatter'd, 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 

When  the  lute  is  broken. 
Sweet  tones  are  remember'd  not ; 

When  the  lips  have  spoken, 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 

As  music  and  splendor 
Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute, 

The  heart's  echoes  render 
No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute  :— 

No  song  but  sad  dirges. 
Like  the  wind  through  a  ruin'd  cell, 

Or  the  mournful  surges 
That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  loiell. 

When  hearts  have  once  mingled. 
Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest; 

The  weak  one  is  singled 
To  endure  what  it  once  possest 

O,  Love  I  who  bewailest 
The  frailty  of  all  things  here, 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 
For  your  cradle,  your  home,  and  your  bier? 

Its  passions  will  rock  thee. 
As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high ; 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee, 
Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 
Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 

Leave  the  naked  to  laughter, 
When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come. 


TO  WILLIAM  SHELLEY. 


(With  what  truth  I  may  say- 
Roma  !  Roma !  Rnma ! 
Non  e  pii  come  era  prima !) 


My  lost  William,  thou  in  whom 

Some  bright  spirit  lived,  and  did 
That  decaying  robe  consume 

Which  its  lustre  faintly  hid, 
Here  its  ashes  find  a  tomb ; 
But  beneath  this  pyramid 
Thou  art  not — if  a  thing  divine 
Like  thee  can  die,  thy  funeral  shrine 
Is  thy  mother's  grief  and  mine. 

Where  art  thou,  my  gentle  child  ? 

Let  me  think  thy  spirit  feeds. 
Within  its  life  intense  and  mild. 

The  love  of  living  leaves  and  weeds 
Among  these  tombs  and  ruins  wild ; — 

Let  me  think  that  through  low  seeds 
Of  the  sweet  flowers  and  sunny  grass, 
Into  their  hues  and  scents  may  pass 

A  portion 

June,  1819. 


AN  ALLEGORY. 

A  PORTAL  as  of  shadowy  adamant 

Stands  yawning  on  the  highway  of  the  life 
Which  we  all  tread,  a  cavern  huge  and  gaunt 

Around  it  rages  an  unceasing  strife 
Of  shadows,  like  the  restless  clouds  that  haunt 
The  gap  of  some  cleft  mountain,  lifted  high 
Into  the  whirlwinds  of  the  upper  sky. 

And  many  pass'd  it  by  with  careless  tread, 
Not  knowing  that  a  shadowy  [  ] 

Tracks  every  traveller  even  to  where  the  dead 
Wait  peacefully  for  their  companion  new ; 

But  others,  by  more  curious  humor  led. 
Pause  to  examine, — these  are  very  few. 

And  they  learn  little  there,  except  to  know 

That  shadows  follow  them  where'er  they  go. 


MUTABILITY. 

The  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

To-morrow  dies  ; 
All  that  we  wish  to  stay. 

Tempts  and  then  flies  : 
What  is  this  world's  delight? 
Lightning  that  mocks  the  night. 
Brief  even  as  bright. 

Virtue,  how  frail  it  is  ! 

Friendship  too  rare  ! 
Love,  how  it  sells  poor  bliss 

.  For  proud  despair ! 
But  we,  though  soon  they  fall. 
Survive  their  joy  and  all 
Which  ours  we  call. 

478 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


231 


Whilst  skies  are  blue  and  bright. 
Whilst  flowers  are  gay, 

Whilst  eyes  that  change  ere  night 
Malve  glad  the  clay  ; 

Wliilst  yet  the  c-alm  hours  creep, 

Dream  thou — and  from  thy  sleep 

Then  wake  to  weep. 


«  FROM  THE  ARABIC. 

AN    IMITATION. 

My  faint  spirit  was  sitting  in  the  light 

Of  thy  looks,  my  love  ; 
It  panted  for  thee  like  the  hind  at  noon 

For  the  brooks,  my  love. 
Thy  barb,  whose  hoofs  oulspeed  the  tempest's  flight, 

Bore  thee  far  from  me  : 
My  heart,  for  my  weak  feet  were  weary  soon. 

Did  companion  thee. 

Ah !  fleeter  far  than  fleetest  storm  or  steed. 

Or  the  death  they  bear. 
The  heart  which  lender  thought  clothes  like  a  dove 

With  the  wings  of  care  ; 
In  the  battle,  in  the  darkness,  in  the  need. 

Shall  mine  cling  to  thee. 
Nor  claim  one  smile  for  all  the  comfort,  love, 

It  may  bring  to  thee. 


TO 


One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdain'd 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  Piiy  from  ihee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love; 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above. 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not — 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star. 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 


As  the  scent  of  a  violet  wither'd  up, 

Which  grew  by  the  brink  of  a  silver  lake  ; 

When  the  hot  noon  has  drain'd  its  dewy  cup. 
And  mist  there  was  none  its  tiiirst  to  slake — 

And  the  violet  lay  dead  while  the  odor  flew 

On  the  wings  of  the  wind  o'er  the  waters  blue — 

As  one  who  drinks  from  a  charmed  cup 

Of  foaming,  and  sparkling,  ami  murmuring  wine. 

Whom,  a  mighty  Enchantress  filling  up. 
Invites  to  love  with  her  kiss  divine. 


MUSIC. 


I  PANT  for  the  music  which  is  divine, 
My  heart  in  its  thirst  is  a  dying  flower; 

Pour  Ibrth  the  sound  like  enchanted  wine, 
Loosen  the  notes  in  a  silver  shower; 

Like  an  herbless  plain,  for  the  gentle  rain, 

I  gasp,  I  faint,  till  they  wake  again. 

Let  me  drink  of  the  spirit  of  that  sweet  sound, 
More,  O  more, — I  am  thirsting  yet ; 

It  loosens  the  serpent  which  care  has  bound 
Upon  my  heart  to  stifle  it ; 

The  dissolving  strain,  through  every  vein. 

Passes  into  my  heart  and  brain. 


NOVEMBER,  1815. 

The  cold  earth  slept  below. 
Above  the  cold  sky  shone ; 
And  all  around. 
With  a  chilling  sound. 
From  caves  of  ice  and  fields  of  snow. 
The  breath  of  night  like  death  did  flow 
Beneath  the  sinking  moon. 

The  wintry  hedge  was  black, 
The  green  grass  was  not  seen, 
The  birds  did  rest 
On  the  bare  thorn's  breast, 
Whose  roots,  beside  the  pathway  track, 
Had  bound  their  folds  o'er  many  a  crack 
Which  the  frost  had  made  between. 

Thine  eyes  glow'd  in  the  glare 
Of  the  moon's  dying  light ; 
As  a  fen-fire's  beam. 
On  a  sluggish  stream. 
Gleams  dimly — so  the  moon  shone  there. 
And  it  yellow'd  the  strings  of  thy  tangled  hair 
That  shook  in  the  wind  of  night. 

The  moon  made  thy  lips  pale,  beloved; 
The  wind  made  thy  bosom- chill; 
The  night  did  shed 
On  thy  dear  head 
Its  frozen  dew,  and  thou  didst  lie 
Where  the  bitter  breath  of  the  naked  skj 
Might  visit  thee  at  will. 


DEATH. 

Death  is  here,  and  death  is  there, 
Death  is  busy  everywhere, 
All  around,  within,  beneath. 
Above  is  death — and  we  are  death. 

Death  has  set  his  mark  and  seal 
On  all  we  are  and  all  we  feel. 
On  all  we  know  and  all  we  fear. 


First  our  pleasures  die — and  then 
Our  hopes,  and  then  our  fears — and  when 
These  are  dead,  the  debt  is  due. 
Dust  claims  dust — and  we  die  too. 
479 


232 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


All  things  that  we  love  and  cherish, 
Like  ourselves,  must  fade  and  perish ; 
Such  is  our  rude  mortal  lot — 
Love  itself  would,  did  they  not. 


TO 


When  passion's  trance  is  overpast, 
If  tenderness  and  truth  could  last 
Or  live,  whilst  all  wild  feelings  keep 
Some  mortal  slumber,  dark  and  deep, 
I  should  not  weep,  I  should  not  weep ! 

It  were  enough  to  feel,  to  see 

Thy  soft  eyes  gazing  tenderly, 

And  dream  the  rest — and  burn,  and  be 

The  secret  food  of  fires  unseen, 

Couldst  thou  but  be  as  thou  hast  been. 

After  the  slumber  of  the  year 
The  woodland  violets  reappear ; 
All  things  revive  in  field  or  grove, 
And  sky  and  sea,  but  two,  which  move, 
And  for  all  others,  life  and  love. 


PASSAGE  OF  THE  APENNINES. 

Listen,  listen,  Mary  mine. 
To  the  whisper  of  the  Apennine. 
It  bursts  on  the  roof  like  the  thunder's  roar, 
Or  like  the  sea  on  a  northern  shore. 
Heard  in  its  raging  ebb  and  flow 
By  the  captives  pent  in  the  cave  below. 
The  Apennine  in  the  light  of  day 
Is  a  mighty  mountain  dim  and  gray. 
Which  between  the  earth  and  sky  doth  lay ; 
But  when  night  comes,  a  chaos  dread 
On  the  dim  star-light  then  is  spread. 
And  the  Apennine  walks  abroad  with  the  storm. 
Ma  ifitk,  1818. 


TO  MARY 


Oh  !  Mary  dear,  that  you  were  here 

With  your  brown  eyes  bright  and  clear, 

And  your  sweet  voice,  like  a  bird 

Singing  love  to  its  lone  mate 

In  the  ivy  bower  disconsolate  ; 

Voice  the  sweetest  ever  heard ! 

And  your  brow  more     *     *     * 

Than  the     *     *     *     sky 

Of  this  azure  Italy. 

Mary  dear,  come  to  me  soon, 

I  am  not  well  whilst  thou  art  far ; — 

As  sunset  to  the  sphered  moon. 

As  twilight  to  the  western  star. 

Thou,  beloved,  art  to  me. 

Oh !  Mary  dear,  that  you  were  here ; 
The  Castle  echo  whispers  "  Here !" 
Este,  September,  1818. 


THE  PAST. 

Wilt  thou  forget  the  happy  hours 
Which  we  buried  in  Love's  sweet  bowers, 


Heaping  over  their  corpses  cold 
Blossoms  and  leaves,  instead  of  mould  ? 
Blossoms  which  were  the  joys  that  fell. 
And  leaves,  the  hopes  that  yet  remain. 

Forget  the  dead,  the  past  ?    O  yet 

There  are  ghosts  that  may  take  revenge  for  it 

Memories  that  make  the  heart  a  tomb, 

Regrets  which  glide  through  the  spirit's  gloom 

And  with  ghastly  whispers  tell 

That  joy,  once  lost,  is  pain. 


SONG  OF  A  SPIRIT. 

Within  the  silent  centre  of  the  earth 

My  mansion  is ;  where  I  lived  insphered 

From  the  beginning,  and  around  my  sleep 

Have  woven  all  the  wondrous  imagery 

Of  this  dim  spot,  which  mortals  call  the  world ; 

Infinite  depths  of  unknown  elements 

Mass'd  into  one  impenetrable  mask  ; 

Sheets  of  immeasurable  fire,  and  veins 

Of  gold  and  stone,  and  adamantine  iron. 

And  as  a  veil  in  which  I  walk  through  Heaven 

I  have  wrought  mountains,  seas,  and  waves,  and 

clouds. 
And  lastly  light,  whose  interfusion  dawns 
In  the  dark  space  of  interstellar  air. 


LIBERTY. 

The  fiery  mountains  answer  each  other ; 
Their  thunderings  are  echoed  from  zone  to  zone ; 
The  tempestuous  oceans  awake  one  another. 
And  the  ice-rocks  are  shaken  round  winter's  zone, 
'IVhen  the  clarion  of  the  Typhoon  is  blown 

From  a  single  cloud  the  lightning  flashes. 
Whilst  a  thousand  isles  are  illumined  around ; 
Earthquake  is  trampling  one  city  to  ashes, 
A  hundred  are  shuddering  and  tottering ;  the  sound 
Is  bellowing  underground. 

But  keener  thy  gaze  than  the  lightning's  glare. 
And  swifter  thy  step  than  the  earthquake's  tramp; 
Thou  deafenest  the  rage  of  the  ocean  ;  thy  stare 
Makes  blind  the  volcanoes  ;  the  sun's  bright  lamp 
To  thine  is  a  fen-fire  damp. 

From  billow  and  mountain  and  exhalation 
The  sunlight  is  darted  through  vapor  and  blast; 
From  spirit  to  spirit,  from  nation  to  nation, 
From  city  to  hamlet,  thy  davi-ning  is  cast, — 
And  tyrants  and  slaves  are  like  shadows  of  night 
In  the  van  of  the  morning  light. 


TO 


Mine  eyes  were  dim  with  tears  unshed ; 

Yes,  I  was  firm — thus  did  not  thou  ; — 
My  bafiled  looks  did  fear,  yet  dread, 

To  meet  thy  looks — I  could  not  know 
How  anxiously  they  sougiit  to  shine 
With  soothing  pity  upon  mine. 
4«*' 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


233 


To  sit  and  curb  the  soul's  mute  rage 
Which  preys  upon  itself  alone  ; 

To  curse  the  life  which  is  the  cage 
Of  fetter'd  grief  that  dares  not  groan, 

Hiding  from  many  a  careless  eye 

The  scorned  load  of  agony. 

Whilst  thou  alone,  then  not  regarded, 
The  [  ]  thou  alone  should  be. 

To  spend  years  thus,  and  be  rewarded. 
As  thou,  sweet  love,  requited  me 

When  none  w'ere  near — Oh !  I  did  wake 

From  torture  for  that  moment's  sake. 

Upon  my  heart  thy  accents  sweet 
Of  peace  and  pity,  fell  like  dew 

On  flowers  half  dead  ; — thy  lips  did  meet 
Mine  tremblingly  ;  thy  dark  eyes  threw 

Thy  soft  persuasion  on  my  brain. 

Charming  away  its  dream  of  pain. 

We  are  not  happy,  sweet!  our  state 
Is  strange  and  full  of  doubt  and  fear ; 

More  need  of  words  that  ills  abate ; — 
Reserve  or  censure  come  not  near 

Our  sacred  friendship,  lest  there  be 

IVo  solace  left  for  thou  and  me. 

Gentle  and  good  and  mild  thou  art. 
Nor  I  can  \i\e  if  thou  appear 

Aught  but  thyself,  or  turn  thine  heart 
Away  from  me,  or  stoop  to  wear 

The  mask  of  scorn,  although  it  be 

To  hide  the  love  thou  feel'st  for  me. 


THE  ISLE. 

There  was  a  little  lawny  islet 
By  anemone  and  violet, 

Like  mosaic,  paven : 
And  its  roof  was  flowers  and  leaves 
Which  the  summer's  breath  inweaves. 
Where  nor  sun  nor  showers  nor  breeze 
Pierce  the  pines  and  tallest  trees. 

Each  a  gem  engraven  : 
Girt  by  many  an  azure  wave 
With  which  the  clouds  and  mountains  pave 

A  lake's  blue  chasm. 


TO . 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory — 
Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rrtse-leavcs,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heap'd  for  the  beloved's  bed  ; 
And  so  thy  tlioughts,  when  thou  art  gone, 
l(0ve  itself  shall  slumber  on. 


TIME. 

Unfathomable  Sea!  whose  waves  are  years, 
Ocean  of  Time,  whose  waters  of  deep  woe 

Are  brackish  with  the  salt  of  human  tears ! 

Thou  shoreless  flood,  which  in  thy  ebb  and  flow 
3L 


Claspest  the  limits  of  mortality  ! 
And  sick  of  prey,  yet  howling  on  for  more, 
Vomitest  thy  wrecks  on  its  inhospitable  shore. 
Treacherous  in  cahn,  and  terrible  in  storm. 

Who  shall  i)ut  forth  on  thee, 

Unfatlioraaijle  Sea  ? 


LINES. 

That  time  is  dead  for  ever,  child, 
Drown'd,  frozen,  dead  for  ever! 

We  look  on  the  past, 

And  stare  aghast 
At  the  spectres  wailing,  pale  and  ghast, 
Of  hopes  which  thou  and  I  beguiled 

To  death  on  life's  dark  river. 

The  stream  we  gazed  on  then,  rolled  by ; 
Its  waves  are  unreturning ; 

But  we  yet  stand 

In  a  lone  land. 
Like  tombs  to  mark  the  memory 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  which  fade  and  flee 
In  the  light  of  life's  dim  morning. 

November  btli,  1817. 


A  SONG. 

A  WIDOW  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  lov* 

Upon  a  wintry  bough; 
The  frozen  wind  kept  on  above. 

The  freezing  stream  below. 

There  was  no  leaf  upon  the  forest  bare 
No  flower  upon  the  ground. 

And  little  motion  in  the  air, 

Except  the  mill-wheel's  soiuid. 


THE  WORLD'S  WANDERERS. 

Tell  me,  thou  star,  whose  wings  of  ligh* 
Speed  thee  in  thy  fiery  flight. 
In  what  cavern  of  the  night 

Will  thy  pinions  close  now  ? 

Tell  me,  moon,  thou  pale  and  gray 
Pilgrim  of  Heaven's  homeless  way, 
In  what  depth  of  night  or  day 
Seekest  thou  repose  now  ? 

Weary  wind,  who  wanderest 
Like  the  world's  rejected  guest. 
Hast  thou  still  some  secret  nest 
On  the  tree  or  billow  ? 


A  DIRGE. 
Rough  wind,  that  meanest  loud 

Grief  too  sad  for  song ; 
Wild  wind,  when  sullen  cloud 

Knells  all  the  night  long ; 
Sad  storm,  whose  tears  are  vain, 
Bare  woods,  whose  branches  stain. 
Deep  caves  and  dreary  main. 

Wail,  for  the  world's  wrong! 
481 


S34 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


LINES. 

Far,  far  away,  O  ye 

Halcyons  of  memory, 
Seek  some  far  calmer  nest 
Than  this  abandon'd  breast ; — 
No  news  of  your  false  spring 
To  my  heart's  winter  bring, 
Once  having  gone,  in  vain 

Ye  come  again. 

Vultures,  who  build  your  bowers 
High  in  the  Future's  towers. 
Withered  hopes  on  hopes  are  spread, 
Dying  joys  choked  by  the  dead, 
Will  serve  your  beaks  for  prey 
Many  a  day. 


SUPERSTITION. 

rHOU  taintest  all  thou  look'st  upon !  The  stars, 
Which  on  Ihy  cradle  beam'd  so  brightly  sweet, 
Were  gods  to  the  distemper'd  playfulness 
Of  thy  unlutor'd  infancy ;  the  trees, 
The  grass,  the  clouds,  the  mountains,  and  the  sea, 
All  living  things  that  walk,  swim,  creep,  or  fly. 
Were  gods :  the  sun  had  homage,  and  the  moon 
Her  worshipper.    Then  thou  becamest,  a  boy, 
More  daring  in  thy  frenzies  :  every  shape, 
Monstrous  or  vast,  or  beautifully  wild, 
Which,  from  sensation's  relics,  fancy  culls; 
The  spirits  of  the  air,  the  shuddering  ghost, 
The  genii  of  the  elements,  the  powers 
That  give  a  shape  to  nature's  varied  works, 
Had  life  and  place  in  the  corrupt  belief 
Of  thy  blind  heart:  yet  still  ihy  youthful  hands 
Were  pure  of  human  blood.    Then  manhood  gave 
Its  strength  and  ardor  to  thy  frenzied  brain  ; 
Thine  eager  gaze  scann'd  the  stupendous  scene, 
Whose  wonders  mock'd  the  knowledge  of  thy  pride 
Their  everlasting  and  unchanging  laws 
Reproach'd  thine  ignorance.     Awhile  thou  stoodest 
Baffled  and  gloomy  ;  then  thou  didst  sum  up 
The  elements  of  all  that  ihou  didst  know  ; 
The  changing  seasons,  winter's  leafless  reign, 
The  budding  of  the  Heaven-breathing  trees, 
The  eternal  orbs  that  beautify  the  night. 
The  sunrise,  and  the  setting  of  the  moon. 
Earthquakes  and  wars,  and  poisons  and  disease. 
And  all  their  causes,  to  an  abstract  point 
Converging,  thou  didst  give  it  name,  and  form, 
InteUigence,  and  unity,  and  power. 


O!  THERE  ARE   SPIRITS. 


AAKPYKI  AlOIsa  nOTMON  AIIOTMON. 


O!  THERE  are  spirits  of  the  air. 

And  genii  of  the  evening  breeze, 
And  gentle  ghosts,  with  eyes  as  fair 
As  star-beams  among  twilight  trees: — 
Such  lovely  ministers  to  meet 
Oft  hast  thou  turn'd  fiom  men  thy  lonely  feet. 


With  mountain  winds,  and  babbling  springs, 

And  moonlight  seas,  that  are  the  voice 
Of  these  inexplicable  things. 

Thou  didst  hold  commune,  and  rejoice 
When  they  did  answer  thee  ;  but  they 
Cast,  like  a  worthless  boon,  thy  love  away. 

And  thou  hast  sought  in  starry  eyes 

Beams  that  were  never  meant  for  thine. 
Another's  wealth  ; — tame  sacrifice 
To  a  fond  faith !  still  dost  thou  pine  ? 
Still  dost  thou  hope  that  greeting  hands, 
Voice,  looks,  or  lips,  may  answer  thy  demands  ? 

Ah !  wherefore  didst  thou  build  thine  hope 

On  the  false  earth's  inconstancy  ? 
Did  thine  own  mind  afford  no  scope 
Of  love,  or  moving  thoughts,  to  thee  ? 
That  natural  scenes  or  human  smiles 
Could  steal  the  power  to  wind  thee  in  their  wiles. 

Yes,  all  the  faithless  smiles  are  fled 

Whose  falsehood  left  thee  broken-hearted ; 
The  glory  of  the  moon  is  dead  ; 

Night's  ghost  and  dreams  have  now  departed  , 
Thine  own  soul  still  is  true  to  thee. 
But  changed  to  a  foul  fiend  through  misery. 

This  fiend,  whose  ghastly  presence  ever 

Beside  thee  like  thy  shadow  hangs, 
Dream  not  to  chase ; — the  mad  endeavor 
Would  scourge  thee  to  severer  pangs. 
Be  as  thou  art.    Thy  settled  fate. 
Dark  as  it  is,  all  change  would  aggravate. 


STANZAS.— APRIL,  1814. 

Away  !  the  moor  is  dark  beneath  the  moon, 

Rapid  clouds  have  drunk  the  last  pale  beam  of  even. 
Away!  the  gathering  winds  will  call  the  darkness  soon, 
And  prolbundest  midnight  shroud  the  serene  lights 
of  Heaven. 
Pause  not!  The  time  is  past!  Every  voice  cries,  Away ! 
Tempt  not  with  one  last  glance  thy  friend's  un- 
gentle mood  : 
Thy  lover's  eye,  so  glazed  and  cold,  dares  not  entreat 
thy  slay : 
Duty  and  dereliction  guide  thee  back  to  solitude. 

Away,  away !  to  thy  sad  and  silent  home  ; 
Pour  bitter  tears  on  its  desolated  hearth  ; 
Watch  the  dim  shades  as  like  ghosts  they  go  and  come, 
And  complicate  strange  webs  of  melancholy  mirth. 
The   leaves  of  wasted   autumn  woods   shall   float 
around  thine  head  ; 
The  blooms  of  dewy  spring  shall  gleam  beneath 
thy  feet  : 
But  thy  soul  or  this  world  must  fade  in  the  frost  that 
binds  the  dead. 
Ere  midnight's  frown  and  morning's  smile,  ere  thou 
and  peace  may  meet. 

The  cloud  shadows  of  midnight  possess  their  own 
repose. 
For  the  weary  winds  are  silent,  or  the  moon  is  in 
the  deep : 
Some  resi)ite  to  its  turbulence  unresting  ocean  knows 
Whatever  moves,  or  toils,  or  grieves,  hath  its  ai> 
pointed  sleep. 

4S2 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


235 


Thou  in  the  grave  shall  rest— yet  till  the  phantoms 
flee 
Which  tiiat  house  and  heath  and  garden  made 
dear  to  thee  erewhile, 
Thy  remembrance,  and  repentance,  and  deep  musings 
are  not  free 
From  the  music  of  two  voices,  and  the  light  of  one 
sweet  smile. 


MUTABILITY. 

We  are  as  clouds  that  veil  the  midnight  moon ; 

How  restlessly  they  speed,  and  gleam,  and  quiver, 
Streaking  the  darkness  radiantly  ! — yet  soon 

Night  closes  round,  and  they  are  lost  for  ever ; 

Or  like  forgotten  lyres,  whose  dissonant  strings 
Give  various  response  to  each  varying  blast, 

To  whose  frail  frame  no  second  motion  brings 
One  mood  or  modulation  like  the  last. 

We  rest — A  dream  has  power  to  poison  sleep; 

We  rise — One  wandering  thought  pollutes  the  day 
We  feel,  conceive  or  reason,  laugh  or  weep ; 

Embrace  fond  woe,  or  cast  our  cares  away: 

It  is  the  same ! — For,  be  it  joy  or  sorrow. 
The  path  of  its  departure  slill  is  free: 

Man's  yesterday  may  ne'er  be  like  his  morrow ; 
Naught  may  endure  but  Mutability. 


ON  DEATH. 


There  is  no  work,  nor  device,  nor  knowledge,  nor  wisdom, 
in  the  grave,  vvliirlier  thou  goest. — Ecclesiastes. 


The  pale,  the  cold,  and  the  moony  smile 
Which  the  meteor  lieam  of  a  starless  night 

Sheds  on  a  lonely  and  sea-girt  isle. 

Ere  the  dawning  of  mom's  undoubted  light. 

Is  the  flame  of  life  so  fickle  and  wan 

Th«it  flits  round  our  steps  till  their  strength  is  gone. 

O  man  I  hold  thee  on  in  courage  of  soul 

1'hrough  the  stormy  shades  of  thy  worldly  way, 

And  the  billows  of  cloud  that  around  thee  roll 
Shall  sleep  in  the  light  of  a  wondrous  day. 

Where  hell  and  heaven  shall  leave  thee  free 

To  the  universe  of  destiny. 

This  world  is  the  nurse  of  all  we  know, 
This  world  is  ihe  mother  of  all  we  fefel, 

And  the  coming  of  death  is  a  fearful  blow 

To  a  brain  unencompass'd  with  nerves  of  steel ; 

When  all  that  we  know,  or  feel,  or  see. 

Shall  pass  like  an  unreal  mystery. 

The  secret  things  of  the  grave  are  there, 
Where  all  but  tliis  frame  must  surely  be, 

Though  the  fine-wrought  eye  and  the  wondrous  ear 
No  longer  will  live,  to  hear  or  to  see 

All  that  is  great  and  all  that  is  strange 

la  the  boundless  realm  of  unending  change. 


Who  telleth  a  tale  of  unspeaking  death? 

Who  lifieth  the  veil  of  what  is  to  come  ? 
Who  painteth  the  shadows  that  are  beneath 

The  wide-winding  caves  of  the  peopled  tomb? 
Or  unitelh  the  hopes  of  what  shall  be 
With  the  fears  and  the  love  for  that  wliich  we  see  ? 


A  SUMMER-EVENING  CHURCH  YARD,  LECHDALE, 
GLOUCESTERSHIRE. 

The  wind  has  swept  from  the  wide  atmosphere 
Each  vapor  that  obscured  the  sunset's  ray, 

And  pallid  evening  twines  its  beamy  hair 

In  duskier  braids  around  the  languid  eyes  of  day  j 

Silence  and  twilight,  unbeloved  of  men. 

Creep  hand  in  hand  from  yon  obscurest  glen. 

They  breathe  their  spells  towards  the  departing  day 
Encompassing  the  earth,  air,  stars,  and  sea  ; 

Light,  sound,  and  motion,  own  the  potent  sway, 
Responding  to  the  charm  with  its  own  mystery 

The  winds  are  still,  or  the  dry  church-tower  grass 

Knows  not  their  gentle  motions  as  they  pass. 

Thou  too,  aerial  pile  !  whose  pinnacles 

Point  from  one  shrine  like  pyramids  of  fire, 

Obeyest  in  silence  their  sweet  solemn  spells. 

Clothing  in  hues  of  heaven  thy  dim  and  distant 
spire. 

Around  whose  lessening  and  invisible  height 

Gather  among  the  stars  the  clouds  of  night. 

The  dead  are  sleeping  in  their  sepulchres : 

And,  mouldering  as  lliey  sleep,  a  thrilling  sound, 

Half  sense,  half  thought,  among  the  darkness  stirs, 
Breathed  from  their  wormy  beds  all  living  things 
around. 

And,  mingling  with  the  still  night  and  mute  sky, 

lis  awful  hush  is  lelt  inaudibly. 

Thus  solemnized  and  soften'd,  death  is  mild 

And  terrorless  as  this  serenest  night : 
Here  could  I  hope,  like  some  in(iuiring  ch'r'A 

Sporting  on  graves,  ihat  death  did  hide  from  human 
sight 
Sweet  secrets,  or  beside  its  breathless  sleep 
That  loveliest  dreams  perpetual  watch  did  keep. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  ON  HEARING  THE  NEWS  OF  THE  DEATH  OP 
NAPOLEON. 

What  !  alive  and  so  bold,  O  earth  ? 

Art  thou  not  over-bold  ? 

What !  leapesl  thou  forth  as  of  old 

In  the  light  of  thy  morning  mirlh. 

The  last  of  the  flock  of  the  starry  fold  ? 

Ha !  leapest  thou  fbrih  as  of  old  >. 

Are  not  the  limbs  still  when  the  ghost  is  fled, 

And  canst  thou  move.  Napoleon  being  dead  ? 

How  !  is  not  thy  quick  heart  cold  ? 
What  spark  is  alive  on  thy  hearth  ? 
How  !  is  not  his  death-knell  knoll'd  ? 
And  livest  tltou  still,  mother  Earth  ? 
483 


236 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thou  wert  warming  ihy  fingers  old 

O'er  the  embers  cover'd  and  cold 

Of  that  most  fiery  spirit,  when  it  fled — 

What,  mother,  do  you  laugh  now  he  is  dead  ? 

"  Who  has  known  me  of  old,"  replied  Earth, 

"  Or  who  has  my  story  told  ? 

It  is  thou  who  art  over- bold." 

And  the  lightning  of  scorn  laugh'd  forth 

As  she  sung,  "  To  my  bosom  1  fold 

All  my  sons  when  their  knell  is  knoll'd, 

And  so  with  living  motion  all  are  fed. 

And  the  quick  spring  like  weeds  out  of  the  dead.' 

"  Still  alive,  and  still  bold,"  shouted  Earth. 
'  I  grow  bolder,  and  still  more  bold. 
The  dead  fill  me  ten  thousand  fold 
Fuller  of  speed,  and  splendor,  and  mirth ; 
I  was  cloudy,  and  sullen,  and  cold, 
Like  a  frozen  chaos  uproll'd. 
Till  by  the  spirit  of  the  mighty  dead 
My  heart  grew  warm.     I  feed  on  whom  I  fed." 

'  Ay,  alive  and  bold,"  mutter'd  Earth, 

"  Napoleon's  fierce  spirit  roll'd. 

In  terror,  and  blood,  and  gold, 

A  torrent  of  ruin  to  death  from  his  birth. 

Leave  the  millions  who  follow  to  mould 

The  metal  before  it  be  cold  ; 

And  weave  inio  his  shame,  which  like  the  dead 

Shrouds  me,  the  hopes  that  from  his  glory  fled." 


SUMMER  AND  WINTER. 

It  was  a  bright  and  cheerful  afternoon, 

Towards  the  end  of  the  sunny  month  of  June, 

When  the  north  wind  congregates  in  crowds 

The  floating  mountains  of  the  silver  clouds 

From  the  horizon — and  the  stainless  sky 

Opens  beyond  them  like  eternity. 

All  things  rejoiced  beneath  the  sun,  the  weeds, 

The  river,  and  the  corn-fields,  and  the  reeds; 

The  willow  leaves  that  glanced  in  the  light  breeze, 

And  the  firm  foliage  of  the  larger  trees. 

It  was  a  winter,  such  as  when  birds  do  die' 
In  the  deep  forests ;  and  the  fishes  lie 
StiiTen'd  in  the  translucent  ice,  which  makes 
Even  the  mud  and  slime  of  the  warm  lakes 
A  wrinkled  clod,  as  hard  as  brick;  and  when, 
Among  their  children,  comfortable  men 
Gather  about  great  fires,  and  yet  feel  cold : 
Alas !  then  for  the  homeless  beggar  old ! 


THE  TOWER  OF  FAMINE.* 

Amid  the  desolation  of  a  city. 
Which  was  the  cradle,  and  is  now  the  grave 
Of  an  extinguish'd  people  ;  so  that  pity 
Weeps  o'er  the  shipvv'recks  of  oblivion's  wave. 


*  At  Pisa  there  still  exists  the  prison  of  Ugolino,  which 
goes  by  the  name  of  "  La  Tnrre  delta  Fame:"  in  the  ad- 
joining building  the  galley-slaves  are  confined.  It  is  situ- 
ated near  the  Ponte  al  Mare  on  the  Arno. 


There  stands  the  Tower  of  Famine.     It  is  built 

Upon  some  prison-homes,  whose  dwellers  rave 

For  bread,  and  gold,  and  blood :  pain,  link'd  to  guilt. 

Agitates  the  hght  flame  of  their  hours. 

Until  its  vital  oil  is  spent  or  spilt : 

There  stands  the  pile,  a  tower  amid  the  towers 

And  sacred  domes ;  each  marble-ribbed  roof. 

The  brazen-gated  temples,  and  the  bowers 

Of  solitary  wealth !  The  tempest-proof 

Pavilions  of  the  dark  Italian  air. 

Are  by  its  presence  dimm'd — they  stand  aloof, 

And  are  withdrawn — so  that  the  world  is  bare. 

As  if  a  spectre,  wrapt  in  shapeless  terror. 

Amid  a  company  of  ladies  fair 

Should  glide  and  glow,  till  it  became  a  mirror 

Of  all  their  beauty,  and  their  hair  and  hue. 

The  life  of  their  sweet  eyes,  with  all  its  error 

Should  be  absorb'd  till  they  to  marble  grev*. 


THE  AZIOLA. 

"  Do  you  not  hear  the  Aziola  cry  ? 

Methinks  she  must  be  nigh," 

Said  Mary,  as  we  sate 

In  dusk,  ere  stars  were  lit,  or  candles  brought ; 

And  I,  who  thought 

This  Aziola  was  some  tedious  woman, 

Ask'd,  "  Who  is  Aziola  ?  "  how  elate 

I  felt  to  know  that  it  was  nothing  human. 

No  mockery  of  myself  to  fear  or  hate  I 

And  Mary  saw  my  soul, 

And  laugh'd  and  said,  "  Disquiet  yourself  not, 

'Tis  nothing  but  a  little  downy  owl." 

Sad  Aziola !  many  an  eventide 

Thy  music  I  had  heard 

By  wood  and  stream,  meadow  and  mountain-side 

And  fields  and  marshes  wide, — 

Such  as  nor  voice,  nor  lute,  nor  wind,  nor  bird 

The  soul  ever  stirr'd  ; 

Unlike,  and  far  sweeter  than  them  all : 

Sad  Aziola !  from  that  moment  I 

Loved  thee  and  thy  sad  cry. 


DIRGE  FOR  THE  YEAR 

Orphan  hours,  the  year  is  dead. 
Come  and  sigh,  come  and  weep! 

Merry  hours,  smile  instead. 
For  the  year  is  but  asleep. 

See,  it  smiles  as  it  is  sleeping. 

Mocking  your  untimely  weeping. 

As  an  earthquake  rocks  a  corse 

In  its  coflin  in  the  clay. 
So  white  Winter,  that  rough  nurse. 

Rocks  the  death-cold  year  to-day ; 
Solemn  hours !  wait  aloud 
For  your  mother  in  her  shroud. 

As  the  wild  air  stirs  and  sways 
The  tree-swung  cradle  of  a  child. 

So  the  breath  of  these  rude  days 

Rocks  the  year : — be  calm  and  mild. 

Trembling  hours,  she  will  arise 

With  new  love  within  her  eyes. 
484 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


237 


January  gray  is  here, 

Like  a  sexton  by  her  grave ; 

February  bears  the  bier, 

March  with  grief  doth  howl  and  rave, 

And  April  weeps — but,  O  ye  hours, 

Follow  with  May's  fairest  flowers ' 
January  Isl,  1821. 


SONNETS. 


OZTMANDIAS. 

I  MET  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land, 
Who  said  :  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them,  on  the  sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shatter'd  visage  lies,  whose  frown. 
And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  command. 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  surx-ive,  stamp'd  on  these  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  tJiat  mock'd  them  and  the  heart  that  fed ; 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear : 
"  My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings  : 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair ! " 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  tx)undless  and  bare 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 


Ye  hasten  to  the  dead  !    What  seek  ye  there, 

Ye  restless  thoughts  and  busy  purposes 

Of  the  idle  brain,  which  the  worlds  livery  wear ? 

O  thou  quick  Heart,  which  pantest  to  possess 

All  that  anticipation  feigneth  fair ! 

Thou  vainly  curious  mind  which  wouldest  guess 

Whence  thou  didst  come,  and  whither  thou  mayst  go. 

And  that  which  never  yet  was  known  would  know — 

Oh,  whither  hasten  ye,  that  thus  ye  press 

With  such  swift  feet  hfe's  green  and  pleasant  path, 

Seeking  alike  from  happiness  and  woe 

A  refuge  in  the  cavern  of  gray  death  ? 

O  heart,  and  mind,  and  thoughts !  What  thing  do  ye 

Hope  to  inherit  in  the  grave  below  ? 


POLITICAL  GREATNESS. 

Nor  happiness,  nor  majesty,  nor  fame. 
Nor  peace,  nor  strength,  nor  skill  in  arms  or  arts. 
Shepherd  those  herds  whom  tyranny  makes  tame ; 
Verse  echoes  not  one  beating  of  their  hearts. 
History  is  but  the  shadow  of  their  shame. 
Art  veils  her  glass,  or  from  the  pageant  starts, 
As  to  oblivion  their  blind  millions  fleet, 
Staining  that  Heaven  with  obscene  imagery 
Of  their  own  likeness.     What  are  numbers  knit 
By  force  or  custom  ?    Man  who  man  would  be, 
Must  rule  the  empire  of  himself;  in  it 
Must  be  supreme,  establishing  his  throne 
On  vanquish'd  will,  quelling  the  anarchy 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  being  himself  alone. 


Alas  !  good  friend,  what  profit  can  you  see 
In  hating  such  a  hateless  thing  as  me  ? 
There  is  no  sport  in  hate  where  all  the  rage 
Is  on  one  side.     In  vain  would  you  assuage 
Your  frowns  upon  an  unresisting  smile. 
In  which  not  even  contempt  lurks,  to  beguile 


Your  heart,  by  some  faint  sympathy  of  hate. 
O  conquer  what  you  cannot  satiate ! 
For  to  your  passion  I  am  far  more  coy 
Than  ever  yet  was  coldest  maid  or  boy 
In  winter  noon.     Of  your  antijiaihy 
If  I  am  the  Narcissus,  you  are  free 
To  pine  into  a  sound  wjth  hating  me. 


Lift  not  the  painted  veil  which  those  who  live 
Call  Life  :  though  unreal  shapes  be  painted  there, 
And  it  but  mimic  all  we  would  believe 
With  colors  idly  spread : — behind,  lurk  Fear 
And  Hope,  twin  destinies  ;  who  ever  weave 
The  shadows,  which  the  world  calls  substance,  there 

I  knew  one  who  lifted  it — he  sought. 
For  his  lost  heart  was  tender,  things  to  love. 
But  foimd  them  not,  alas !  nor  was  there  aught 
The  world  contains,  the  which  he  could  approve. 
Through  the  unheeding  many  he  did  move, 
A  splendor  among  shadows,  a  bright  blot 
Upon  this  gloomy  scene,  a  Spirit  that  strove 
For  truth,  and  like  the  Preacher  found  it  not. 


TO  WORDSWORTH. 

Poet  of  Nature,  thou  hast  wept  to  know 
That  things  depart  which  never  may  return  ! 
Childhood  and  youth,  friendship  and  love's  first  glow. 
Have  fled  like  sweet  dreams,  leaving  thee  to  mouro. 
These  common  woes  I  feel.     One  loss  is  mine 
Which  thou  loo  feel'st ;  yet  I  alone  deplore. 
Thou  wert  as  a  lone  star,  whose  light  did  shine 
On  some  frail  bark  in  winter's  midnight  roar : 
Thou  hast  like  to  a  rock-built  refuge  stood 
Above  the  blind  and  battling  multitude. 
In  honor'd  poverty  thy  voice  did  weave 
Songs  consecrate  to  truth  and  liberty, — 
Deserting  these,  thou  leavest  me  to  grieve. 
Thus  having  been,  that  thou  shouldst  cease  to  be. 


FEELINGS  OF  A  REPUBLICAN  ON  THE  FALL  OB 
BONAPARTE. 

I  HATED  thee,  fallen  tyrant!  I  did  groan 

To  think  that  a  most  ambitious  slave. 

Like  thou,  shotildst  dance  and  revel  on  the  grave 

Of  Liberty.     Thou  mightst  have  built  thy  throne 

Where  it  had  stood  even  now :  thou  didst  prefer 

A  frail  and  bloody  pomp,  which  time  has  swept 

In  fragments  towards  oblivion.     Massacre, 

For  this  I  pray'd,  would  on  thy  sleep  have  crept. 

Treason  and  Slavery.  Rapine,  Fear,  and  Lust, 

And  stifled  thee,  their  minister.     I  know 

Too  late,  since  thou  and  France  are  in  the  dust. 

That  Virtue  owns  a  more  eternal  foe 

Than  force  or  fraud :  old  Custom,  legal  Crime, 

And  bloody  Faith,  the  foulest  birth  of  time. 


DANTE  ALIGHIERI  TO  GUIDO  CAVALCANTI. 


From  the  Italian  of  Dante. 


GuiDO,  I  would  that  Lappo,  thou,  and  I, 
Led  by  some  strong  enchantment,  might  ascend 
63  485 


238 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  magic  ship,  whose  charmed  sails  should  fly, 
With  winds  at  will,  where'er  our  thoughts  might  wend, 
And  that  no  change,  nor  any  evil  chance. 
Should  mar  our  joyous  voyage ;  but  it  might  be, 
That  even  satiety  should  still  enhance 
Between  our  hearts  their  strict  community. 
And  that  the  bounteous  wizard  then  would  place 
Vanna  and  Bice  and  my  gentle  love. 
Companions  of  our  wandering,  and  would  grace 
With  passionate  talk,  wherever  we  might  rove, 
Our  time,  and  each  were  as  content  and  free 
As  I  believe  that  thou  and  I  should  be. 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GREEK  OF  MOSCHUS. 


Tav  a\a  rav  yXavKav  brav  iLvciiOi  ar/)£/^aj3aXX)7, 
K.  T.  A. 

When  winds  that  move  not  its  calm  surface  sweep 
The  azure  sea,  I  love  the  land  no  more. 
The  smiles  of  the  serene  and  tranquil  deep 
Tempt  my  unquiet  mind. — But  when  the  roar 
Of  ocean's  gray  abyss  resounds,  and  foam 
Gathers  upon  the  sea,  and  vast  waves  burst, 
I  turn  from  the  drear  aspect  to  the  home 
Of  earth  and  its  deep  woods,  where,  interspersed. 
When  winds  blow  loud,  pines  make  sweet  melody. 
Whose  house  is  some  lone  bark,  whose  toil  the  sea, 
Whose  prey  the  wandering  fish,  an  evil  lot 
'Has  chosen. — But  I  my  languid  limbs  will  fling 
'Beneath  the  plane,  where  the  brook's  murmuring 
Moves  the  calm  spirit,  but  disturbs  it  not. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


HYMN  TO  MERCURY. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GREEK  OF  HOMER. 
I. 

Sing,  Muse,  the  son  of  Maia  and  of  Jove, 

The  Herald-child,  king  of  Arcadia 

And  all  its  pastoral  hills,  whom  in  sweet  love 

Having  been  interwoven,  modest  May 

Bore  Heaven's  dread  Supreme — an  antique  grove 

Shadow'd  the  cavern  where  the  lovers  lay 

In  the  deep  night,  unseen  by  Gods  or  Men, 

And  white-arm'd  Juno  slumber'd  sweetly  then. 

n. 

Now,  when  the  joy  of  Jove  had  its  fulfilling. 
And  Heaven's  tenth  moon  chronicled  her  relief, 

■  She  gave  to  light  a  babe  all  babes  excelling, 
A  schemer  subtle  beyond  all  belief; 

A  shepherd  of  thin  dreams,  a  cow-stealing, 
A  night-watching,  and  door-waylaying  thief, 

■  Who  'mongst  the  Gods  was  soon  about  to  thieve, 
And  other  glorious  actions  to  achieve. 

HI. 

'  The  babe  was  born  at  the  first  peep  of  day ; 
He  began  playing  on  the  lyre  at  noon. 
And  the  same  evening  did  he  steal  away 
Apollo's  herds  ; — the  fourth  day  of  the  moon 
On  which  him  bore  the  venerable  May, 
From  her  immortal  limbs  he  leap'd  fall  soon, 
Nor  long  could  in  the  sacred  cradle  keep. 
But  out  to  seek  Apollo's  herds  would  creep. 


IV. 

Out  of  the  lofty  cavern  wandering 

He  found  a  tortoise,  and  cried  out — "  A  treasure . 

(For  Mercury  first  made  the  tortoise  sing :) 

The  beast  before  the  portal  at  his  leisure 

The  flowery  herbage  was  depasturing. 

Moving  his  feet  in  a  deliberate  measure 

Over  the  turf     Jove's  profitable  son 

Eyeing  him  laugh'd,  and  laughing  thus  begiui : — 


"  A  useful  god-send  are  you  to  me  now, 
King  of  the  dance,  companion  of  the  feast, 
Lovely  in  all  your  nature  !    Welcome,  you 
Excellent  plaything !   Where,  sweet  mountain  beas 
Got  you  that  speckled  shell  ?   Thus  much  I  know, 
You  must  come  home  with  me  and  be  my  guest ; 
You  will  give  joy  to  me,  and  I  will  do 
All  that  is  in  my  power  to  honor  you. 

VI. 
"  Better  to  be  at  home  than  out  of  door ; — 
So  come  wdth  me,  and  though  it  has  been  said 
That  you  alive  defend  from  magic  power, 
I  know  you  will  sing  sweetly  when  you're  dead  ' 
Thus  having  spoken,  the  quaint  infant  bore. 
Lifting  it  from  the  grass  on  which  it  fed 
And  grasping  it  in  his  delighted  hold. 
His  treasured  prize  into  the  cavern  old. 

vn. 

Then  scooping  with  a  chisel  of  gray  steel 
He  bored  the  life  and  soul  out  of  the  beast — 
Not  swifter  a  swift  thought  of  woe  or  weal 
Darts  through  the  tumult  of  a  human  breast 
Which  thronging  cares  annoy — not  swifter  wheel 
The  flashes  of  its  torture  and  unrest 
Out  of  the  dizzy  eyes — than  Maia's  son 
All  that  he  did  devise  hath  featly  done. 

VIII. 

And  through  the  tortoise's  hard  strong  skin 
At  proper  distances  small  holes  he  made. 
And  fasten'd  the  cut  stems  of  reeds  within, 
And  with  a  piece  of  leather  overlaid 
The  open  space,  and  fixed  the  cubits  in, 
Fitting  the  bridge  to  both,  and  stretch'd  o'er  all 
Symphonious  cords  of  sheep-gut  rhythmical. 

TX. 

When  he  had  wrought  the  lovely  instrument. 
He  tried  the  chords,  and  made  division  meet. 
Preluding  with  the  plectrum  ;  and  there  wenl 
Up  from  beneath  his  hand  a  tumult  sweet 
Of  mighty  sounds,  and  from  his  lips  he  sent 
A  strain  of  unpremeditated  wit. 
Joyous  and  wild  and  wanton — such  you  may 
Hear  among  revellers  on  a  holiday. 


He  sung  how  Jove  and  May  of  the  bright  sandal 
Dallied  in  love  not  quite  legitimate  ; 
And  his  own  birth,  still  scofling  at  the  scandal, 
And  naming  his  own  name,  did  celehrate; 
His  mother's  cave  and  servant-maids  he  plann'd  all 
In  plastic  verse,  her  household  stuff  and  state. 
Perennial  pot,  trippet,  and  brazen  pan — 
But  singing  he  conceived  another  ))lan. 
486 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


239 


xr. 

Seized  with  a  sudden  fancy  for  fresh  meat, 

He  in  his  sacred  crib  deposited 

The  hollow  lyre,  and  from  the  cavern  sweet 

Rush'd  with  great  leaps  up  to  the  mountain's  head, 

Revjiving  in  his  mind  some  subtle  feat 

Of  thievish  craft,  such  as  a  swindler  might 

Devise  in  the  lone  season  of  dun  night. 

^  XII. 

Lo !  the  great  Sun  under  the  ocean's  bed  has 
Driven  steeds  and  chariot — the  child  meanwhile  strode 
O'er  the  Pierian  mountains  clothed  in  shadows, 
Where  the  immortal  oxen  of  the  God 
Are  pastured  in  the  flowering  unmown  meadows, 
And  safely  stall'd  in  a  remote  abode — 
The  archer  Argicide,  elate  and  proud, 
Drove  fifty  from  the  herd,  lowing  aloud. 

XIII. 
He  drove  them  wandering  o'er  the  sandy  way. 
But,  being  ever  mindful  of  his  craft, 
Backward  and  forward  drove  he  them  astray. 
So  that  the  tracks  which  seem'd  before,  were  aft : 
His  sandals  then  he  threw  to  the  ocean  spray. 
And  for  each  foot  he  wrought  a  kind  of  raft 
Of  tamarisk,  and  tamarisk-like  sprigs. 
And  bound  them  in  a  lump  with  withy  twigs. 

XIV. 
And  on  his  feet  he  tied  these  sandals  light, 
The  trail  of  whose  wide  leaves  might  not  betray 
His  track  ;  and  then,  a  self-sufficing  wight. 
Like  a  man  hastening  on  some  distant  way. 
He  from  Pieria's  mountain  bent  his  flight ; 
But  an  old  man  perceived  the  infant  pass 
Down  green  Onchestus,  heap'd  like  beds  with  grass. 

XV. 

The  old  man  stood  dressing  his  sunny  vine  : 

"  Halloo !  old  fellow  with  the  crooked  shoulder ! 

You  grub  those  stumps?  before  they  will  bear  wine 

Methinks  even  you  must  grow  a  little  older: 

Attend,  I  pray,  to  this  advice  of  mine. 

As  you  would  'scape  what  might  appal  a  bolder — 

Seeing,  see  not — and  hearing,  hear  not — and — 

If  you  have  understanding — understand." 

XVI. 

So  saying,  Hermes  roused  the  oxen  vast ; 
O'er  shadowy  mountain  and  resounding  dell. 
And  flovver-paven  plains,  great  Hermes  past; 
Till  tiie  black  night  divine,  which  favoring  fell 
Around  his  steps,  grew  gray,  and  morning  fast 
Waken'd  the  world  to  work,  and  from  her  cell 
Sea-strewn,  the  Pallantean  Moon  sublime 
Into  her  watch-tower  just  began  to  climb. 

XVII. 
Now  to  Alpheus  he  had  driven  all 
The  broad-foreheaded  oxen  of  the  Sun ; 
Thoy  came  unwearied  to  the  lofty  stall, 
And  to  the  water-troughs  which  ever  run 
Through  the  fresh  fields — and  when  with  rush-grass 

tall, 
Lotus  and  all  sweet  herbage,  every  one 
Had  pastured  been,  the  great  God  made  them  move 
Towards  the  stall  in  a  collected  drove. 


XVIII. 

A  mighty  pile  of  wood  the  God  then  heap'd, 
And  having  soon  conceived  the  mystery 
Of  fire,  from  two  smooth  laurel  branches  stript 
The  bark,  and  rubb'd  them  in  his  palms, — on  high 
Suddenly  forth  the  burning  vapor  leapt. 
And  the  divine  child  saw  delightedly — 
Mercury  first  found  out  for  human  weal 
Tinder-box,  matches,  fire-irons,  flint  and  steel. 

XIX. 

And  fine  dry  logs  and  roots  innumerous 
He  gather'd  in  a  delve  upon  the  ground — 
And  kindled  them — and  instantaneous 
The  strength  of  the  fierce  flame  was  breathed  around  •. 
And  whilst  the  might  of  glorious  Vulcan  thus 
Wrapt  the  great  pile  with  glare  and  roaring  sound, 
Hermes  dragg'd  forth  two  heifers,  lowing  loud, 
Close  to  the  fire — such  might  was  in  the  God 

XX. 

And  on  the  earth  upon  their  backs  he  threw 
The  panting  beasts,  and  roll'd  them  o'er  and  o'er 
And  bored  their  lives  out.     Without  more  ado 
He  cut  up  fat  and  flesh,  and  down  before 
The  fire,  on  spits  of  wood  he  placed  the  two. 
Toasting  their  flesh  and  ribs,  and  all  the  gore 
Pursed  in  the  bowels ;  and  while  this  was  done, 
He  stretch'd  their  hides  over  a  craggy  stone. 

XXI. 

We  mortals  let  an  ox  grow  old,  and  then 

Cut  it  up  after  long  consideration, — 

But  joyous-minded  Hermes  from  the  glen 

Drew  tlie  fat  spoils  to  the  more  open  station 

Of  a  flat  smooth  space,  and  portioned  them ;    and 

when 
He  had  by  lot  assign'd  to  each  a  ration 
Of  the  twelve  Gods,  his  mind  became  aware 
Of  all  the  joys  which  in  religion  are. 

XXII. 

For  the  sweet  savor  of  the  roasted  meat 
Tempted  him,  though  immortal.     Natheless, 
He  check'd  his  haughty  will  and  did  not  eat, 
Though  what  it  cost  him  words  can  scarce  express. 
And  every  wish  lo  put  such  morsels  sweet 
Down  his  most  sacred  throat,  he  did  repress ; 
But  soon  within  the  lofty-portall'd  stall 
He  placed  the  fat  and  flesh  and  bones  and  all 

XXIII. 
And  every  trace  of  the  fresh  butchery 
And  cooking,  the  God  soon  made  disappear, 
As  if  it  all  had  vanish'd  through  the  sky : 
He  burn'd  the  hoofs  and  horns  and  head  and  hair, 
The  insatiate  fire  devour'd  ihem  hungrily ; 
And  when  he  saw  that  every  thing  was  clear, 
He  quench'd  the  coals  and  trampled  the  black  dusl 
And  in  the  stream  his  bloody  sandals  toss'd. 

XXIV. 
All  night  he  work'd  in  the  serene  moonshine — 
But  when  the  light  of  day  was  spread  abroad, 
He  sought  his  natal  mountain  peaks  divine. 
On  his  long  wandering,  neither  man  nor  god 
Had  met  him,  since  he  kill'd  Apollo's  kine, 
Nor  house-dog  had  bark'd  at  him  on  his  road ; 
Now  he  obliquely  through  the  key-hole  past, 
Like  a  thin  mist,  or  an  autumnal  blast. 
487 


240 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXV. 

Right  through  the  temple  of  the  spacious  cave 
He  went  with  soft  light  feet — as  if  his  tread 
Fell  not  on  earth ;  no  sound  their  falling  gave  ; 
Then  to  his  cradle  he  crept  quick,  and  spread 
The  swaddling-clothes  about  him ;  and  the  knave 
Lay  playing  with  the  covering  of  the  bed 
With  his  left  hand  about  his  knees — the  right 
Held  his  beloved  tortoise-lyre  tight. 

XXVI. 
There  he  lay  innocent  as  a  new-bom  child, 
As  gossips  say ;  but  though  he  was  a  god, 
The  goddess,  his  fair  mother,  unbeguiled, 
Knew  all  that  he  had  done  being  abroad : 
"  Whence  come  you,  and  from  what  adventure  wild, 
You  cunning  rogue,  and  where  have  you  abode 
All  the  long  night,  clothed  in  your  impudence  ? 
What  have  you  done  since  you  departed  hence  ? 

XXVII. 
"Apollo  soon  will  pass  within  this  gate. 
And  bind  your  tender  body  in  a  chain 
Inextricably  tight,  and  fast  as  fate. 
Unless  you  can  delude  the  God  again. 
Even  when  within  his  arms — ah,  runagate  ! 
A  pretty  torment  both  of  gods  and  men 
Your  father  made  when  he  made  you!" — "Dear 

mother," 
Replied  sly  Hermes,  "  Wherefore  scold  and  bother  ? 

xxvni. 

"  As  if  I  were  like  other  babes  as  old. 

And  understood  nothing  of  what  is  what ; 

And  cared  at  all  to  hear  my  mother  scold. 

I  in  my  subtle  brain  a  scheme  have  got, 

Which  whilst  the  sacred  stai-s  round  Heaven  are 

roll'd 
Will  profit  you  and  me — nor  shall  our  lot 
Be  as  you  counsel,  without  gifts  or  food 
To  spend  our  lives  in  this  obscure  abode. 

XXIX. 

"  But  we  will  leave  this  shadow-peopled  cave 
And  live  among  the  Gods,  and  pass  each  day 
In  high  communion,  sharing  what  they  have 
Of  profuse  wealth  and  unexhausted  prey ; 
And  from  the  portion  which  my  father  gave 
To  Phoebus,  I  will  snatch  my  share  aw'ay. 
Which  if  my  father  will  not — natheless  I, 
Who  am  the  king  of  robbers,  can  but  try 

xxx. 

"  And,  if  Latona's  son  should  find  me  out, 

I'll  countermine  him  by  a  deeper  plan; 
I'll  pierce  the  Pythian  temple-walls,  though  stout, 

And  sack  the  fane  of  every  ihing  I  can — 
Caldrons  and  tripods  of  great  wortli  no  doubt. 

Each  golden  cup  and  polish'd  brazen  pan, 
All  the  wrought  tapestries  and  garments  gay." — 
So  they  together  talk'd ; — meanwhile  the  Day 

XXXI. 
Ethereal  bom  arose  out  of  the  flood 

Of  flowing  Ocean,  bearing  light  to  men. 
Apollo  past  toward  the  sacred  wood. 

Which  from  the  inmost  depths  of  its  green  glen 
Echoes  the  voice  of  Neptune, — and  there  stood 

On  the  same  spot  in  green  Onchestus  then 
That  same  old  animal,  the  vine-dresser. 
Who  was  employ'd  hedging  his  vineyard  there. 


XXXII. 

Latona's  glorious  Son  began  : — "  I  pray 

Tell,  ancient  hedger  of  Onchestus  green 
Whether  a  drove  of  kine  has  past  this  way, 

All  heifers  with  crooked  horns  ?  for  they  have  been 
Stolen  from  the  herd  in  high  Pieria, 

Where  a  black  bull  was  fed  apart,  between 
Two  woody  mountains  in  a  neighboring  glen. 
And  four  fierce  dogs  watch'd  there,  unanimous  as  men. 

♦ 
XXXIII. 
"  And,  what  is  strange,  the  author  of  this  theft 

Has  stolen  the  fatted  heifers  every  one. 
But  the  four  dogs  and  the  black  bull  are  left : — 

Stolen  they  were  last  night  at  set  of  sun, 
Of  their  soft  beds  and  their  sweet  food  bereft — 

Now  tell  me,  man  born  ere  the  v/orld  begun, 
Have  you  seen  any  one  pass  with  the  cows  ? " 
To  whom  the  man  of  overhanging  brows : 

XXXIV. 

"  My  friend,  it  would  require  no  common  skill 

Justly  to  speak  of  every  thing  I  see  : 
On  various  purposes  of  good  or  ill 

Many  pass  by  my  vineyard, — and  to  me 
'Tis  difficult  to  know  the  invisible 

Thoughts,  which  in  all  those  many  minds  maybe: — 
Thus  much  alone  I  certainly  can  say, 
I  till'd  these  vines  till  the  decline  of  day. 

XXXV. 

"  And  then  I  thought  I  saw,  but  dare  not  speak 
With  certainty  of  such  a  wondrous  thing, 

A  child,  who  could  not  have  been  born  a  week 
Those  fair-horn'd  cattle  closely  following, 

And  in  his  hand  he  held  a  polish'd  stick  ; 
And,  as  on  purpose,  he  walk'd  wavering 

From  one  side  to  the  other  of  the  road. 

And  with  his  face  opposed  the  steps  he  trod.' 

XXXVI. 

Apollo  hearing  this,  past  quickly  on — 

No  winged  omen  could  have  shown  mote  clear 

That  the  deceiver  was  his  father's  son. 
So  the  God  wraps  a  purple  atmosphere 

Around  his  shoulders,  and  like  fire  is  gone 
To  famous  Pylos,  seeking  his  kine  there. 

And  found  their  track  and  his,  yet  hardly  cold. 

And  cried — "  What  wonder  do  mine  eyes  behold . 

XXXVII. 
"  Here  are  the  footsteps  of  the  horned  herd 

Tum'd  back  towards  their  fields  of  asphodel; — 
But  these !  are  not  the  tracks  of  beast  or  bird. 

Gray  wolf,  or  bear,  or  lion  of  the  dell. 
Or  maned  Centaur — sand  was  never  stirr'd 

By  man  or  woman  thus  !  Inexplicable! 
Who  with  unwearied  feet  could  e'er  impress 
The  sand  with  such  enormous  vestiges  ? 

XXXVIII. 

"  That  was  most  strange — but  this  is  stranger  still ! 

Thus  having  said,  Phoebus  impetuously 
Sought  high  Cyllene's  forest-dnctured  hill. 

And  the  deep  cavern  where  dark  shadows  lie, 
And  where  the  ambrosial  nymph  with  happy  will 

Bore  the  Saturnian's  love-child.  Mercury — 
And  a  delighful  odor  from  the  dew 
Of  the  hill  pastures,  at  his  coming  flew. 
488 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


241 


XXXIX. 

And  Phrebus  stoop'd  under  the  craggy  roof 
Arch'd  over  the  dark  cavern  : — Maia's  child 

Perceived  that  lie  came  angry,  far  aloof 

About  the  cows  of  which  he  had  been  beguiled, 

And  over  him  the  line  and  fragrant  woof 

Of  his  ambrosial  swaddling-clothes  he  piled — 

A.S  among  fire-brands  lies  a  burning  spark, 

Cover'd  beneath  the  ashes  cold  and  dark. 

XL. 

There,  like  an  infant  who  had  suck'd  his  fdl, 
And  now  was  newly  wash'd  and  put  to  bed. 

Awake,  but  courting  sleep  with  weary  will. 
And  gather'd  in  a  lump  hands,  feet,  and  head, 

He  lav,  and  his  beloved  tortoise  still 

He  grasp'd  and  held  under  his  shoulder-blade. 

Phcebus  the  lovely  mountain-goddess  knew, 

Not  less  her  subtle,  swindling  baby,  who 

XLL 

I,ay  swathed  in  his  sly  wiles.    Round  every  crook 
Of  the  ample  cavern,  for  liis  kine,  Apollo 

Look'd  sharp;  and  when  he  saw  them  not,  he  took 
The  glittering  key,  and  open'd  three  great  hollow 

Recesses  in  the  rock — where  many  a  nook 

Was  fill'd  with  the  sweet  food  immortals  swallow, 

And  mighty  heaps  of  silver  and  of  gold 

Were  piled  within — a  wonder  to  behold ! 

XLII. 

And  white  and  silver  robes,  all  overwrought 
With  cunning  workmanship  of  tracery  sweet — 

Except  among  the  Gods,  there  can  be  naught 
In  the  wide  world  to  be  compared  with  it. 

Latona's  offspring,  after  having  sought 
His  herds  in  every  corner,  thus  did  greet 

Great  Hermes  : — "  Little  cradled  rogue,  declare 

Of  my  illustrious  heifers,  where  they  are ! 

XLIII. 

"  Speak  quickly  !  or  a  quarrel  between  us 
Must  rise,  and  the  event  will  be,  that  I 

Shall  hawl  you  into  dismal  Tartarus, 
In  fiery  gloom  to  dwell  eternally; 

Kor  shall  your  failier  nor  your  mother  loose 
The  bars  of  that  black  dungeon — utterly 

You  shall  be  cast  out  from  the  light  of  day, 

To  rule  the  ghosts  of  men,  unblest  a«  they." 

XLIV. 

To  whom  thus  Hermes  slyly  answer'd  : — "  Son 
Of  great  Lalona,  what  a  speech  is  this ! 

Why  come  you  here  to  ask  me  what  is  done 
With  the  wild  oxen  which  it  seems  you  miss  ? 

I  have  not  seen  them,  nor  from  any  one 
Have  heard  a  word  of  the  whole  business  ; 

If  you  should  promise  an  immense  reward, 

I  could  not  tell  more  than  you  now  have  heard. 

XLV. 

"An  ox-ste.iler  should  be  bo  h  fall  and  strong, 
And  I  am  but  a  little  new-born  thing, 

\\Tio,  yet  at  least,  can  think  of  nothing  wrong: — 
My  business  is  lo  suck,  and  sleep,  and  fling 

The  cradle-clothes  about  me  all  day  lousi, — 
Or,  half  asleep,  hear  my  sweet  mother  sing. 

And  to  be  wash'd  in  water  clean  and  warm, 

And  hush'd  and  kis^s'd  and  kept  secure  from  harm. 
3  M 


XLVI. 

"  O,  let  not  e'er  this  quarrel  be  averr'd! 

The  astounded  Gods  would  laugh  at  you,  if  e'er 
You  should  allege  a  story  so  absurd. 

As  that  a  new-born  iidimt  forth  could  fare 
Out  of  his  home  after  a  savage  herd. 

I  was  born  yesterday — my  small  feet  are 
Too  tender  for  the  roads  so  hard  and  rough : 
And  if  you  think  that  this  is  not  enough, 

XLvn. 

"  I  swear  a  great  oath,  by  my  father's  head. 
That  I  stole  not  your  cows,  and  that  I  know 

Of  no  one  else,  who  might,  or  could,  or  did. — 
Whatever  things  cows  are,  I  do  not  know. 

For  I  have  only  heard  the  name." — This  said, 
He  wink'd  as  fast  as  could  be,  and  his  brow 

Was  wrinkled,  and  a  whistle  loud  gave  he. 

Like  one  who  hears  some  strange  absurdity 

XLVIII. 

Apollo  gently  smiled,  and  said  : — "Ay,  ay, — 
You  cunning  little  rascal,  you  will  bore 

Many  a  rich  man's  house,  and  your  array 

Of  thieves  will  lay  their  siege  before  his  door 

Silent  as  night,  in  night ;  and  many  a  day 

In  the  wild  glens  rough  shepherds  will  deplore 

That  you  or  yours,  having  an  appetite, 

Met  with  their  cattle,  comrade  of^  the  night ! 

XLIX. 

"  And  this  among  the  Gods  shall  be  your  gift. 
To  be  consider'd  as  the  lord  of  those 

Who  swindle,  house-break,  sheep-steal,  and  shop-lift;— 
But  now  if  you  would  not  your  last  sleep  dose. 

Crawl  out!" — Thus  saying,  Phojbus  did  uplifl 
The  subtle  infant  in  his  swaddling-clothes. 

And  in  his  amis,  according  to  his  wont, 

A  scheme  devised  the  illustrious  Argiphont 

L. 


And  sneezed  and  shudder'd — Phoebus  on  the  gra.ss 
Him  threw,  and  whilst  all  that  he  had  design'd 

He  did  perform — eager  although  to  pass, 
Apollo  darted  from  his  mighty  mind 

Towards  the  subtle  babe  the  following  scoff: 

"  Do  not  imagine  this  will  get  you  ofi; 

LI. 

"  You  little  swaddled  child  of  Jove  and  May . " 
And  seized  him  : — "  By  this  omen  I  shall  trace 

My  noble  herds,  and  you  shall  lead  the  way." — 
Cyllenian  Hermes  from  the  grassy  place. 

Like  one  in  earnest  haste  to  get  away. 

Rose,  and  with  hands  lifte(l  towards  his  face 

Roused  both  his  ears — up  from  his  shoulders  drew 

His  swaddling-clothes,  and — "  What  mean  you  lo  do 

LII. 

"  With  me,  you  unkind  God  ?"  said  Mercury: 
"  Is  it  about  these  cows  you  tease  me  so  ? 

I  wish  the  race  of  cows  were  pcrish'd ! — I 
Stole  not  your  cows — I  do  not  even  know 

What  things  cows  are.    Alas!   I  well  may  sigh, 
That  since  I  came  into  this  world  of  woe, 

I  should  have  ever  heard  the  name  of  one — 

But  I  appeal  to  the  Satuniian's  throne  " 
489 


242 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


LIII. 
Thus  Phcebus  and  the  vagrant  Mercury 

Talk'd  without  coming  to  an  explanation, 
With  adverse  purpose.    As  for  Phrebus,  he 

Sought  not  revenge,  but  only  information, 
And  Hermes  tried  with  lies  and  roguery 

To  cheat  Apollo — But  when  no  evasion 
Served — for  the  cunning  one  his  match  had  found — 
He  paced  on  first  o'er  the  sandy  grotmd. 

LIV. 

He  of  the  Silver  Bow,  the  child  of  Jove 
Follow'd  behind,  till  to  their  heavenly  Sire 

Came  both  his  children — beautiful  as  Love, 
And  from  his  equal  balance  did  require 

A  judgment  in  the  cause  wherein  they  strove. 

O'er  odorous  Olympus  and  its  snows 

A  murmuring  tumult  as  they  came  arose, — 

LV. 
And  from  the  folded  depths  of  the  great  Hill, 

While  Hermes  and  Apollo  reverent  stood 
Before  Jove's  throne,  the  indestructible 

Immortals  rush'd  in  mighty  multitude  ; 
And  whilst  their  seats  iii  order  do  they  fill. 

The  lofty  Thunderer  in  a  careless  mood 
To  Phoebus  said: — "Whence  drive  you  this  sweet  prey, 
The  herald-baby  born  but  yesterday  ? — 

LVI. 
"  A  most  important  subject,  trifler,  this 

To  lay  before  the  Gods  ! " — "  Nay,  father,  nay, 
When  you  have  luiderstood  the  business. 

Say  not  that  I  alone  am  fond  of  prey. 
I  found  this  little  boy  in  a  recess 

Under  Cyllene's  mountains  iiir  away — 
A  manifest  and  most  apparent  thief, 
A  scandal-monger  beyond  all  belief 

LVII. 
"  I  never  saw  his  like  either  in  heaven 

Or  upon  earth  for  knavery  or  craft : 
Out  of  the  field  my  cattle  yesler-even, 

By  the  low  shore  on  which  the  loud  sea  laugh'd, 
He  right  down  to  the  river-ford  had  driven ; 

And  mere  astonishment  would  make  you  daft 
To  see  the  double  kind  of  footsteps  strange 
He  has  impress'd  wherever  he  did  range. 

Lvin. 

"  The  cattle's  track  on  the  black  dust  full  well 

Is  evident,  as  if  they  went  towards 
The  place  from  which  they  came — that  asphodel 

Meadow,  in  which  I  feed  my  many  herds. — 
His  steps  were  most  incomprehensible — 

I  know  not  how  I  can  describe  in  words 
Those  tracks — he  could  have  gone  along  the  sands 
?Jeither  upon  his  feet  nor  on  his  hands ; — 

LIX. 
He  must  have  had  some  other  stranger  mode 

Of  moving  on :  those  vestiges  immense. 
Far  as  I  traced  them  on  the  sandy  road, 

Seem'd  like  the  trail  of  oak-topplings  : — but  thence 
No  mark  or  track  denoting  where  they  trod 

The  hard  ground  gave  : — but  working  at  his  fence, 
A  morlal  hedger  saw  him  as  he  past 
To  Pylos,  with  the  cows,  in  fiery  haste. 


LX. 

"  1  found  that  in  the  dark  he  quietly 

Had  sacrificed  some  cows,  and  before  light 

Had  ihrovvu  the  aslies  all  dispersedly 

About  ihe  road — then,  siil!  as  gloomy  night,     ' 

Had  crept  into  his  cradle,  cither  eye 

Rubbing,  and  cogitating  some  new  sleight. 

No  eagle  could  have  seen  him  as  he  lay 

Hid  in  his  cavern  from  the  peering  day. 

LXI. 
"  I  tax'd  him  with  the  fact,  when  he  averr'd 

Most  solemnly  that  he  did  neither  see 
Or  even  had  in  any  manner  heard 

Of  my  lost  cows,  whaiever  things  cows  be , 
Nor  could  he  tell,  though  ofTer'd  a  reward. 

Not  even  who  could  tell  of  them  to  me." 
So  speaking,  Phcebus  sate  ;  and  Hermes  then 
Address'd  the  Supreme  Lord  of  Gods  and  men 

LXH. 

"Great  Father,  you  know  clearly  beforehand, 
That  all  which  I  shall  say  to  you  is  sooth ; 

I  am  a  most  veracious  person,  and 
Totally  unacquainted  with  untruth. 

At  sunrise,  Phoebus  came,  but  with  no  band 
Of  Gods  to  bear  him  witness,  in  great  wrath, 

To  my  abode,  seeking  his  heifers  there, 

And  saying  that  I  must  show  him  where  they  are, 

LXIIL 

"Or  he  would  hurl  me  down  the  dark  abyss. 

I  know,  that  every  Apollonian  limb 
Is  clothed  with  speed  and  might  and  manliness. 

As  a  green  bank  with  flowers — but  unlike  him 
I  was  born  yesterday,  and  you  may  guess 

He  well  knew  this  when  he  indulged  the  whim 
Of  bullying  a  poor  little  new-born  thing 
That  slept,  and  never  thought  of  cow-driving. 

LXIV. 
"Am  I  like  a  strong  fellow  who  steals  kine  ? 

Believe  me,  dearest  Father,  such  you  are, 
This  driving  of  the  herds  is  none  of  mine ; 

Across  my  threshold  did  I  wander  ne'er. 
So  may  I  thrive!  I  reverence  the  divine 

Sun  and  the  Gods,  and  I  love  you,  and  care 
Even  for  this  hard  accuser — who  must  know 
I  am  as  innocent  as  they  or  you. 

LXV. 

"  I  swear  by  these  most  gloriously-wrought  portals — 
(It  is,  you  will  allow,  an  oath  of  might) 

Through  which  the  multitude  of  the  Immortals 
Pass  and  repass  for  ever,  day  and  night. 

Devising  schemes  for  the  affairs  of  mortals — 
That  I  am  guiltless;  and  I  will  requite, 

Although  mine  enemy  be  great  and  strong. 

His  cruel  threat — do  thou  defend  the  young ! " 

LXVI. 
So  speaking,  the  Cyllenian  Agriphont 

Wink'd,  as  if  now  his  adversary  was  fitted  : — 
And  Jupiter,  according  to  his  wont, 

Laugh'd  hearfily  to  hear  the  subtle-witted 
Infant  give  such  a  plausible  account. 

And  every  word  a  lie.    But  he  remitted 
Judgment  at  present — and  his  exhortation 
Was,  to  compose  the  affair  by  arbitration. 
490 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


243 


LXVII. 

AJid  tliey  by  mighty  Jupiter  were  bidden 
To  go  forth  with  a  single  purjxjse  both, 

Neither  the  other  chiding  nor  yet  chidden  : 
And  Mercury  with  innocence  and  truth 

To  lead  the  way,  and  show  where  he  had  hidden 
The  mighty  neifers. — Hermes,  nothing  loth, 

Ohey'd  the  yEgis-bearer's  will — for  he 

Is  able  to  persuade  all  easily. 

LXVIII. 

These  lovely  children  of  Heaven's  highest  Lord 
Hasten'd  to  Pylos,  and  the  pastures  wide 

And  lofty  stalls  by  the  Alphean  ford. 

Where  wealth  in  the  mule  night  is  multiplied 

With  silent  growth     Whilst  Hermes  drove  the  herd 
Out  of  the  stony  cavern,  Phcebus  spied 

The  hides  of  those  the  little  babe  had  slain, 

Stretch'd  on  the  p'ecipice  above  the  plain. 

LXIX. 

"  How  was  it  possible,"  then  Phoebus  said, 
"That  you,  a  little  child,  born  yesterday, 

A  thing  on  mother's  milk  and  kisses  fed, 
Could  two  prodigious  heifers  ever  flay  ? 

Even  I  myself  may  well  hereafter  dread 
Your  prowess,  dtrspring  of  Cyllenian  May, 

When  you  grow  strong  and  tall." — He  spoke,  and  bound 

Stiii'  wiihy  bands  the  infant's  wrists  around. 

LXX. 

He  might  as  well  have  bound  the  oxen  wild ; 

The  withy  ba'ids,  though  starkly  interknit. 
Fell  at  the  feet  of  the  immortal  child, 

Loosen'd  by  some  device  of  his  quick  wit. 
Phoebus  perceived  himself  again  beguiled. 

And  stared — while  Hermes  sought  some  hole  or  pit. 
Looking  askance  and  winking  fast  as  thought. 
Where  he  migb'  hide  himself  and  not  be  caught. 

Lxxr. 

Sudden  he  changed  his  plan,  and  with  strange  skill 
Subdued  the  strong  Latonian,  by  the  might 

Of  winning  music,  to  his  mightier  will ; 

His  left  hand  held  the  lyre,  and  in  his  right 

The  plectrum  struck  the  chords — unconquerable 
Up  from  beneath  his  hand  in  circling  flight 

The  gathering  music  rose — and  sweet  as  Love 

The  penetrating  notes  did  live  and  move 

LXXII. 

Within  the  heart  of  great  Apollo — he 

Listen'd  with  all  his  soul,  and  laugh'd  for  pleasure. 
Close  to  his  side  stood  harping  fearlessly 

The  unabashed  boy  ;  and  to  the  measure 
Of  the  sweet  lyre,  there  follow'd  loud  and  free 

His  joyous  voice ;  for  he  unlock'd  the  treasure 
Of  his  deep  song,  illustrating  the  birth 
Of  the  bright  Gods  and  the  dark  desert  Earth : 

LXXIII. 

And  how  to  the  Immortals  every  one 

A  portion  was  assign'd  of  all  that  is 
Rut  chief  Mnemosyne  did  Maia's  son 

Clothe  in  the  light  of  his  loud  melodies; — 
And  as  each  God  was  born  or  had  begun. 

He  in  their  order  due  and  fit  degrees 
Sung  of  his  birth  and  being — and  did  move 
Apollo  10  unutterable  lovo. 


LXXIV. 

Tliese  words  vi'ere  winged  with  his  swift  delight- 
"  You  heifer-stealing  schemer,  well  do  you 

Deserve  that  fifty  oxen  should  requite 

Such  minstrelsies  as  I  have  heard  even  now 

Comrade  of  feasts,  little  contriving  wight. 
One  of  your  secrets  I  woulil  gladly  know. 

Whether  the  glorious  power  you  now  show  forth 

Was  folded  up  within  you  at  your  birth, 

LXXV. 

"Or  whether  mortal  taught  or  God  inspired 

The  power  of  unpremeditated  song? 
Many  divinest  sounds  have  I  admired. 

The  Olympian  Gods  and  mortal  men  among ; 
But  such  a  strain  of  wondrous,  strange,  uniircd. 

And  soul-awakening  music,  sweet  and  strong. 
Yet  did  I  never  hear  except  from  thee, 
Oflspring  of  May,  impostor  Mercury ! 

LXXVI. 

■'  What  Muse,  what  skill,  what  unimagined  use. 
What  exercise  of  subtlest  art,  has  given 

Thy  songs  such  power?" — for  those  who  hear  may  choose 
From  thee  the  choicest  of  the  gifts  of  Heaven, 

Delight, and  love,  and  sleep, — svveetsleep,  whose  dew3 
Are  sweeter  than  the  balmy  tears  of  even: — 

And  I,  wlio  speak  this  praise,  am  that  Apollo 

Whom  the  Olympian  Muses  ever  follow  : 

LXXVH. 

"  And  their  delight  is  dance,  and  the  blithe  noise 

Of  song  and  overflowing  poesy  ; 
And  sweet,  even  as  desire,  the  liquid  voice 

Of  pipes,  that  fills  the  clear  air  thrillingly  ; 
But  never  did  my  inmost  soul  rejoice 

In  this  dear  work  of  youthful  revelry. 
As  now  I  wonder  at  thee,  son  of  Jove  ,• 
Thy  harpings  and  thy  songs  are  soft  as  love. 

LXXVIII. 

"  Now  since  thou  hast,  although  so  very  small, 
Science  of  arts  so  glorious,  thus  I  swear, 

And  let  this  cornel  javelin,  keen  and  tall. 
Witness  between  us  w'hat  I  promise  here, — 

That  I  will  lead  thee  to  the  Olympian  Hall, 
Honor'd  and  mighty,  with  thy  mother  dear. 

And  many  glorious  gifts  in  joy  will  give  thee. 

And  even  at  the  end  will  ne'er  deceive  thee." 

LXXIX. 

To  whom  thus  Mercury  with  prudent  speech: — 
"  Wisely  hast  thou  inquired  of  my  skill  : 

I  envy  thee  no  thing  I  know  to  teach 

Even  this  day: — for  both  in  word  and  will 

I  would  be  gentle  with  thee ;  thou  canst  reach 
All  things  in  thy  wise  spirit,  and  thy  skill 

Is  highest  in  Heaven  among  the  sons  of  Jove, 

Who  loves  thee  in  the  fullness  of  his  love. 

LXXX. 
"The  Counsellor  Supreme  has  given  to  thee 

Divinest  gifts,  out  of  the  amplitude 
Of  his  profuse  exhausiless  treasury ; 

By  thee,  'lis  said,  the  depths  are  understood 
Of  his  far  voice  ;  by  thee  the  mystery 

Of  all  oracular  fates, — and  the  dread  mood 
Of  the  diviner  is  breathed  up,  even  I — 
A  child — perceive  thy  might  and  majesty — 
491 


244 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Lxxxr. 

"  Thou  canst  seek  out  and  compass  all  that  wit 
Can  find  or  teach ; — yet  since  thou  wilt,  come  take 

The  lyre — be  mine  the  glory  giving  it — 

Strike  the  sweet  chords,  and  sing  aloud,  and  wake 

Thy  joyous  pleasure  out  of  many  a  fit 

Of  tranced  sound — and  with  fleet  fingers  make 

Thy  liquid-voiced  comrade  talk  with  thee  ; 

It  can  talk  measured  music  eloquently. 

LXXXII. 

'  Then  bear  it  boldly  to  the  revel  loud, 
Love-wakening  dance,  or  feast  of  solemn  state, 

A  joy  by  night  or  day — for  those  endowed 
With  art  and  wisdom,  who  interrogate, 

It  teaches,  babbling  in  delightful  mood 

All  things  which  make  the  spirit  most  elate, 

Soothing  the  mind  with  sweet  familiar  play, 

Chasing  the  heavy  shadows  of  dismay. 

Lxxxiir. 

"  To  those  who  are  unskill'd  in  its  sweet  tongue, 
Though  they  should  question  most  impetuously 

Its  hidden  soul,  it  gossips  something  wrong — 
Some  senseless  and  impertinent  reply. 

But  thou,  who  art  as  wise  as  thou  art  strong. 
Can  compass  all  that  thou  desirest.    I 

Present  thee  with  liiis  music-flowing  shell, 

Knowing  thou  canst  interrogate  it  well. 

LXXXIV. 

•  And  let  us  two  henceforth  together  feed 
On  this  green  mountain  slojje  and  pastoral  plain, 

The  herds  in  litigation — they  will  breed 
Quickly  enough  to  recompense  our  pain. 

If  to  the  bulls  and  cows  we  take  good  heed  ; — 
And  thou,  though  somewhat  over-fond  of  gain. 

Grudge  me  not  half  the  profit." — Having  spoke, 

The  shell  he  prolfer'd,  and  Apollo  took ; 

LXXXV. 

And  gave  him  in  return  the  glittering  lash. 
Installing  him  as  herdsman ; — from  the  look 

Of  Mercury  then  laugh'd  a  joyous  flash. 
And  tlien  Apollo  with  the  plectrum  strook 

The  chords,  and  from  beneath  his  hands  a  crash 
Of  mighty  sounds  rush'd  up,  whose  music  shook 

The  soul  with  sweetness ;  as  of  an  adept 

His  sweeter  voice  a  just  accordance  kept. 

LXXXVI. 

The  herd  went  wandering  o'er  the  divine  mead, 
Whilst  these  most  beautiful  Sons  of  Jupiter 

Won  their  swift  way  up  to  the  snowy  head 
Of  white  Olympus,  with  the  joyous  lyre 

Soothing  their  journey  ;  and  their  father  dread 
Gather'd  them  both  into  familiar 

Affection  sweet, — and  then,  and  now,  and  ever, 

Hermes  must  love  him  of  the  Golden  Quiver, 

LXXXVII. 

To  whom  he  gave  the  lyre  that  sweetly  sounded. 
Which  skilfully  he  held  and  piay'd  thereon. 

He  piped  the  while,  and  far  and  wide  rebounded 
The  echo  of  his  pipings ;  every  one 

Of  the  Olympians  sat  with  joy  aslounded, 
While  he  conceived  another  piece  of  fun. 

One  of  Ills  old  tricks — which  the  Cod  of  Day 
.  Perceiving,  said  : — "  I  fear  thee,  Son  of  May  ; — 


LXXXVIII. 

"  1  fear  thee  and  ihy  sly  chameleon  spirit, 

Lest  thou  shouldst  steal  my  lyre  and  crooked  bow 

This  glory  and  power  thou  dost  from  Jove  inherit, 
To  teach  all  craft  upon  the  earth  below ; 

Thieves  love  and  worship  thee — it  is  thy  merit 
To  make  all  mortal  business  ebb  and  flow 

By  roguery : — now,  Hermes,  if  you  dare. 

By  sacred  Styx  a  mighty  oath  to  swear 

LXXXIX. 

"  That  you  will  never  rob  me,  you  will  do 
A  thing  e.\tremely  pleasing  to  my  heart." 

Then  Mercury  sware  by  the  Stygian  dew. 
That  he  would  never  steal  his  bow  or  dart, 

Or  lay  his  hands  on  what  to  him  was  due, 
Or  ever  would  employ  his  powerful  art 

Against  his  Pythian  lane.    Then  Phccbus  swore 

There  was  no  God  or  man  whom  he  loved  more. 

XC. 

"  And  I  will  give  thee  as  a  good-will  token. 
The  beautiful  wand  of  wealth  and  happiness; 

A  perfect  three-leaved  rod  of  gold  unbroken, 
Whose  magic  will  thy  footsteps  ever  bless  ; 

And  whatsoever  by  Jove's  voice  is  spoken 
Of  earthly  or  divine  from  its  recess. 

It,  like  a  loving  soul,  to  thee  will  speak. 

And  more  than  this  do  thou  forbear  to  seek. 

XCI. 

"For,  dearest  child,  the  divinations  high 
Which  thou  requires!,  'tis  unlawful  ever 

That  thou,  or  any  other  deity 

Should  understand — and  vain  were  the  endeavor 

For  they  are  hidden  in  Jove's  mind,  and  I 

In  trust  of  them,  have  sworn  that  I  would  never 

Betray  the  counsels  of  Jove's  inmost  will 

To  any  God — the  oath  was  terrible. 

XCII. 

"  Then,  golden-wanded  brother,  ask  me  not 
To  speak  the  fates  by  Jupiter  design'd  ; 

But  be  it  mine  to  tell  their  various  lot 

To  the  unnumber'd  tribes  of  human-kind. 

Let  good  to  these,  and  ill  to  those  be  wrought 
As  I  dispense — but  he  who  comes  consign'd 

By  voice  and  wings  of  perfect  augury 

To  my  great  shriiie,  shall. fiiid  avail  in  me. 

XCIIL 
"  Him  will  I  not  deceive,  but  will  assist  ; 

But  he  who  comes  relying  on  such  birds 
As  chatter  vainly,  who  would  strain  and  twist 

The  purpose  of  the  Gods  with  idle  words. 
And  deems  their  knowledge  light,  he  shall  have  nust 

His  road — whilst  I  among  my  other  hoards 
His  gifts  deposit.    Yet,  O  son  of  May ! 
I  have  another  wondrous  thing  to  say : 

XCIV. 

"  There  are  three  Fates,  three  virgin  Sisters,  who 
Rejoicing  in  their  wind-outspeeding  wings. 

Their  heads  with  flour  snowed  over  white  and  new, 
Sit  in  a  vale  round  wiiich  Parnassus  flings 

Its  circling  skirLs — from  these  I  have  learn'd  true 
Vaticinations  of  remotest  things. 

My  father  cared  not.    Whilst  they  search  out  dooms 

They  sit  apart  and  feed  on  honeycombs. 
492 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


245 


xcv. 

"  They,  having  eaten  the  fresh  honey,  grow 
I)rank.  vviih  divine  enthusiasm,  and  utter 

With  earnest  willingness  the  truth  they  know; 
But  if  deprived  of  that  sweet  food,  they  mutter 

All  plausible  delusions; — these  to  you 

I  give; — if  you  inquire,  they  will  not  stutter; 

Dehght  your  own  soul  with  them : — any  man 

You  would  instruct,  may  profit,  if  he  can. 

XCVl. 
"  Take  these  and  the  fierce  oxen,  Maia's  child — 

O'er  many  a  horse  and  toil-enduring  mule, 
O'er  jagg'd-jaw'd  lions,  and  the  wild 

White-tusked  boars,  o'er  all,  by  field  or  pool, 
Of  cattle  which  the  mighty  Mother  mild 

Nourishes  in  her  bosom,  thou  shalt  rule — 
Thou  dost  alone  the  veil  of  death  uplift — 
Thou  givest  not — yet  this  is  a  great  gift." 

xcvir. 

Thus  king  Apollo  loved  the  child  of  May 

In  truth,  and  .Tove  cover'd  them  with  love  and  joy. 

Hermes  with  Gods  and  men  even  from  that  day 
Mingled,  and  wrought  the  latter  much  annoy, 

And  little  profit,  going  far  astray 

Through  the  dun  night.    Farewell,  delightful  Boy, 

Of  Jove  and  Maia  sprung, — never  by  me, 

IVor  thou,  nor  other  songs  shall  unremember'd  be. 


THE  CYCLOPS; 

A   SATIRIC    DRAMA. 

TRANSLATED   FROM   TTgE   GREEK   OF   EURIPIDES. 


Siu:nus. 

Chorus  of  Satyrs. 

Ulysses. 

The  Cyclops. 


O,  B\ccHUS,  what  a  world  of  toil,  both  now 

And  ere  these  limbs  were  overworn  with  age, 

Have  I  endured  for  thee !  First,  when  thou  fledd'st 

The  mountain-nymphs  who  nurst  thee,  driven  afar 

By  the  strange  madness  Juno  sent  upon  thee ; 

Then  in  the  battle  of  the  sons  of  Earth, 

When  I  stood  foot  by  foot  close  to  thy  side, 

No  unpropitious  fellow-combatant, 

And  driving  through  his  shield  my  winged  spear, 

Slew  vast  Enceladus.    Consider  now, 

Is  it  a  dream  of  which  I  speak  to  thee  ? 

By  Jove  it  is  not,  for  you  have  the  trophies ! 

And  now  I  sufl'er  more  than  all  before. 

For  when  I  heird  that  Juno  had  devised 

A  tedious  voyage  for  you,  I  put  to  sea 

With  all  my  children  quaint  in  search  of  you ; 

And  I  myself  stood  on  the  beaked  prow 

And  fi.x'd  the  naked  mast,  and  all  my  boys 

Leaning  upon  their  oars,  with  splash  and  strain 

Made  white  with  foam  the  green  and  purple  sea, — 

And  so  we  sought  you,  king.    We  were  sailing 

Kear  Malea,  when  an  eastern  wind  arose, 

And  drove  us  to  this  wild  /Etnean  rock; 

The  one-eyed  children  of  the  Ocean  God, 


The  man-destroying  Cyclopses  inhabit, 

On  this  wild  shore,  then-  solitary  caves, 

And  one  of  these,  named  I'olyplicn)e,  has  caught  us 

To  be  his  slaves;  and  so,  lor  all  delight 

Of  Bacchic  sports,  sweet  dance  and  melody. 

We  keep  this  lawless  giant's  wandering  flocks. 

My  sons  indeed,  on  far  declivities, 

Young  things  themselves,  tend  on  the  youngling  sheept 

But  I  remain  to  fill  the  water-cask*. 

Or  sweeping  the  hard  floor,  or  ministering 

Some  impious  and  abominable  meal 

To  the  fell  Cyclops.    I  am  wearied  of  it ! 

And  now  I  must  scrape  up  the  littur'd  floor 

With  this  great  iron  rake,  so  to  receive 

My  absent  master  and  his  evening  sheep 

In  a  cave  neat  and  clean.    Even  now  I  see 

My  children  tending  the  flocks  hitherward. 

Ha !  what  is  this  i.  are  your  Sicinnian  measures 

Even  now  the  same,  as  when  with  dance  and  song 

You  brought  young  Bacchus  to  Athsea's  halls? 


CHORUS    OF   SATYRS. 
STROPHE. 

Where  has  he  of  race  divine 
Wander'd  in  the  winding  rocks  ? 
Here  the  air  is  calm  and  fine 
For  the  father  of  the  flocks ; — 
Here  the  grass  is  soft  and  sweet, 
And  the  river-eddies  meet 
In  the  trough  beside  the  cave. 
Bright  as  in  their  fountain  wave. 
Neither  here,  nor  on  the  dew 
Of  the  lawny  uplands  feeding  ? 
Oh,  you  come  ! — a  stone  at  you 
Will  I  throw  to  mend  your  breeding 
Get  along,  you  horned  thing, 
Wild,  seditious,  rambling ! 


An  lacchic  melody 

To  the  golden  Aphrodite 

Will  I  lift,  as  erst  did  I 

Seeking  her  and  her  delight 

With  the  Maenads,  whose  white  feet 

To  the  music  glance  and  fleet. 

Bacchus,  O  beloved  !  where, 

Shaking  wide  thy  yellow  hair, 

Wanderest  thou  alone,  afar  ? 

To  the  one-eyed  Cyclops,  we, 

Who  by  right  thy  servants  are, 

Minister  in  misery, 

In  these  wretched  goat-skins  clad, 

Far  from  thy  delights  and  thee. 

SILE.NUS. 

Be  silent,  sons;  command  the  slaves  to  drive 
The  gather'd  flocks  into  the  rock-roofd  cave. 

CHORUS. 

Go  ! — But  what  needs  this  serious  haste,  O  father  ? 

SILENUS. 

I  see  a  Greek  ship's  boat  upon  the  coast. 
And  thence  the  rowers  with  some  general 
Approaching  to  this  cave.    Alwut  their  necks 
Hang  empty  vessels,  as  they  wanted  food, 
And  water-flaslis. — O,  miserable  strangers ! 


*  Tho  Antistrophe  is  omitted. 
64  493 


246 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Whence  come  they,  that  they  know  not  what  and  who 

My  master  is,  approaching  in  ill  hour 

The  inhospitable  roof  of  Polypheme, 

And  the  Cyclopian  jaw-bone,  man-destroying  ? 

Be  silent,  Satyrs,  while  I  ask  and  hear 

Whence  coming,  they  arrive  at  the  iEtnean  hilL 

ULYSSES. 

Friends,  can  you  show  me  some  clear  water  spring, 
The  remedy  of  our  thirst  ?    Will  any  one 
Furnish  with  food  seamen  in  want  of  it  ? 
Ha !  what  is  this  ? — We  seem  to  be  arrived 
At  the  blithe  court  of  Bacchus.  I  observe 
This  sportive  band  of  Satyrs  near  the  caves. 
First  let  me  greet  the  elder. — Hail ! 

SILE.N'US. 

Hail  thou, 

0  Stranger !  tell  thy  country  and  thy  race. 

ULYSSES. 

The  Ithacan  Ulysses  and  the  king 
Of  Cephalonia. 

SILENUS. 

Oh  !  I  know  the  man, 
Wordy  and  shrewd,  the  son  of  Sisyphus. 

ULYSSES. 

1  am  the  same,  but  do  not  rail  upon  me. — 

SILENUS. 

Whence  sailing  do  you  come  to  Sicily  ? 

ULYSSES. 

From  Ilion,  and  from  the  Trojan  toils. 

SILENUS. 

How,  touch'd  you  not  at  your  paternal  shore  ? 

ULYSSES. 

The  strength  of  tempests  bore  me  here  by  force. 

SILENUS. 

The  self-same  accident  occurr'd  to  me. 

ULYSSES. 

Were  you  then  driven  here  by  stress  of  weather  ? 

SILENUS. 

Following  the  pirates  who  had  kidnapp'd  Bacchus. 

ULYSSES. 

What  land  is  this,  and  who  inhabit  it  ? — 

SILENUS. 

JEtna,  the  loftiest  peak  in  Sicily. 

ULYSSES. 

And  are  there  walls,  and  tower-surrounded  towns  ? 

SILENUS. 

There  are  not :  these  lone  rocks  are  bare  of  men. 

ULYSSES. 

And  who  possess  the  land  ?  the  race  of  beasts  ? 

SILENUS. 

Cyclops,  who  live  in  caverns,  not  in  houses. 

ULYSSES. 

Obeying  whom  ?  Or  is  the  state  popular  ? 

SILENUS. 

Shepherds :  no  one  obeys  any  in  aught. 

ULYSSES. 

How  live  they  ?  do  they  sow  the  corn  of  Ceres  ? 

SILENUS. 

On  milk  and  cheese,  and  on  the  flesh  of  sheep. 

ULYSSES. 

Have  they  the  Bromian  drink  from  the  vine's  stream  ? 

SILENUS. 

Ah  no !  they  live  in  an  ungracious  land. 

ULYSSES. 

And  are  they  just  to  strangers  ? — hospitable  ? 


SILENUS. 

They  think  the  sweetest  thing  a  stranger  brings 
Is  his  own  flesh. 

ULYSSES. 

What !  do  they  eat  man's  flesh  ? 

SILENUS. 

No  one  comes  here  who  is  not  eaten  up. 

ULYSSES. 

The  Cyclops  now — Where  is  he  ?  Not  at  home  ? 

SILENUS. 

Absent  on  ^tna,  hunting  with  his  dogs. 

ULYSSES. 

Know'st  thou  what  thou  must  do  to  aid  us  hence  ? 

SILENUS. 

I  know  not :  we  will  help  you  all  we  can 

ULYSSES. 

Provide  us  food,  of  which  we  are  in  want. 

SILENUS. 

Here  is  not  any  thing,  as  I  said,  but  meat. 

ULYSSES. 

But  meat  is  a  sweet  remedy  for  hunger. 

SILENUS. 

Cow's  milk  there  is,  and  store  of  curdled  cheese 

ULYSSES. 

Bring  out : — I  would  see  all  before  I  bargain. 

SILENUS. 

But  how  much  gold  will  you  engage  to  give  ? 

ULYSSES. 

I  bring  no  gold,  but  Bacchic  juice. 

SILENUS. 

Ojoy! 
'Tis  long  since  these  dry  lips  were  wet  with  wine 

ULYSSES. 

Maron,  the  son  of  the  God,  gave  it  me. 

SILENUS. 

Whom  I  have  nursed  a  baby  in  my  arms. 

ULYSSES. 

The  son  of  Bacchus,  for  your  clearer  knowledge. 

SILENUS. 

Have  you  it  now  ? — or  is  it  in  the  ship  ? 

ULYSSES. 

Old  man,  this  skin  contains  it,  which  you  see. 

SILfiNUS. 

Why  this  would  hardly  be  a  mouthful  for  me. 

ULYSSES. 

Nay,  twice  as  much  as  you  can  draw  from  thence 

SILENUS. 

You  speak  of  a  fair  fountain,  sweet  to  me. 

ULYSSES. 

Would  you  first  taste  of  the  unmingled  wine  ? 

SILENUS. 

'Tis  just — tasting  invites  tlie  purchaser. 

ULYSSES. 

Here  is  the  cup,  together  with  the  skin. 

SILENUS. 

Pour — that  the  draught  may  fillip  my  remembranca 

ULYSSES. 

See! 

SILENUS. 

Papaiapsex!  what  a  sweet  smell  it  has! 

ULYSSES. 

You  see  it  then  ? — 

SILENUS. 

By  Jove,  no !  but  I  smell  it. 

ULYSSES. 

Taste,  that  you  may  not  praise  it  in  words  only. 
494 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


24/ 


SILENUS. 

Babai !  Great  Bacchus  calls  me  forth  to  dance ! 
Joy!  joy! 

ULYSSES. 

Did  it  flow  sweetly  down  your  throat? 

SILENUS. 

So  that  it  tingled  to  my  verj-  nails. 

ULYSSES. 

And  in  addition  I  will  give  you  gold. 

SILENUS. 

Let  gold  alone !  only  unlock  the  cask. 

ULYSSES. 

Bring  out  some  cheeses  now,  or  a  young  goat. 

SILENUS. 

That  will  I  do,  despising  any  master. 
Yes,  let  me  drink  one  cup,  and  I  will  give 
All  that  the  Cyclops  feed  upon  their  mountains. 

*         *         *       -  *         *         *         * 

CHORUS. 

Ye  have  taken  Troy  and  laid  your  hands  on  Helen  ? 

ULYSSES. 

And  utterly  destroy 'd  the  race  of  Priam. 


The  wanton  wretch  1  she  was  bewitch'd  to  see 

The  many-color'd  anklets  and  the  chain 

Of  woven  gold  which  girt  the  neck  of  Paris, 

And  so  she  left  that  good  man  Menelaus. 

There  should  be  no  more  women  in  the  world 

But  such  as  are  reserved  for  me  alone. — 

See,  here  are  sheep,  and  here  are  goats,  Ulysses, 

Here  are  unsparing  cheeses  of  press'd  milk ; 

Take  ihcm  ;  depart  with  what  good  speed  ye  may  ; 

First  leaving  my  reward,  the  Bacchic  dew 

Of  joy-inspiring  grapes. 

ULYSSES. 

Ah  me!  Alas! 
What  shall  we  do  ?  the  CycloiM  is  at  hand ! 
Old  man,  we  perish  I  whither  can  we  fly  ? 

SILENUS. 

Hide  yourselves  quick  within  that  hollow  rock. 

ULYSSES. 

'Twere  perilous  to  fly  into  the  net. 

SILENUS. 

The  cavern  has  recesses  numberless  ; 
Hide  yourselves  quick. 

ULYSSES. 

That  will  I  never  do  ! 
The  mighty  Troy  would  be  indeed  disgraced 
If  I  should  fly  one  man.    How  many  times 
Have  1  withstood,  with  shield  immovable. 
Ten  thousand  Phr}'gians ! — if  I  needs  must  die. 
Yet  will  I  die  with  glory : — if  I  live. 
The  praise  which  I  have  gain'd  will  yet  remain. 

SILENUS. 

What,  ho !  assistance,  comrades,  haste  assistance ! 
The  Cyclops,  Silenus,  Ulysses;  Chorus. 

CYCLOPS. 

What  is  this  tumult  ?  Bacchus  is  not  here, 

Nor  tympanies  nor  brazen  castanets. 

How  are  my  young  lambs  in  the  cavern  ?  Milking 

Their  dams  or  playing  by  their  sides  ?  And  is 

The  new  cheese  press'd  into  the  bullrush  baskets  ? 

Speak  I  I  '11  beat  some  of  you  till  you  rain  tears — 

Look  up,  not  downwards,  when  I  speak  to  you. 


SILENUS. 

Sea !  I  now  gape  at  Jupiier  himself, 
tare  upon  Orion  and  the  stars. 

CYCLOPS. 

Well,  is  the  dinner  fitly  cook'd  and  laid  ? 

SILENUS. 

All  ready,  if  your  throat  is  ready  too. 

CYCLOPS. 

Are  the  bowls  full  of  milk  besides? 

SILENUS. 

O'crbrimming , 
So  you  may  drink  a  tunful  if  you  will. 

CYCLOPS. 

Is  it  ewe's  milk  or  cow's  milk,  or  both  mix'd  ? — 

SILENUS. 

Both,  either;  only  pray  don't  swallow  me. 

CYCLOPS. 

By  no  means. 

*         *         * 

What  is  this  crowd  I  see  beside  the  stalls  ? 
Outlaws  or  thieves  ?  for  near  my  cavern-home, 
I  see  my  young  lambs  coupled  two  by  two 
With  willow  bands ;  mix'd  with  my  cheeses  lie 
Their  implements  ;  and  this  old  fellow  here 
Has  his  bald  head  broken  with  stripes. 

SILENUS. 

Ah  me! 
I  have  been  beaten  till  I  bum  with  fever. 

CYCLOPS. 

By  whom  ?  Who  laid  his  fist  upon  your  head  ? 

SILENUS. 

Those  men,  because  I  would  not  suffer  them 
To  steal  your  goods. 

CYCLOPS. 

Did  not  the  lascals  know 
I  am  a  God,  sprung  from  the  race  of  heaven  ? 

SILENUS. 

I  told  them  so,  but  they  bore  off  your  things, 
And  ate  the  cheese  in  spite  of  all  I  said. 
And  carried  out  the  lambs — and  said,  moreover, 
They'd  pin  you  down  with  a  three-cubit  collar. 
And  pull  your  vitals  out  through  your  one  eye, 
Torture  your  back  with  stripes,  then  binding  you, 
Throw  you  as  ballast  into  the  ship's  hold. 
And  then  deliver  you,  a  slave,  to  move 
Enormous  rocks,  or  found  a  vestibule. 

CYCLOPS. 

In  truth  ?  Nay,  haste,  and  place  in  order  quickly 

The  cooking-knives,  and  heap  upon  the  hearth, 

xVnd  kindle  it,  a  great  fagot  of  wood — 

As  soon  as  they  are  slaughter'd,  they  shall  fill 

My  belly,  broiling  warm  from  the  live  coals. 

Or  boiled  and  seethed  within  the  bubbling  caldron. 

I  am  quite  sick  of  the  wild  mountain  game ; 

Of  stags  and  lions  I  have  gorged  enough, 

And  I  grow  hungry  for  the  flesh  of  men. 

SILENUS. 

Nay,  master,  something  new  is  very  pleasant 

After  one  thing  for  ever,  and  of  late 

Very  few  strangers  have  approach'd  our  cave. 

ULYSSES. 

Hear,  Cyclops,  a  plain  tale  on  the  other  side. 
We,  wanting  to  buy  food,  came  from  our  ship 
Into  the  neighborhood  of  your  cave,  and  here 
This  old  Silenus  gave  us  in  exchange 
These  lambs  for  wine,  the  which  he  took  and  draul^ 
495 


248 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  all  by  mutual  compact,  without  force. 
There  is  no  word  of  truth  in  what  he  says, 
For  slily  he  was  selling  all  your  store. 

SILENUS. 

I  ?  May  you  perish,  wretch — 

ULYSSES. 

If  I  speak  false ! 

SILENi;S. 

Cyclops,  I  swear  by  Neptune  who  begot  thee, 
By  mighty  Triton  and  by  Nereus  old, 
Calypso  and  the  glaucous  ocean  Nymphs, 
The  sacred  waves,  and  all  the  race  of  fishes — 
Be  these  the  witnesses,  my  dear  sweet  master. 
My  darling  little  Cyclops,  that  I  never 
Gave  any  of  your  stores  to  these  false  strangers ; — 
If  I  speak  false,  may  those  whom  most  I  love, 
My  children,  perish  wretchedly ! 

CHORUS. 

There  stop! 
I  saw  him  givmg  these  things  to  the  strangers. 
If  I  speak  false,  then  may  my  father  perish, 
But  do  not  thou  wrong  hospitality. 

CYCLOPS. 

You  lie !  I  swear  that  he  is  juster  far 

Than  Rhadamanthus — I  trust  more  in  him. 

But  let  me  ask,  whence  have  ye  sail'd,  O  strangers  ? 

Who  are  you  ?  And  what  city  nourish'd  ye  ? 

ULYSSES. 

Our  race  is  Ithacan — having  destroy'd 
The  town  of  Troy,  the  tempests  of  the  sea 
Have  driven  us  on  thy  land,  O  Polypheme. 

CYCLOPS. 

What !  have  ye  sliared  in  the  unenvied  spoil 
Of  the  false  Helen,  near  Scamander's  stream  ? 

ULYSSES. 

The  same,  having  endured  a  woful  toil. 

CYCLOPS. 

O,  basest  expedition !  sail'd  ye  not 

From  Greece  to  Playgia  for  one  woman's  sake  ? 

ULYSSES. 

'T  was  the  Gods'  work — no  mortal  was  in  fault. 
But,  O  great  offspring  of  the  ocean-king. 
We  pray  thee  and  admonish  thee  with  freedom. 
That  thou  dost  spare  thy  friends  who  visit  thee. 
And  place  no  impious  food  within  thy  jaws. 
For  in  the  depths  of  Greece  we  have  uprear'd 
Temples  to  thy  great  father,  which  are  all 
His  homes.    The  sacred  bay  of  Taenarus 
Remains  inviolate,  and  each  dim  recess 
Scoop'd  high  on  the  Malean  promontory,. 
And  aery  Sunium's  silver-veined  crag. 
Which  divine  Pallas  keeps  unprofaned  ever, 
The  Gerastian  asyhims,  and  whate'er 
Within  wide  Greece  our  enterprise  has  kept 
From  Phrygian  contumely ;  and  in  which 
You  have  a  common  care,  for  you  inhabit 
Tiie  skirts  of  Grecian  land,  under  the  roots 
Of  /Etna  and  its  crags,  spotted  with  fire. 
Turn  then  to  converse  under  human  laws. 
Receive  us  shipwreck'd  suppliants,  and  provide 
J"'ood,  clothes,  and  fire,  and  hospitable  gifts ; 
Nor  fixing  upon  oxen-piercing  spi^ 
Our  limbs,  so  fill  your  belly  and  your  jaws. 
Priam's  wide  land  has  widovv'd  Greece  enough ; 
And  weapon-winged  murder  heap'd  together 
Enough  of  dead,  and  wives  are  husbandless 


And  ancient  women  and  gray  fathers  wail 

Their  childless  age ; — if  you  should  roast  the  rest, 

And  'tis  a  bitter  feast  that  j-ou  prepare. 

Where  then  would  any  turn  ?  Yet  be  persuaded , 

Forego  the  lust  of  your  jaw-bone  ;  prefer 

Pious  humanity  to  wicked  will : 

Many  have  bought  too  dear  their  evil  joys. 

SILENUS. 

Let  me  advise  you,  do  not  spare  a  morsel 
Of  all  his  flesh.    If  you  should  eat  his  tongue 
You  would  become  most  eloquent,  O  Cyclops ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Wealth,  my  good  fellow,  is  the  wise  man's  God 

All  other  things  are  a  pretence  and  boast. 

What  are  my  father's  ocean  promontories, 

The  sacred  rocks  whereon  he  dwells,  to  me  ? 

Stranger,  I  laugh  to  scorn  Jove's  thunderbolt, 

I  know  not  that  his  strength  is  more  than  mine. 

As  to  the  rest,  I  care  not : — When  he  pours 

Rain  from  above,  I  have  a  close  pavilion 

Under  this  rock,  in  which  I  lie  supine, 

Feasting  on  a  roast  calf  or  some  wild  beast. 

And  drinking  pans  of  milk  ;  and  gloriously 

Emulating  the  thunder  of  high  heaven. 

And  when  the  Thracian  wind  pours  down  the  snow 

I  wrap  my  body  in  the  skins  of  beasts. 

Kindle  a  fire,  and  bid  the  snow  whirl  on. 

The  earth,  by  force,  whether  it  will  or  no, 

Bringing  forth  grass,  fattens  my  flocks  and  herds, 

Which,  to  what  other  God  but  to  myself 

And  this  great  belly,  first  of  deities, 

Should  I  be  bound  to  sacrifice  ?  I  well  know 

The  wise  man's  only  Jupiter  is  this, 

To  eat  and  drink  during  his  little  day. 

And  give  himself  no  care.    And  as  for  those 

Who  complicate  with  laws  the  life  of  man, 

I  freely  give  them  tears  for  their  reward. 

I  will  not  cheat  my  soul  of  its  delight. 

Or  hesitate  in  dining  upon  you : — 

And  that  I  may  be  quit  of  all  demands, 

These  are  my  hospitable  gifts ; — fierce  fire 

And  yon  ancestral  caldron,  which  o'erbubbling. 

Shall  finely  cook  your  miserable  flesh. 

Creep  in ! — 

****** 

ULYSSES. 

Ay !  ay !  I  have  escaped  the  Trojan  toils, 
I  have  escaped  the  sea,  and  now  I  fall 
Under  the  cruel  grasp  of  one  impious  man. 
O  Pallas,  mistress,  Goddess,  sprung  from  Jove, 
Now,  now,  assist  me !  mightier  toils  than  Troy 
Are  these. — I  totter  on  the  chasms  of  peril ; — 
And  thou  who  inhabitest  the  thrones 
Of  the  bright  stars,  look,  hospitable  Jove, 
Upon  this  outrage  of  thy  deity, 
Otherwise  be  consider'd  as  no  God  ! 

CHORUS  (alone). 
For  your  gaping  gulf,  and  your  gullet  wide, 
The  ravine  is  ready  on  every  side. 
The  limbs  of  the  strangers  are  cook'd  and  done. 
There  is  boil'd  meat,  and  roast  meat,  and  meat  from 

the  coal. 

You  may  chop  it,  and  tear  it,  and  gnash  it  for  fun, 
A  hairy  goat's-skin  contains  the  whole. 
Let  me  but  escape,  and  ferry  me  o'er 
The  stream  of  your  wrath  to  a  safer  shore. 
496 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


249 


The  Cyclops  ^tnean  is  cruel  and  bold, 
He  murders  the  strangers 
That  sit  on  his  hearth, 
And  dreads  no  avengers 
To  rise  from  the  earth. 
He  roasts  the  men  before  they  are  cold, 
He  snatches  them  broiling  from  the  coal, 
And  from  tlie  caldron  pulls  them  whole, 
And  minces  their  llesh  and  gnaws  their  bone 
With  his  cursed  teeth,  till  all  be  gone. 

Farewell,  foul  pavilion 

Farewell,  rites  of  dread ! 
The  Cyclops  vermilion, 
With  slaughter  uncloying. 

Now  feasts  on  the  dead, 
In  the  flesh  of  strangers  joying ! 

ULYSSES. 

O  Jupiter  I  I  saw  within  the  cave 

Horrible  things;  deeds  to  be  feign'd  in  words, 

But  not  believed  as  being  done. 

CHORUS. 

\Vhat !  sawest  thou  the  impious  Polypheme 
Feasting  upon  your  loved  companions  now  ? 

ULYSSES. 

Selecting  two,  the  plumpest  of  the  crowd, 
He  grasp'd  them  in  his  hands. 

CHORUS. 

Unhappy  man! 

****** 

ULYSSES. 

Soon  as  we  came  into  this  craggy  place, 

Kindling  a  fire,  he  cast  on  the  broad  hearth 

The  knotty  limbs  of  an  enormous  oak, 

Three  wagon-loads  at  least ;  and  then  he  strew'd 

Upon  the  ground,  beside  the  red  fire-light. 

His  couch  of  pine  leaves ;  and  he  milk'd  the  cows. 

And  pouring  forth  the  white  milk,  fill'd  a  bowl 

Three  cubits  wide  and  four  in  depth,  as  much 

As  would  contain  four  amphorse,  and  bound  it 

With  ivy  wreaths;  then  placed  upon  the  fire 

A  brazen  pot  to  toil,  and  made  red-hot 

The  points  of  spits,  not  sharpen'd  with  the  sickle, 

But  with  a  fruit-tree  bough,  and  with  the  jaws 

Of  axes  for  ^tncan  slaughterings.* 

And  when  this  God-abandon'd  cook  of  hell 

Had  made  ail  ready,  he  seized  two  of  us 

And  kill'd  them  in  a  kind  of  measured  manner; 

For  he  flung  one  against  the  brazen  rivets 

Of  the  huge  caldron,  and  seized  the  other 

By  the  foot's  tendon,  and  knock'd  out  his  brains 

Upon  the  sharp  edge  of  the  craggy  stone : 

Then  peel'd  his  flesh  with  a  great  cooking-knife. 

And  put  him  down  to  roast.     The  other's  limbs 

He  chopp'd  into  the  caldron  to  be  boil'd. 

And  I  with  the  tears  raining  from  my  eyes, 

Stood  near  the  Cyclops,  ministering  to  him; 

The  rest,  in  the  recesses  of  the  cave. 

Clung  to  the  rock  like  bats,  bloodless  with  fear. 

When  he  was  (Ill'd  with  my  companions'  flesh, 

He  threw  himself  upon  the  ground,  and  sent 

A  lothesome  exhalation  from  his  maw. 

Then  a  divine  tliought  came  to  me.     I  fill'd 

The  cup  of  Maron,  and  I  ofl^er'd  him 

•  I  confess  1  do  not  understand  this. — JVoUof  the  Author. 
3N 


To  taste,  and  said  : — "  Child  of  the  Ocean  God, 

Behold  what  drink  the  vines  of  Greece  produce, 

The  exultation  and  the  joy  of  Bacchus." 

He,  satiated  with  his  unnatural  food. 

Received  it,  and  at  one  draught  drank  it  ofl^, 

And  taking  my  hand,  praised  me :  "  Thou  hast  given 

A  sweet  draught  after  a  sweet  meal,  dear  guest." 

And  I,  perceiving  that  it  pleased  him,  fill'd 

Another  cup,  well  knowing  that  the  wine 

Would  wound  him  soon,  and  take  a  sure  revenge 

And  the  charm  fascinated  him,  and  I 

Plied  him  cup  after  cup,  until  the  drink 

Had  warm'd  his  entrails,  and  he  sang  aloud 

In  concert  with  my  wailing  fellow-seamen 

A  hideous  discord — and  the  cavern  rung. 

I  have  stolen  out,  so  that  if  you  will 

You  may  achieve  my  safety  and  youi  own. 

But  say,  do  you  desire,  or  not,  to  fly 

This  uncompanionable  man,  and  dwell. 

As  was  your  wont,  among  the  Grecian  nymphs 

Within  the  fanes  of  your  beloved  God  ? 

Your  father  there  within  agrees  to  it ; 

But  he  is  weak  and  overcome  with  wine ; 

And  caught  as  if  with  bird-lime  by  the  cup, 

He  claps  his  wings  and  crows  in  doling  joy. 

You  who  are  young,  escape  with  me,  and  find 

Bacchus  your  ancient  friend  ;  unsuited  he 

To  this  rude  Cyclops. 

CHORUS. 

Oh  my  dearest  friend, 
That  I  could  see  that  day,  and  leave  for  ever 
The  impious  Cyclops ! 

****** 

ULYSSES. 

Listen  then  what  a  punishment  I  have 
For  this  fell  monster,  how  secuie  a  flight 
From  your  hard  servitude. 

CHORUS. 

Oh  sweetei  far 
Than  is  the  music  of  an  Asian  lyre 
Would  be  the  news  of  Polypheme  destroy'd 

ULYSSES. 

Delighted  with  the  Bacchic  drink,  he  goes 
To  call  his  brother  Cyclops — who  inhabit 
A  village  upon  /Etna  not  far  off 

CHORUS. 

I  understand,  catching  him  when  alone 
You  think  by  some  measure  to  dispatch  hira, 
Or  thrust  him  from  the  precipice. 

ULYSSES. 

Ono! 
Nothing  of  that  Idnd ;  my  device  is  subtle. 

CHORUS. 

How  then  ?  I  heard  of  old  that  thou  wert  wise. 

ULYSSES. 

I  will  dissuade  him  from  this  plan,  by  saying 
It  were  unwise  to  give  the  Cyclopses 
This  precious  drink,  which  if  enjoy'd  alone 
Would  make  life  sweeter  for  a  longer  time. 
When  vanquish'd  by  the  Bacchic  power,  he  sleeps  • 
There  is  a  trunk  of  olive-wood  within. 
Whose  point,  having  made  sharp  with  this  good  sword 
I  will  conceal  in  fire,  and  when  I  see 
It  is  alight,  will  fix  it,  burning  yet. 
Within  the  socket  of  the  Cyclops'  eye. 
And  melt  it  out  with  fire :  as  when  a  man 
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SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Turns  by  its  handle  a  great  auger  round, 
Filling  the  frame-work  of  a  ship  with  beams, 
So  will  I,  in  the  Cyclops'  fiery  eye. 
Turn  round  the  brand  and  dry  the  pupil  up. 

CHORUS. 

Joy !  I  am  mad  with  joy  at  your  device. 

ULYSSES. 

And  then  with  you,  my  friends,  and  the  old  man, 
We'll  load  the  hollow  depth  of  our  black  ship, 
And  row  with  double  strokes  from  this  dread  shore. 

CHORUS. 

May  I,  as  in  libations  to  a  God, 

Share  in  the  blinding  him  with  the  red  brand ! 

I  would  have  some  communion  in  his  death. 

ULYSSES. 

Doubtless :  the  brand  is  a  great  brand  to  hold. 

CHORUS. 

Oh !  I  would  lift  a  hundred  wagon-loads, 

If  like  a  wasp's  nest  I  could  scoop  the  eye  out 

Of  the  detested  Cyclops. 

ULYSSES. 

Silence  now! 
Ye  know  the  close  device — and  when  I  call, 
Look  ye  obey  the  masters  of  the  craft. 
I  will  not  save  myself  and  leave  behind 
My  comrades  in  the  cave :  I  might  escape, 
Having  got  clear  from  that  obscure  recess, 
But  'twere  unjust  to  leave  in  jeopardy 
The  dear  companions  who  sail'd  here  with  me. 

CHORUS. 

Come !  who  is  first,  that  with  his  hand 
Will  urge  down  the  burning  brand 
Through  the  lids,  and  quench  and  pierce 
The  Cyclops'  eye  so  fiery  fierce  ? 

SEMI-CHORUS  I. 
Song  within. 
Listen  !  listen !  he  is  coming, 
A  most  hideous  discord  humming, 
Drunken,  museless,  awkward,  yelling. 
Far  along  his  rocky  dwelling  ; 
Let  us  with  some  comic  spell 
Teach  the  yet  imteaehable. 
Hy  all  means  he  must  be  blinded, 
If  my  council  be  but  minded. 

SEMI-CHORUS  II. 

Happy  those  made  odorous 

With  the  dew  which  sweet  grapes  weep! 

To  the  village  hastening  thus. 

Seek  the  vines  that  soothe  to  sleep, 

Having  first  embraced  thy  friend, 

There  in  luxury  without  end. 

With  the  strings  of  yellow  hair. 

Of  thy  voluptuous  leman  fair, 

Shalt  sit  playing  on  a  bed  ! — 

Speak !  what  door  is  opened  ? 

CYCLOPS. 

Ha !  ha !  ha !  I  'm  full  of  wine, 
Heavy  with  the  joy  divine. 
With  the  young  feast  oversated. 
Like  a  merchant's  vessel  freighted 
To  the  water's  edge,  my  crop 
Is  laden  to  the  gullet's  top. 


The  fresh  meadow-grass  of  spring 

Tempts  me  forth  thus  wandering 

To  my  brothers  on  the  mountains. 

Who  shall  share  the  wine's  sweet  fountaiiu. 

Bring  the  cask,  O  stranger,  bring ! 

CHORUS. 

One  with  eyes  the  fairest 

Cometh  from  his  dwelling  ; 

Some  one  loves  thee,  rarest, 

Bright  beyond  my  telling. 

In  thy  grace  thou  shinest 

Like  some  nymph  divinest. 

In  her  caverns  dewy  : — 

All  delights  pursue  thee. 

Soon  pied  flowers,  sweet-breathff.g. 

Shall  thy  head  be  wreathing. 

ULYSSES. 

Listen,  O  Cyclops,  for  I  am  well  skill'd 
In  Bacchus,  whom  I  gave  thee  of  to  drink. 

CYCLOPS. 

What  sort  of  God  is  Bacchus  then  accounted  ? 

ULYSSES. 

The  greatest  among  men  for  joy  of  life. 

CYCLOPS. 

I  gulp'd  him  down  with  very  great  delight. 

ULYSSES. 

This  is  a  God  who  never  injures  men. 

CYCLOPS. 

How  does  the  God  like  living  in  a  skin  ? 

ULYSSES. 

He  is  content  wherever  he  is  put. 

CYCLOPS. 

Gods  should  not  have  their  body  in  a  skin. 

ULYSSES. 

If  he  gives  joy,  what  is  his  skin  to  you  ? 

CYCLOPS. 

I  hate  the  skin,  but  love  the  wine  within. 

ULYSSES. 

Stay  here ;  now  drink,  and  make  your  spirit  glad. 

CYCLOPS. 

Should  I  not  share  this  liquor  with  my  brothers  ? 

ULYSSES. 

Keep  it  yourself,  and  be  more  honor'd  so. 

CYCLOPS. 

I  were  more  useful,  giving  to  my  friends. 

ULYSSES. 

But  village  mirth  breeds  contests,  broils,  and  blows. 

CYCLOPS. 

When  I  am  drunk,  none  shall  lay  hands  on  me. — 

ULYSSES. 

A  drunken  man  is  better  within  doors. 

CYCLOPS. 

He  is  a  fool  who,  drinking,  loves  not  mirth. 

ULYSSES. 

But  he  is  wise  who,  drunk,  remains  at  home. 

CYCLOPS. 

What  shall  I  do,  Silenus  ?  Shall  I  stay  ? 

SILEjVUS. 

Stay — for  what  need  have  you  of  pot-companions 

CYCLOPS. 

Indeed  this  place  is  closely  carpeted 
With  flowers  and  grass. 

SILENUS. 

And  in  the  sun-warm  noon 

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251 


'Tis  sweet  to  drink.    Lie  down  beside  me  now, 
Placing  your  mighty  sides  upon  the  ground. 

CYCLOPS. 

What  do  you  put  the  cup  behind  me  for? 

SILE.NUS. 

That  no  one  here  may  toucii  it. 

CYCLOPS. 

Thievish  one ! 
You  want  to  drink ; — here,  place  it  in  the  midst. 
And  thou,  O  stranger,  tell,  how  art  thou  called  ? 

ULYSSES. 

My  name  is  Nobody.    What  favor  now 
Shall  I  receive  to  praise  you  at  your  hands  ? 

CYCLOPS. 

J  '11  feast  on  you  the  last  of  your  companions. 

ULYSSES. 

You  grant  your  guest  a  fair  reward,  O  Cyclops ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Ha !  what  is  this?  Stealing  the  wine,  you  rogue! 

SILENUS. 

It  was  this  stranger  kissing  me  because 
I  look'd  so  beautiful. 

CYCLOPS. 

You  shall  repent 
For  kissing  the  coy  wine  that  loves  you  not. 

SILENUS. 

By  Jupiter !  you  said  that  I  am  fair. 

CYCLOPS. 

Pour  out,  and  only  give  me  the  cup  full. 

SILENUS. 

How  is  it  mixed  ?  let  me  observe. 

CYCLOPS. 

Curse  you ! 
Give  it  me  so. 

SILENUS. 

Not  till  I  see  you  wear 
That  coronal,  and  taste  the  cup  to  you. 

CYCLOPS. 

Thou  wily  traitor ! 

SILENUS. 

But  the  wine  is  sweet. 
Ay,  you  will  roar  if  you  are  caught  in  drinking. 

CYCLOPS. 

See  now,  my  lip  is  clean  and  all  my  beard. 

SILENUS. 

Now  put  your  elbow  right  and  drink  again. 
As  you  see  me  drink —  *         *         *         * 

CYCLOPS. 

How  now  ? 

SILENUS. 

Ye  Gods,  what  a  delicious  gulp ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Guest,  take  it ; — you  pour  out  the  wine  for  me. 

ULYSSES. 

The  wine  is  well  accustom' d  to  my  hand. 

CYCLOPS. 

Pour  out  the  wine  ! 

ULYSSES. 

I  pour ;  only  be  silent. 

»  CYCLOPS. 

Silence  is  a  hard  task  to  him  who  drinks. 

ULYSSES. 

Take  it  and  drink  it  off;  leave  not  a  dreg. 

O,  that  the  drinker  died  with  his  own  draught! 

CYCLOPS. 

Papai !  the  vine  must  be  a  sapient  plant. 


ULYSSES. 

If  you  drink  much  after  a  mighty  feast. 
Moistening  your  thirsty  maw,  you  will  sleep  well, 
If  you  leave  aught,  Bacchus  will  dry  you  up. 


Ho!  ho!  I  can  scarce  rise.    What  pure  delight' 
The  heavens  and  earth  appear  to  whirl  about 
Confusedly.    I  see  the  throne  of  Jove 
And  the  clear  congregation  of  the  Gods. 
Now  if  the  Graces  tempted  me  to  kiss, 
I  would  not;  for  the  loveliest  of  them  all 
I  would  not  leave  this  Ganymede. 

SILENUS. 

Polypheme, 
I  am  the  Ganymede  of  Jupiter. 

CYCLOPS. 

By  Jove,  you  are !  I  bore  you  off  from  Dardanvw. 
Ulysses  and  the  Chorus. 

ULYSSES. 

Come,  boys  of  Bacchus,  children  of  high  race. 

This  man  within  is  folded  up  in  sleep, 

And  soon  will  vomit  flesh  from  his  fell  maw  ; 

The  brand  under  the  shed  thrusts  out  its  smoke, 

No  preparation  needs,  but  to  burn  out 

The  monster's  eye; — but  bear  youi selves  ^ike  men. 

CHORUS. 

We  will  have  courage  like  the  adamant  rock. 
All  things  are  ready  for  you  here ;  go  in, 
Before  our  father  shall  perceive  the  nf>ise. 

ULYSSES. 

Vulcan,  ^tnean  king !  burn  out  with  fire 

The  shining  eye  of  this  thy  neighboring  monster! 

And  thou,  O  Sleep,  nursling  of  gloomy  night, 

Descend  unmix'd  on  this  God-hated  beast. 

And  suffer  not  Ulysses  and  his  comrades, 

Returning  from  their  famous  Trojan  toils, 

To  perish  by  this  man,  who  cares  not  either 

For  God  or  mortal ;  or  I  needs  must  think 

That  Chance  is  a  supreme  divinity. 

And  things  divine  are  subject  to  her  power. 

CHORUS. 

Soon  a  crab  the  throat  will  seize 

Of  him  who  feeds  upon  his  guest; 
Fire  will  burn  his  lamp-like  eyes 

In  revenge  of  such  a  feast ! 
A  great  oak  stump  now  is  lying 
In  the  ashes  yet  undying. 

Come,  Maron,  come ! 
Raging  let  him  fix  the  doom, 
Let  him  tear  the  eyelid  up 
Of  the  Cyclops — that  his  cup 

May  be  evil ! 
O,  I  long  to  dance  and  revel 
With  sweet  Bromian,  long-desired, 
In  loved  ivy-wreaths  attired  ; 

Leaving  this  abandon'd  home — 

Will  the  moment  ever  come  ? 

ULYSSES. 

Be  silent,  ye  wild  things !  Nay,  hold  your  peace, 
And  keep  your  lips  quite  close ;  dare  not  to  breathe, 
Or  spit,  or  e'en  wink,  lest  ye  wake  the  monster 
Until  his  eye  be  tortured  out  with  fire. 
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SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


CHORUS. 

Nay,  we  are  silent,  and  we  chew  the  air. 

ULYSSES. 

Come  now,  and  lend  a  hand  to  the  great  stake 
Within — it  is  delightfully  red-hot. 

CHORUS. 

You  then  command  who  first  should  seize  the  stake 
To  burn  the  Cyclops'  eye,  that  all  may  share 
In  the  great  enterprise. 

SEMI-CHORUS    I. 

We  are  too  few. 
We  cannot  at  this  distance  from  the  door 
Thrust  fire  into  his  eye. 

SEMI-CHORUS    II. 

And  we  just  now 
Have  become  lame ;  cannot  move  hand  or  foot. 

CHORUS. 

The  same  thing  has  occurr'd  to  us, — our  ankles 
Are  sprain'd  with  standing  here,  I  know  not  how. 

ULYSSES. 

What,  sprain'd  with  standing  still  ? 

CHORUS. 

And  there  is  dust 
Or  ashes  in  our  eyes,  I  know  not  whence. 

ULYSSES. 

Cowardly  dogs !  ye  will  not  aid  me  then  ? 

CHORUS. 

With  pitying  my  own  back  and  my  back-bone. 

And  with  not  wishing  all  my  teeth  knock'd  out, 

This  cowardice  comes  of  itself— but  stay, 

I  know  a  famous  Orphic  incantation 

To  make  the  brand  stick  of  its  own  accord 

Into  the  skull  of  this  one-eyed  son  of  Earth. 

ULYSSES. 

Of  old  I  knew  ye  thus  by  nattire ;  now 

I  know  ye  better. — I  will  use  the  aid 

Of  my  own  comrades — yet,  though  weak  of  hand, 

Speak  cheerfully,  that  so  ye  may  awaken 

The  courage  of  my  friends  wiih  your  blithe  words. 

CHORUS 

This  I  will  do  with  peril  of  my  life, 

And  blind  you  with  my  exhortations,  Cyclops. 

Hasten  and  thrust, 

And  parch  up  to  dust 

The  eye  of  the  beast 

Who  feeds  on  his  guest. 

Bum  and  blind 

The  ^Inean  hind  ! 

Scoop  and  draw. 

But  beware  lest  he  claw 

Your  limbs  near  his  maw. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ah  me !  my  eye-sight  is  parched  up  to  cinders. 

CHORUS. 

What  a  sweet  paan !  sing  me  that  again ! 

CYCLOPS. 

Ah  me!  indeed,  what  woe  has  fallen  upon  me! 
But,  wretched  nothings !  think  ye  not  to  flee 
Out  of  tiiis  rock ;  I,  standing  at  the  outlet, 
Will  bar  the  way,  and  catch  you  as  you  pass. 

CHORUS. 

What  are  you  roarmg  out,  Cyclops  ? 

CYCLOPS. 

I  perish ! 

CHORUS. 

For  you  are  wicked. 


CYCLOPS. 

And  besides  miserable. 

CHORUS. 

What !  did  you  fall  into  the  fire  when  drunk  ? 

CYCLOPS. 

'Twas  Nobody  destroy 'd  me. 

CHORUS. 

Why  then  no  one 
Can  be  to  blame. 

CYCLOPS. 

I  say  'twas  Nobody 
Who  blinded  me. 

CHORUS. 

Why  then  you  are  not  blind. 

CYCLOPS. 

I  wish  you  were  as  blind  as  I  am. 

CHORUS. 

Nay, 
It  cannot  be  that  no  one  made  you  blind. 

CYCLOPS. 

You  jeer  me ;  where,  I  ask,  is  Nobody  ? 

CHORUS. 

Nowhere,  O  Cyclops  I         *         *         * 

CYCLOPS. 

It  was  that  stranger  ruin'd  me  : — the  wretch 
First  gave  me  wine  and  then  burnt  out  my  eyes. 
For  wine  is  strong  and  hard  to  struggle  with. 
Have  they  escaped,  or  are  they  yet  within  ] 

CHORUS. 

They  stand  under  the  darkness  of  the  rock. 
And  cling  to  it. 

CYCLOPS. 

At  my  right  hand  or  left  ? 

CHORUS. 

Close  on  your  right. 

CYCLOPS. 

Where  ? 

CHORUS. 

Near  the  rock  itself 
You  have  them. 

CYCLOPS. 

Oh,  misfortune  on  misfortune ! 
I've  crack'd  my  skull. 

CHORUS. 

Now  they  escape  you  there. 

CYCLOPS. 

Not  there,  although  you  say  so. 

CHORUS. 

Not  on  that  side 

CYCLOPS. 

Where  then  ? 

CHORUS. 

They  creep  about  you  on  your  left 

CYCLOPS. 

Ah !  I  am  mock'd  !    They  jeer  me  in  my  ills 

CHORUS. 

Not  there !  he  is  a  little  there  beyond  you. 

CYCLOPS. 

Detested  wretch  !  where  are  you  ? 

ULYSSES. 

Far  from  you 
I  keep  with  care  this  body  of  Ulysses. 

CYCLOPS. 

What  do  you  say  ?    You  proffer  a  new  name. 

ULYSSES. 

My  father  named  me  so  ,•  and  I  have  taken 
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MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


S53 


A  full  revenge  for  your  unnatural  feast; 

I  should  have  done  ill  to  have  burn'd  down  Troy, 

And  not  revenged  the  murder  of  my  comrades. 

CYCLOPS. 

Ai !  ai !  the  ancient  oracle  is  accomplish'd  ; 
It  said  that  T  should  have  my  eye-sight  blinded 
By  you  coming  from  Troy ;  yet  it  foretold 
That  you  should  pay  the  penalty  for  this, 
By  wandering  long  over  the  homeless  sea. 

ULYSSES. 

I  bid  thee  weep — consider  what  I  say, 
I  go  towards  the  shore  to  drive  my  ship 
To  mine  own  land,  o'er  the  Sicilian  wave. 

CYCLOPS. 

Not  so,  if  whelming  you  with  this  huge  stone 
I  can  crush  you  and  all  your  men  together ; 
I  will  descend  upon  the  shore,  though  blind, 
Groping  my  way  adown  the  steep  ravine. 

CHORUS. 

And  we,  the  shipmates  of  Ulysses  now. 
Will  serve  our  Bacchus  all  our  happy  lives. 


SCENES 

FROM  THE  "  MAGICO  PRODIGIOSO  "  OF  CALDERON. 

Cyprian  as  a  Student ;  Clarin  and  MoscoN  as  poor 
Scholars,  with  looks. 

CYPRIAN. 

In  the  sweet  solitude  of  this  calm  place, 

This  intricate  wild  wilderness  of  trees 

And  flowers  and  undergrowth  of  odorous  plants. 

Leave  me  ;  the  books  you  brought  out  of  the  house 

To  me  are  ever  best  society. 

And  whilst  with  glorious  festival  and  song 

Antioch  now  celebrates  the  consecration 

Of  a  proud  temple  to  great  Jupiter, 

And  bears  his  image  in  loud  jubilee 

To  its  new  shrine.  I  would  consume  what  still 

Lives  of  the  dying  day,  in  studious  thought. 

Far  from  the  throng  and  turmoil.     You,  my  friends, 

Go  and  enjoy  tlie  festival ;  it  will 

Be  worth  the  labor,  and  relurn  for  me 

When  the  sun  seeks  its  grave  among  the  billows. 

Which  among  dim  gray  clouds  on  the  horizon 

Dance  like  white  plumes  upon  a  hearse  ; — and  here 

I  shall  expect  you.    ■ 

MOSCON. 

I  cannot  bring  my  mind. 
Great  as  my  haste  to  see  the  festival 
Certainly  is,  to  leave  you,  Sir,  without 
Just  saying  some  three  or  four  hundred  words. 
How  is  it  possible  that  on  a  day 
Of  such  festivity,  you  can  bring  your  mind 
To  come  forth  to  a  solitary  country 
With  three  or  four  old  books,  and  turn  your  back 
On  all  this  mirth? 

CLARIN. 

My  master's  in  the  right; 
There  is  not  any  thing  more  tiresome 
Than  a  procession-day,  with  troops  of  men, 
And  dances,  and  all  that. 

MOSCON. 

From  first  to  last, 
Clarin,  you  are  a  temporizing  flatterer  ; 


You  praise  not  what  you  feel,  but  what  he  does ; — ■ 
Toad-eater  I 

CLARIN. 

You  lie — under  a  mistake — 
For  this  is  the  moat  civil  sort  of  lie 
That  can  be  given  to  a  man's  face.     I  now 
Say  what  I  think. 

CYPRIAN. 

Enough  !  you  foolish  fellows ! 

PufT'd  up  with  your  own  doting  ignorance, 

You  always  take  the  two  sides  of  one  question. 

Now  go,  and  as  I  said,  return  for  me 

When  night  falls,  veiling  in  its  shadows  wide 

This  glorious  fabric  of  the  universe. 

MOSCON. 

How  happens  it,  although  you  can  maintain 
The  folly  of  enjoying  festivals, 
That  yet  you  go  there  ? 

CLARIN. 

Nay,  the  consequence 
Is  clear ; — who  ever  did  what  he  advises 
Others  to  do  ? — 

MOSCON. 

Would  that  my  feet  were  wings, 
So  would  I  fly  to  Livia.  [Exit. 

CLARIN. 

To  speak  truth, 
Livia  is  she  who  has  surprised  my  heart; 
But  he  is  more  than  half-way  there. — Soho! 
Livia,  I  come;  good  sport,  Livia,  soho!  [Exit. 

CYPRIAN. 

Now,  since  I  am  alone,  let  me  examine 

The  question  which  has  long  disturb'd  my  mind 

With  doubt ;  since  first  I  read  in  Plinius 

The  words  of  mystic  import  and  deep  sense 

In  which  he  defines  God.     My  intellect 

Can  find  no  God  with  whom  these  marks  and  signs- 

Fitly  agree.     It  is  a  hidden  truth 

Which  I  must  fathom.  [Reads. 

Enter  the  Devil,  as  a  fine  Gentleman. 

D.EMON. 

Search  even  as  thou  wilt, 

But  thou  shalt  never  find  what  I  can  hide. 

CYPRIAN. 

What  noise  is  that  among  the  boughs  ?  Who  moves ! 
What  art  thou  ?— 

D.f.MON. 

'Tis  a  foreign  gentleman. 
Even  from  this  morning  I  have  lost  my  way 
In  this  wild  place,  and  my  poor  horse,  at  last 
Quite  overcome,  has  stretch'd  himself  upon 
The  enamell'd  tapestry  of  this  mossy  mountain. 
And  feeds  and  rests  at  the  same  time.     I  was 
Upon  my  way  to  Antioch  upon  business 
Of  some  importance,  but  wrapt  up  in  cares 
(Who  is  exempt  from  this  inheritance  ?) 
I  parted  from  my  comi)any,  and  lost 
My  way,  and  lost  my  servants  and  my  comrades. 

CYPRIAN. 

'Tis  singular,  that  even  within  the  sight 
Of  the  high  towers  of  Antioch,  you  could  lose 
Your  way.     Of  all  Ihe  avenues  and  green  paths 
Of  this  wild  wood,  there  is  not  one  but  leads. 
As  to  its  centre,  to  the  walls  of  Antioch ; 
Take  which  you  will,  you  cannot  miss  your  road 
65  501 


254 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


DAEMON. 

And  such  is  ignorance !  Even  in  the  sight 
Of  knowledge  it  can  draw  no  profit  from  it. 
But  as  it  still  is  early,  and  as  1 
Have  no  acquaintances  in  Antioch, 
Being  a  stranger  there,  I  will  even  wait 
The  few  surviving  hours  of  the  day, 
Until  the  night  shall  conquer  it.     I  see, 
Both  by  your  dress  and  by  the  books  in  which 
You  find  delight  and  company,  that  you 
Are  a  great  student; — for  my  part,  I  feel 
Much  sympathy  with  such  pursuits. 

CYPRIA.\. 

Have  you 
Studied  much? — 

D^MON. 

No, — and  yet  I  know  enough 
Not  to  be  wholly  ignorant. 

CYPRIAN. 

Pray,  Sir, 
What  science  may  you  know  ? — 


Many. 


Alas! 


Much  pains  must  we  expend  on  one  alone, 
And  even  then  attain  it  not ; — but  you 
Have  the  presumption  to  assert  that  you 
Know  many  without  study. 

D.'EMON. 

And  with  truth. 
For  in  the  country  whence  I  come,  sciences 
Require  no  learning, — they  are  known. 

CYPRIAN. 

Oh,  would 
I  were  of  that  bright  country !  for  in  this, 
The  more  we  study,  we  the  more  discover 
Our  ignorance. 

D.EMON. 

It  is  so  true,  that  I 
Had  so  much  arrogance  as  to  oppose 
The  chair  of  the  most  high  professorship. 
And  obtained  many  votes  ;  and  though  I  lost. 
The  attempt  was  still  more  glorious  than  the  failure 
Could  be  dishonorable :  if  you  believe  not. 
Let  us  refer  it  to  dispute  respecting 
That  which  you  know  best,  and  although  I 
Know  not  the  opinion  you  maintain,  and  though 
It  be  the  true  one,  I  will  take  the  contrary. 

CYPRIAN. 

The  offer  gives  me  pleasure.     I  am  now 
Debating  with  myself  upon  a  passage 
'  Of  Plinius,  and  my  mind  is  rack'd  with  doubt 
To  understand  and  know  who  is  the  God 
Of  whom  he  speaks. 

D.^MON. 

It  is  a  passage,  if 
I  recollect  it  right,  couch'd  in  these  words ; 
"  God  is  one  supreme  goodness,  one  pure  essence, 
One  substance,  and  one  sense,  all  sight,  all  hands." 

CYPRIAN. 

•Tis  true. 

D.EMON. 

What  difficulty  fmd  you  here? 

CYPRIAN. 

I  do  not  recognize  among  the  Gods 


The  God  defined  by  Plinius ;  if  he  must 

Be  supreme  goodness,  even  Jupiler 

Is  not  supremely  good  ;  because  we  see 

His  deeds  are  evil,  and  his  attributes 

Tainted  with  mortal  weakness  ;  in  what  manner 

Can  supreme  goodness  be  consistent  with 

The  passions  of  humanity  ? 

D/EMON. 

The  wisdom 
Of  the  old  world  mask'd  with  the  names  of  Gods 
The  attributes  of  Nature  and  of  Man ; 
A  sort  of  popular  philosophy. 

CYPRIAN. 

This  reply  will  not  satisfy  me,  for 

Such  awe  is  due  to  the  high  name  of  God 

That  ill  should  never  be  imputed.     Then, 

Examining  the  question  with  more  care, 

It  follows,  that  the  Gods  should  always  will 

That  which  is  best,  were  they  supremely  good. 

How  then  does  one  will  one  thing — one  another  ? 

And  you  may  not  say  thai.  I  allege 

Poetical  or  philosophic  learning  : 

Consider  the  ambiguous  responses 

Of  their  oracular  statues  ;  from  two  shrines 

Two  armies  shall  obtain  the  assurance  of 

One  victory.     Is  it  not  indisputable 

That  two  contending  wills  can  never  lead 

To  the  same  end?  And  being  opposite, 

If  one  be  good,  is  not  the  other  evil  ? 

Evil  in  God  is  inconceivable  ; 

But  supreme  goodness  fails  among  the  Gods 

Without  their  union. 

D.EMON. 

I  deny  your  major. 
These  responses  are  means  towards  some  end 
Unfathom'd  by  our  intellectual  beam. 
They  are  the  work  of  providence,  and  more 
The  battle's  loss  may  profit  those  who  lose. 
Than  victory  advantage  those  who  win. 

CYPRIAN. 

That  I  admit,  and  yet  that  God  should  not 
(Falsehood  is  incompatible  with  deity) 
Assure  the  victory  ;  it  would  be  enough 
To  have  permitted  the  defeat ;  if  God 
Be  all  sight, — God,  who  beheld  the  truth. 
Would  not  have  given  assurance  of  an  end 
Never  to  be  accoraplish'd  ;  thus,  although 
The  Deity  may,  according  to  his  attributes, 
Be  well  distinguish'd  into  persons,  yet. 
Even  in  the  minutest  circumstance. 
His  essence  must  be  one. 

DJEMON. 

To  attain  the  end, 
The  affections  of  the  actors  in  the  scene 
Must  have  been  thus  influenced  by  his  voice. 

CYPRIAN. 

But  for  a  purpose  thus  subordinate 

He  might  have  employed  genii,  good  or  evil, — 

A  sort  of  spirits  call'd  so  by  the  learn'd. 

Who  roam  about  inspiring  good  or  evil. 

And  from  whose  influence  and  existence,  we 

May  well  infer  our  immortality  : — 

Thus  God  might  easily,  without  descending 

To  a  gross  falsehood  in  his  proper  person. 

Have  moved  the  affections  by  this  mediation 

To  the  just  point 

502 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


255 


D.EMON. 

These  trifling  contradictions 
Do  not  suffice  to  impugn  the  unity 
Of  tlie  higli  gods ;  in  things  of  great  importance 
They  still  appear  unanimous  ;  consider 
That  glorious  fabric — man, — his  workmanship 
Is  starap'd  with  one  conception. 

CrpRIAN. 

Who  made  man 
Must  have,  methinks,  the  advantage  of  the  others. 
If  they  are  equal,  might  they  not  have  risen 
In  opposition  to  the  work,  and  being 
All  hands,  according  to  our  author  here. 
Have  still  destroyed  even  as  the  other  made  ? 
If  equal  in  their  power,  and  only  unequal 
In  opportunity,  which  of  the  two 
Will  remain  conqueror  ? 

DAEMON. 

On  impossible 
And  false  hypotheses  there  can  be  built 
No  argument     Say,  what  do  you  infer 
From  this  ? 

CYPRIAN. 

That  there  must  be  a  mighty  God 
Of  supreme  goodness  and  of  highest  grace, 
All  sight,  all  hands,  all  truth,  infallible, 
Without  an  equal  and  without  a  rival ; 
The  cause  of  all  things  and  the  effect  of  nothing. 
One  power,  one  will,  one  substance,  and  one  essence. 
And  in  whatever  persons,  one  or  two, 
His  attributes  may  be  distinguish'd,  one 
Sovereign  power,  one  solitary  essence, 
One  cause  of  all  cause.  {They  rise. 

D.EMON. 

How  can  I  impugn 
So  clear  a  consequence  ? 

CVPRIAN. 

Do  you  regret 
My  victory  ? 

DAEMON. 

Who  but  regrets  a  check 
In  rivalry  of  wit  ?  I  could  reply 
And  urge  new  difficulties,  but  will  now 
Depart,  for  I  hear  steps  of  men  approaching. 
And  it  is  time  that  I  should  now  pursue 
My  journey  to  the  city. 

CYPRIAN. 

Go  in  peace ! 

D.EMON. 

Remain  in  peace  !  Since  thus  it  profits  him 

To  study,  I  will  wrap  his  senses  up 

In  sweet  oblivion  of  all  thought,  but  of 

A  piece  of  excellent  beauty;  and  as  I 

Have  power  given  me  to  wage  enmity 

Against  Jusiina's  soul,  I  will  extract 

From  one  effect  two  vengeances.  [£ijV. 

CYPRIAN. 

I  never 
Met  a  more  learned  person.  Let  me  now 
Revolve  this  doubt  again  with  careful  mind.  [Hereads. 

Enter  Lelio  and  Floro. 

LELIO. 

Here  stop.    These  toppling  rocks  and  tangled  boughs. 
Impenetrable  by  the  noonday  beam. 
Shall  be  sole  witnesses  of  what  we 


FI.ORO. 

Draw  ! 
Tf  there  were  words,  here  is  the  place  for  deeds. 

LEI.IO. 

Thou  needest  not  instruct  me  :  wlH  I  know 

That  in  the  field  the  silent  tongue  of  steel 

Spealvs  thus.  [Tltey  fghL 

CYPRIAN. 

Ha !  what  is  tiiis  ?  Lelio,  Floro, 
Be  it  enough  that  Cyprian  stands  between  you, 
Although  unarm'd. 

LELIO. 

Whence  comest  thou,  to  stand 
Between  me  and  my  vengeance  ? 

FLORO. 

From  what  rocks 
And  desert  cells  ? 

Enter  Moscon  and  Clarin. 

MOSCON. 

Run,  run !  for  where  we  left  my  master 
We  hear  the  clash  of  swords. 

clarin. 

I  never 
Run  to  approach  things  of  this  sort,  but  only 
To  avoid  them.     Sir !  Cyprian !  sir ! 

CYPRIAN. 

Be  silent,  fellows  !  What !  two  friends  who  are 
In  blood  and  fame  the  eyes  and  hope  of  Antioch; 
One  of  the  noble  men  of  the  Colatti, 
The  other  son  of  the  Governor,  adventure 
And  cast  away,  on  some  slight  cause  no  doubt, 
Two  lives  the  honor  of  their  country  ? 

LELIO. 

Cyprian  I 
Although  my  high  respect  towards  /our  person 
Holds  now  my  sword  suspended,  thou  canst  not 
Restore  it  to  the  slumber  of  its  scabbard. 
Thou  knovvest  more  of  science  than  the  duel  ; 
For  when  two  men  of  honor  take  the  field, 
Wo  [  ]  or  respect  can  make  them  friends, 

But  one  must  die  in  the  pursuit. 

FLORO. 

I  pray 
That  you  depart  hence  with  your  people,  and 
Leave  us  to  finish  what  we  have  begun 
Without  advantage. 

CYPRIAN. 

Though  you  may  imagine 
That  I  know  little  of  the  laws  of  duel. 
Which  vanity  and  valor  instituted. 
You  are  in  error.     By  my  birth  I  am 
Held  no  less  than  yourselves  to  know  the  limits 
Of  honor  and  of  infamy,  nor  has  study 
Quench'd  the  free  spirit  which  first  order'd  them; 
And  thus  to  me,  as  one  well  experienced 
In  the  false  quicksands  of  the  sea  of  honor. 
You  may  refer  the  merits  of  the  case ; 
And  if  I  should  perceive  in  your  relation 
That  cither  has  the  right  to  satisfaction 
From  the  other,  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor 
To  leave  you. 

LELIO. 

Under  this  condition  then 
I  will  relate  the  cause,  and  you  will  cede 
And  must  confess  the  impossibility 

503 


^m 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  compromise ;  for  the  same  lady  is 
Beloved  by  Floro  and  myself 

FLORO. 

It  seems 
Much  to  me  that  the  light  of  day  should  look 

Upon  that  idol  of  my  heart — but  he 

Leave  us  to  fight,  according  to  thy  word. 

CYPRIA^f. 

Permit  one  question  further :  is  the  lady 
Impossible  to  hope  or  not  ? 

LELIO. 

She  is 
So  excellent,  that  if  the  light  of  day 
Should  excite  Floro's  jealousy,  it  were 
Without  just  cause,  for  even  the  light  of  day 
Trembles  to  gaze  on  her. 

CYPRIAN. 

Would  you  for  your 
Part  marry  her  ? 

FLORO. 

Such  is  my  confidence. 

CYPRIAN. 

And  you  ? 

LELIO. 

O  would  that  I  could  lift  my  hope 
So  high !  for  though  she  is  extremely  poor, 
Her  virtue  is  her  dowry. 

CYPRIAN. 

And  if  you  both 
Would  marry  her,  is  it  not  weak  and  vain, 
Culpable  and  unworthy,  thus  beforehand 
To  slur  her  honor.     What  would  the  world  say 
If  one  should  slay  the  other,  and  if  she 
Should  afterwards  espouse  the  murderer  ? 

[77(6  rivals  agree  to  refer  their  quarrel  to  Cyprian  ; 
who  in  conseqtience  visits  Justina,  and  becomes 
enamored  of  her :  she  disdains  him,  and  he 
retires  to  a  solitary  sea-shore. 


SCENE  II. 


Oh,  memory !  permit  it  not 

That  the  tyrant  of  my  thought 

Be  another  soul  that  still 

Holds  dominion  o'er  the  will, 

That  would  refuse,  but  can  no  more. 

To  bend,  to  tremble,  and  adore. 

Vain  idolalry  ! — J  saw. 

And  gazing,  became  blind  with  error; 

Weak  ambition,  which  the  awe 

Of  her  presence  bound  to  terror ' 

So  beautiful  she  was — and  I, 

Between  my  love  and  jealousy. 

Am  so  convulsed  with  hope  and  fear. 

Unworthy  as  it  may  appear; — 

So  bitter  is  the  life  I  live. 

That,  hear  me,  Hell!  I  now  would  give 

To  thy  most  detested  spirit 

My  soul,  for  ever  to  inherit. 

To  suffer  punislnnent  and  pine, 

So  this  woman  may  be  mine. 

Hear'st  thou,  Hell  I  dost  thou  reject  it? 

My  soul  is  offer'd  ! 


D^MON  (unseen). 
I  accept  it. 

[Tempest,  vnlh  thunder  and  lightning 

CYPRIAN. 

What  is  this  ?  ye  heavens  for  ever  pure. 
At  once  intensely  radiant  and  obscure ! 

Athwart  the  ethereal  halls 
The  lightning's  arrow  and  the  thunder-balls 

The  day  affright 

As  from  the  horizon  round, 

Burst  with  earthquake  sound. 
In  mighty  torrents  the  electric  fountains — 
Clouds  quench  the  sun,  and  thunder-smoke 
Strangles  the  air,  and  fire  eclipses  heaven. 
Philosophy,  thou  canst  not  even 
Compel  their  causes  underneath  thy  yoke : 
From  yonder  clouds  even  to  the  waves  below 
The  fragments  of  a  single  ruin  choke 

Imagination's  flight; 
For,  on  flakes  of  surge,  like  feathers  light, 
The  ashes  of  the  desolation  cast 

Upon  the  gloomy  blast, 
Tell  of  the  footsteps  of  the  storm. 
And  nearer  see  the  melancholy  form 
Of  a  great  ship,  the  outcast  of  the  sea, 

Drives  miserably  ! 
And  it  must  fly  the  pity  of  the  port, 
Or  perish,  and  its  last  and  sole  resort 
Is  its  own  raging  enemy. 

The  terror  of  the  thrilling  cry 

Was  a  fatal  prophecy 

Of  coming  death,  who  hovers  now 

Upon  that  shaiter'd  prow. 

That  they  who  die  not  may  be  dying  still 

And  not  alone  the  insane  elements 

Are  populous  with  wild  portents. 

But  that  sad  ship  is  as  a  miracle 

Of  sudden  ruin,  for  it  drives  so  fast 

It  seems  as  if  it  had  array 'd  its  form 

With  the  headlong  storm. 

It  strikes — I  almost  feel  the  shock, — 

It  stumbles  on  a  jagged  rock, — 

Sparkles  of  blood  on  the  white  foam  are  cast 

A  Tempest — All  exclaim  within, 
We  are  all  lost ! 

D.EM0N  (within). 
Now  from  this  plank  wih  I 
Pass  to  the  land,  and  thus  fulfil  my  scheme. 

CYPRIAN. 

As  in  contempt  of  the  elemental  rage 

A  man  comes  forth  in  safety,  while  the  ship's 

Great  form  is  in  a  watery  eclipse 

Obliterated  from  the  Ocean's  page, 

And  round  its  wreck  the  huge  sea-monsters  sit, 

A  horrid  conclave,  and  the  whistling  wave 

Are  heaped  over  its  carcase,  like  a  grave. 

The  D^MON  enters,  as  escaped  from  the  sea. 
D.EMON  (aside) 
It  was  essential  to  my  purposes 
To  wake  a  tumult  on  the  sapphire  ocean. 
That  in  this  unknown  form  I  might  at  length 
Wipe  out  the  blot  of  the  discomfiture 
Sustain'd  upon  the  mountain,  and  assail 
With  a  new  war  the  soul  of  Cyprian, 
504 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


257 


Forging  the  instrumenis  of  his  destruction 
Even  from  his  love  and  from  his  wisdom. — Oh! 
Beloved  earih,  dear  mother,  in  thy  bosom 
I  seek  a  refuge  from  ihe  monster  who 
Precipitates  iiself  upon  me. 

CYPRIAN. 

Friend, 
Collect  thyself;  and  ''e  the  memory 
Of  lliy  late  suffering,  and  thy  greatest  sorrow, 
But  as  a  shadow  of  the  past,^ — for  nothing 
Beneath  the  circle  of  the  moon,  hut  flows 
And  changes  and  can  never  know  repose. 

D.EM  ON. 

And  who  art  thou,  before  whose  feet  my  fate 
Has  prostrated  me  ? 

CYPRIAN. 

One  who,  moved  with  pity, 
Would  soothe  its  stings. 

DAEMON. 

Oh  !  that  can  never  be ! 
No  solace  can  my  lasting  sorrows  find. 

CYPRIAN. 

Wherefore  ? 

D.EMON. 

Because  my  happiness  is  lost. 
Yet  I  lament  what  has  long  ceased  to  be 
The  object  of  desire  or  memory. 
And  my  life  is  not  life. 

CYPRIAN. 

Now,  since  the  fury 
Of  this  earthquaking  hurricane  is  still. 
And  the  crj-stalline  heaven  has  reassumed 
Its  windless  calm  so  quickly,  that  it  seems 
As  if  its  heavy  wrath  had  been  awaken'd 
Only  to  overwhelm  that  vessel, — speak. 
Who  art  thou,  and  whence  comest  thou  ? 

D.EMON. 

Far  more 
My  coming  hither  cost,  than  thou  hast  seen 
Or  I  can  tell.     Among  my  misadventures 
This  shipwreck  is  the  least.     Wilt  thou  hear? 

CYPRIAN. 

Speak. 

D«MON. 

Since  thou  desiresf,  I  will  then  unveil 
Myself  to  thee  ; — for  in  myself  I  am 
A  world  of  happiness  and  misery  ; 
This  I  have  lost,  and  that  I  must  lament 
For  ever.     In  my  attributes  I  stood 
So  high  and  so  heroically  great, 
In  lineage  so  supreme,  and  with  a  genius 
Which  penetrated  with  a  glance  the  world 
Beneath  my  feet,  that,  won  by  my  high  merit, 
A  king — whom  I  may  call  the  king  of  kings, 
Because  all  oihere  tremble  in  their  pride 
Before  the  terrors  of  his  countenance, 
In  his  high  palace,  roof'd  with  brightest  gems 
Of  living  light — call  them  the  stars  of  Heaven — 
Named  me  his  counsellor.     But  the  high  praise 
Stung  me  with  pride  and  envy,  and  I  rose 
In  mighty  competition,  to  ascend 
His  seat  and  place  my  foot  triumphantly 
Upon  his  subject  thrones.     Chastised,  I  know 
The  depth  to  which  ambition  fails;  too  mad 
Was  the  attempt,  arid  yet  more  mad  were  now 
Repentance  of  the  irrevocable  deed : — 
30 


Therefore  I  chose  this  ruin  with  the  glory 
Of  not  to  be  subdued,  bcl(:)re  the  shame 
Of  reconciling  me  with  liim  who  reigns 
By  coward  cession. — i\or  was  I  alone, 
Nor  am  I  now,  nor  shall  I  be  alone ; 
And  there  was  hope,  and  there  may  still  be  hope, 
For  many  suffrages  among  liis  vassals 
Hail'd  me  their  lord  and  king,  and  many  still 
Are  mine,  and  many  more,  perchance,  shall  be. 
Thus  vanquish'd,  though  in  fact  victorious, 
I  left  his  seat  of  empire,  from  mine  eye 
Shooting  forth  poisonous  lightning,  while  my  words 
With  inauspicious  thunderings  shook  Heaven, 
Proclaiming  vengeance,  public  as  my  wrong. 
And  imprecating  on  his  prostrate  slaves 
Rapine,  and  death,  and  outrage,     Then  I  sail'd 
Over  the  mighty  fabric  of  the  world, 
A  pirate  ambush'd  in  its  pathless  sands, 
A  lynx  crouch'd  watchfully  among  its  caves 
And  craggy  shores  ;  and  I  have  wander'd  over 
The  expanse  of  these  wide  wildernesses 
In  this  great  ship,  whose  bulk  is  now  dissolved 
In  the  light  breathings  of  the  invisible  wind, 
And  which  the  sea  has  made  a  dustless  ruin. 
Seeking  ever  a  mountain,  through  whose  forests 
I  seek  a  man,  whom  I  must  now  compel 
To  keep  his  word  with  me.     I  came  array'd 
In  tempest ;  and  although  my  power  could  well 
Bridle  the  forest  winds  in  their  career. 
For  other  causes  I  forbore  to  soothe 
Their  fury  to  Favonian  gentleness, 
I  could  and  would  not  (thus  I  wake  in  him     [Aside 
A  love  of  magic  art).     I,et  not  this  tempest. 
Nor  the  succeeding  calm,  excite  thy  wonder; 
For  by  my  art  the  sun  would  turn  as  pale 
As  his  weak  sister  with  unwonted  fear. 
And  in  my  wisdom  are  the  orbs  of  Heaven 
Written  as  in  a  record  ;  I  have  pierced 
The  flaming  circles  of  their  wondrous  spheres, 
And  know  them  as  thou  knowest  every  corner 
Of  this  dim  spot.     Let  it  not  seem  lo  thee 
That  I  boast  vainly  ;  wouldst  thou  that  I  work 
A  charm  over  this  waste  and  savage  wood, 
This  Babylon  of  crags  and  aged  trees, 
Filling  its  leafy  coverts  with  a  horror 
Thrilling  and  strange  ?  I  am  the  friendless  guest 
Of  these  wild  oaks  and  pines — and  as  from  thee 
I  have  received  the  hospitality 
Of  this  rude  place,  I  offer  thee  the  fruit 
Of  years  of  toil  in  recompense ;  vvhate'er 
Thy  wildest  dream  presented  to  thy  thought 
As  object  of  desire,  that  shall  be  thine. 
***** 

And  thenceforth  shall  so  firm  an  amity 
'Twixt  thou  and  me  be,  that  neither  fortune. 
The  monstrous  phantom  which  pursues  success. 
That  careful  miser,  that  free  prodigal. 
Who  ever  alternates  with  changeful  hand, 
Evil  and  good,  reproach  and  fame  ;  nor  Time, 
That  load-star  of  the  ages,  to  whose  beam 
The  winged  years  speed  o'er  the  intervals 
Of  their  unequal  revolutions  ;  nor 
Heaven  itself,  whose  beautiful  bright  stars 
Rule  and  adorn  the  world,  can  ever  make 
The  least  division  between  thee  and  me, 
Since  now  I  find  a  refuge  in  thy  favor. 
505 


258 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


SCENE  III. 

The  D^MON  templs  Justina,  who  is  a  Christian. 


Abyss  of  Hell !  I  call  on  thee, 
Thou  wild  misrule  of  ihine  own  anarchy ! 
From  thy  prison-house  set  free 
The  spirits  of  voluptuous  death, 
That  with  their  mighty  breath 
They  may  destroy  a  world  of  virgin  thoughts; 
Let  her  chaste  mind  with  fancies  thick  as  motes 
Be  peopled  from  thy  shadowy  deep, 
Till  her  guiltless  phantasy 
Full  to  overflowing  be  ! 
And  with  sweetest  harmony, 

Let  birds,  and  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  all  things 
move 
To  love,  only  to  love. 
Let  nothing  meet  her  eyes 
But  signs  of  Love's  soft  victories ; 
Let  nothing  meet  her  ear 
But  sounds  of  Love's  sweet  sorrow. 
So  that  from  faith  no  succor  she  may  borrow, 
But,  guided  by  my  spirit  blind 
And  in  a  magic  snare  entwined. 
She  may  now  seek  Cyprian. 
Begin,  while  I  in  silence  bind 
My  voice,  when  thy  sweet  song  thou  hast  begun. 

A  VOICE  WITHIN. 

What  is  the  glory  far  above 
All  else  in  human  life  ? 

ALL. 

Love !  love ! 
[While  these  words  are  siaig,  the  D.emon  goes  out 
at  one  door,  and  Justina  enters  at  another. 

THE  FIRST  VOICE. 

There  is  no  form  in  which  the  fire 
Of  love  its  traces  has  impress'd  not. 
Man  lives  far  more  in  love's  desire 
Than  by  life's  breath,  soon  possess'd  not. 
If  all  that  lives  must  love  or  die, 
All  shapes  on  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky, 
With  one  consent  to  Heaven  cry 
That  the  glory  far  above 
All  else  in  life  is — 

ALL. 

Love  I  O  love ! 

justina. 
Thou  melancholy  thought  which  art 
So  fluttering  and  so  sweet,  to  thee 
When  did  1  give  the  liberty 
Thus  to  afflict  my  heart  ? 
What  is  the  cause  of  this  new  power 
Which  doth  my  fever'd  being  move, 
Momently  raging  more  and  more? 
What  subtle  pain  is  kindled  now 
Which  from  my  heart  doth  overflow 
Into  my  senses  ? — 

all. 
Love,  O  love ! 

JUSTINA. 

'Tis  that  enamor'd  niglitingale 
Who  gives  me  the  reply  ; 
He  ever  tells  the  same  soft  tale 
Of  passion  and  of  constancy 


To  his  mate,  who  rapt  and  fond 

Listening  sits,  a  bough  beyond. 

Be  silent,  Nightingale — no  more 

Make  me  think,  in  hearing  tiiee 

Thus  tenderly  thy  love  deplore. 

If  a  bird  can  feel  his  so. 

What  a  man  would  feel  for  me. 

And,  voluptuous  vine,  O  thou 

Who  seekest  most  when  least  pursuing, — 

To  the  trunk  thou  interlacest 

Art  the  verdure  which  embraces!, 

And  the  weight  which  is  its  ruin, — 

No  more,  with  green  embraces,  vine. 

Make  me  think  on  what  thou  lovest, — 

For  whilst  thou  thus  thy  boughs  entwine, 

I  fear  lest  thou  shouldst  teach  me,  sophist. 

How  arms  might  be  entangled  too. 

Light-enchanted  sunflower,  tiiou 

Who  gazest  ever  true  and  tender 

On  the  sun's  revolving  splendor! 

Follow  not  his  faithless  glance 

With  thy  faded  countenance. 

Nor  teach  my  beating  heart  to  fear. 

If  leaves  can  mourn  without  a  tear. 

How  eyes  must  weep !    O  Nightingale, 

Cease  from  thy  enamor'd  tale, — 

Leafy  vine,  unwrealhe  thy  bower. 

Restless  sunflower,  cease  to  move, — 

Or  tell  me  all,  what  poisonous  power 

Ye  use  against  me — 

ALL. 

Love !  love !  love ! 


It  cannot  be ! — Whom  have  I  ever  loved  ? 
Trophies  of  my  oblivion  and  disdain, 
Floro  and  Lelio  did  I  not  reject  ? 
And  Cyprian  ? — 

[She  becomes  troubled  at  the  name  of  Cyprian 
Did  I  not  requite  him 
With  such  severity,  that  he  has  fled 
Where  none  has  ever  heard  of  him  again  ? — 
Alas !  I  now  begin  to  fear  that  this 
May  be  the  occasion  whence  desire  grows  bold. 
As  if  there  were  no  danger.     From  the  moment 
That  I  pronounced  to  my  own  listening  heart, 
Cyprian  is  absent,  O  me  miserable ! 
I  know  not  what  I  feel !  [More  calmly 

It  must  be  pity. 
To  think  that  such  a  man,  whom  all  the  world 
Admired,  should  be  forgot  by  all  the  world. 
And  I  the  cause.  [She  again  becomes  troubled 

And  yet  if  it  were  pity, 
Floro  and  Lelio  might  have  equal  share, 
For  they  are  both  imprison'd  for  my  sake.     [Calmly 
Alas !  what  reasonings  are  these  ?  it  is 
Enough  1  pity  him,  and  that  in  vain. 
Without  this  ceremonious  subtlety. 
And  woe  is  me !  I  know  not  where  to  find  him  now, 
Even  should  I  seek  him  through  this  wide  world. 

Enter  D^mon; 

D^MON. 

Follow,  and  I  will  lead  thee  where  he  is. 

JUSTINA. 

And  who  art  thou,  who  hast  found  entrance  hither 
Into  my  chamber  through  the  doors  and  locks  ? 
5U6 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


259 


Art  thou  a  monstrous  shadow  which  my  madness 

Has  fonn'd  in  the  idle  air  ? 

D.EMON. 

No.    I  am  one 
Call'd  by  the  thought  which  tyrannizes  thee 
From  his  eternal  dwelling;  who  this  day 
Is  pledged  to  bear  thee  unto  Cyprian. 

JUSTIN  A. 

So  shall  thy  promise  fail.    This  agony 
Of  passion  which  afflic:s  my  heart  and  soul 
May  sweep  imagination  in  its  storm  ; 
The  will  is  firm. 

DJEMON. 

Already  half  is  done 
In  the  imagination  of  an  act. 
The  sin  incurr'd,  the  pleasure  then  remains ; 
Let  not  the  will  stop  half-way  on  the  road. 

JUSTINA. 

I  will  not  be  discouraged,  nor  despair, 
Although  I  thought  it,  and  although  'tis  true, 
That  thought  is  but  a  prelude  to  the  deed ; 
Thought  is  not  in  my  power,  but  action  is  ; 
I  will  not  move  my  foot  to  follow  thee. 

D^MON. 

But  far  a  mightier  wisdom  than  thine  own 
Exerts  itself  within  thee,  with  such  power 
Compelling  thee  to  that  which  it  inclines 
That  it  shall  force  thy  step ;  how  wilt  thou  then 
Resist,  Justina  ? 

JUSTINA. 

By  my  free-will. 

D^MON. 

I 

Must  force  thy  will. 

JUSTINA. 

It  is  invincible ; 
It  were  not  free  if  thou  hadst  power  upon  it. 

[He  draws,  but  cannot  move  her, 

D^MON. 

Come,  where  a  pleasure  waits  thee. 

JUSTINA. 

It  were  bought 
Too  dear. 

D^MON. 

'T  will  soothe  thy  heart  to  softest  peace. 

JUSTINA. 

'Tis  dread  captivity. 

D^.MON. 

'Tis  joy,  'tis  glory. 

JUSTINA. 

'T  is  shame,  't  is  torment,  't  is  despair. 

D.EMON. 

But  how 

Canst  thou  defend  thyself  from  that  or  me, 
If  my  power  drags  thee  onward  ? 

JUSTINA. 

My  defence 
Consists  in  God. 

[He  vainly  endeavors  to  force  her,  arid  at  last  re- 
leases her. 

OMilOS. 

Woman,  thou  hast  subdued  me. 
Only  by  not  owning  thyself  subdued. 
But  since  thou  thus  findesl  defence  in  God, 
I  will  assume  a  feigned  form,  and  thus 
Make  thee  a  victim  of  my  baffled  rage. 
For  I  will  mask  a  spirit  in  thy  form, 


Who  will  betray  thy  name  to  infamy, 

And  doubly  shall  I  triumph  in  thy  loss. 

First  by  dishonoring  thee,  and  then  by  tuiTiing 

False  pleasure  to  true  ignominy.  [Exit. 

JUSTINA. 

I 

Appeal  to  Heaven  against  thee  ;  so  il'iat  Heaven 
May  scatter  thy  delusions,  and  the  blot 
Upon  my  faino  vanish  in  idle  thought. 
Even  as  flame  dies  in  the  envious  aii. 
And  as  the  floweret  wanes  at  morning  frost. 

And  thou  shouldst  never Rut,  alas !  to  whom 

Do  I  still  speak  ? — Did  not  a  man  but  now 
Stand  here  before  me  ? — No,  I  am  alone, 
And  yet  I  saw  him.    Is  he  gone  so  quickly? 
Or  can  the  heated  mind  engender  shapes 
From  its  own  fear?    Some  terrible  and  strange 
Peril  is  near.    Lisander  I  father !  lord  ! 
Livia ! — 

Enter  Lisander  and  Livia. 

LISANDER. 

O,  my  daughter !    What  ? 
livia. 
What? 

JUSTINA. 

Saw  you 
A  man  go  forth  from  my  apartment  now « 
I  scarce  sustain  myself! 

lisander. 
A  man  here 

JUSTINA. 

Have  you  not  seen  him  ? 

LIVIA. 

No,  lady. 

JUSTINA. 

I  saw  him. 

LISANDER. 

'T  is  impossible  ;  the  doors 
Which  led  to  this  apartment  were  all  lock'd- 

LIVIA  (aside). 
I  dare  say  it  was  Moscon  whom  she  saw, 
For  he  was  lock'd  up  in  my  room. 

LISANDER. 

It  must 
Have  been  some  image  of  thy  phantasy  ; 
Such  melancholy  as  thou  feedest,  is 
Skilful  in  forming  such  in  the  vain  air 
Out  of  the  motes  and  atoms  of  the  day. 

LIVIA. 

My  master's  in  the  right. 

JUSTINA. 

O,  would  it  were 
Delusion  !  But  I  fear  some  greater  ill. 
I  feel  as  if  out  of  my  bleeding  bosom 
My  heart  were  torn  in  fragments ;  ay. 
Some  mortal  spell  is  wrought  against  my  frame , 
So  potent  was  the  charm,  that  had  not  Ciod 
Shielded  my  humble  innocence  from  wrong, 
I  should  have  sought  my  sorrow  and  my  shame 
With  willing  steps. — Livia,  quick  bring  my  cloak. 
For  I  must  seek  refuge  from  these  extreme."! 
Even  in  the  temple  of  the  highest  God 
Which  secretly  the  faithful  worship. 

LIVIA. 

Here. 

507 


260 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


JUSTINA  (putting  on  her  cloak). 
In  this,  as  in  a  shroud  of  snow,  may  I 
Quench  the  consuming  fire  in  which  I  bum, 
Wasting  away .' 

LISANDER. 

And  I  will  go  with  thee. 

LIVIA. 

When  I  once  see  them  safe  out  of  the  house, 
I  shall  breathe  freely. 

JUSTINA. 

So  do  I  confide 
In  thy  just  favor,  Heaven  ! 

LISANDER. 

Let  us  go. 

JUSTINA. 

Thine  is  the  cause,  great  God !  turn  for  my  sake, 
And  for  thine  own,  mercifully  to  me ! 


TRANSLATION  FROM  MOSCHUS. 

Pan  loved  his  neighbor  Echo — but  that  child 

Of  Earth  and  Air  pined  for  the  Satyr  leaping ; 
The  Satyr  loved  with  wasting  madness  wild 

The    bright   nymph  Lyda, — and   so   three   went 
weeping. 
As  Pan  loved  Echo,  Echo  loved  the  Satyr ; 

The  Satyr,  Lyda — and  thus  love  consumed  them. — 
And  thus  to  each — which  was  a  woful  matter — 

To  bear  what  they  inflicted,  justice  doom'd  them; 
For  inasmuch  as  each  might  hate  the  lover. 

Each  loving,  so  was  hated. — Ye  that  love  not 
Be  warn'd — in  thought  turn  this  example  over, 

That  when  ye  love,  the  like  return  ye  prove  not 


SCENES 

FROM  THE  FAXJST  OF  GOETHE. 


PROLOGUE  IN   HEAVEN. 

The  Lord  and  the  Host  of  Heaven. 
Enter  three  Archangels. 

RAPHAEL. 

The  sun  makes  music  as  of  old 

Amid  the  rival  spheres  of  Heaven, 
On  its  predestined  circle  roU'd 

With  thunder  speed  :  the  Angels  even 
Draw  strength  from  gazing  on  its  glance, 

Though  none  its  meaning  fathom  may  :- 
The  world's  unvvitiier'd  countenance 

Is  bright  as  at  creation's  day. 

GABRIEL. 

And  swift  and  swifl,  with  rapid  lightness. 

The  adorned  Earth  spins  silently. 
Alternating  FJysian  brightness 

With  deep  and  dreadful  night;  the  sea 
Foams  in  broad  billows  from  the  deep 

Up  to  the  rocks,  and  rocks  and  ocean. 
Onward,  with  spheres  which  never  sleep, 

Are  hurried  in  eternal  motion. 

MICHAEL. 

And  tempests  in  contention  roar 
From  land  to  sea,  from  sea  to  land  ; 

And,  raging,  weave  a  chain  of  power. 
Which  girds  the  earth,  as  with  a  band. 


A  flashing  desolation  there, 

Flames  before  the  thunder's  way , 

But  thy  servants,  Lord  !  revere 
The  gentle  changes  of  thy  day. 

CHORUS  OF  THE  THREE. 

The  Angels  draw  strength  from  thy  glance, 
Though  no  one  comprehend  thee  may ; — 

Thy  world's  unwither'd  countenance 
Is  bright  as  on  creation's  day.* 

Enter  Mephistopheles. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

As  thou,  O  Lord  I  once  more  art  kind  enough 

To  interest  thyself  in  our  affairs — 

And  ask,  "  How  goes  it  with  you  there  below  ? " 

And  as  indulgently  at  other  times 

Thou  tookest  not  my  visits  in  ill  part. 

Thou  seest  me  here  once  more  among  thy  household. 

Though  I  should  scandalize  this  company. 

You  will  excuse  me  if  I  do  not  talk 

In  the  high  style  which  they  think  fashionable ; 

My  pathos  would  certainly  make  you  laugh  too. 

Had  you  not  long  since  given  over  laughing. 

Nothing  know  I  to  say  of  suns  and  worlds ; 

I  observe  only  how  men  plague  themselves ; — 

The  little  god  o'  the  world  keeps  the  same  stamp. 

As  wonderful  as  on  creation's  day : — 

A  little  better  would  he  live,  hadst  diou 

Not  given  him  a  glimpse  of  heaven's  light 

Which  he  calls  reason,  and  employs  it  only 

To  live  more  beastlily  than  any  beast. 

With  reverence  to  your  Lordship  be  it  spoken, 

He 's  like  one  of  those  long-legg'd  grasshoppers, 

Who  flits  and  jumps  about,  and  sings  for  ever 


*  RAPilAEL. 

The  sun  sounds,  according  to  ancient  custom. 

In  the  son?  of  emulation  of  his  brother-spheres. 

And  its  forewritten  circle 

Fulfils  with  a  step  of  thunder. 

Its  countenance  gives  the  Angels  strength. 

Though  no  one  can  fathom  it. 

The  incredible  high  works 

Are  excellent  as  at  the  first  day. 

GABRIEL. 

And  swift,  and  inconceivably  swift 

Tlie  adornment  of  earth  winds  itself  round, 

And  exchanges  Paradise-clearness 

With  deep  dreadful  niglit. 

The  sea  foams  in  broad  waves 

From  its  deep  bottom,  up  to  the  rocks, 

And  rocks  and  sea  are  torn  on  together 

In  the  eternal  swift  course  of  the  spheres. 

MICHAEL. 

And  storms  roar  in  emulation 

From  sea  to  land,  from  land  to  sea, 

And  make,  raging,  a  chain 

Of  deepest  operation  round  about. 

There  flames  a  flashing  destruction 

Before  the  path  of  the  thunderbolt. 
'  But  thy  servants,  Lord,  revere 

The  gentle  alternations  of  thy  day. 
CHORUS. 

Thy  countenance  gives  the  Angels  strengt,. 

Though  none  can  comprehend  thee: 

And  all  thy  lofty  works 

Are  excellent  as  at  the  first  day. 
Such  is  a  literal  translation  of  this  astonishing  Chorus: 
it  is  impossible  to  represent  in  another  langnagi,  Jiemelody 
of  the  versification  ;  even  the  volatile  strength  and  deli- 
cacy of  the  ideas  escape  in  the  crucible  of  translation, 
and  the  reader  is  surprised  to  find  a  caput  mortuum.— 
.Author's  Mote. 

508 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


261 


The  same  old  song  i'lhe  grass.     There  let  him  lie, 
Burying  his  nose  in  every  heap  of  dung. 

THE  LORD. 

Have  yon  no  more  to  say  ?  Do  yon  come  here 
Always  to  scold,  and  cavil,  and  comjilain? 
Seems  nothing  ever  right  to  you  on  earth? 

MF;pnisTornELES. 
No,  Lord  I  I  find  all  there,  as  ever,  bad  at  best. 
Even  I  am  sorry  for  man's  days  of  sorrow ; 
I  could  myself  almost  give  up  the  pleasure 
Of  plaguing  the  poor  things. 

THE  LORD. 

Knowest  thou  Faust  ? 

MEPHISTO  PHELES. 

The  Doctor  ? 

THE  LORD. 

Ay ;  my  servant  Faust  ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

In  truth 
He  serves  you  in  a  fashion  quite  his  own  ; 
And  the  fool's  meat  and  drink  are  not  of  earth. 
His  aspirations  bear  him  on  so  far 
That  he  is  half  aware  of  his  own  folly. 
For  he  demands  from  Heaven  its  fairest  star, 
And  from  the  earth  the  highest  joy  it  bears : 
Yet  all  things  far,  and  all  things  near,  are  vain 
To  calm  the  deep  emotions  of  his  breast. 

THE  LORD. 

Though  ho  now  serves  me  in  a  cloud  of  error, 
I  will  soon  lead  him  forth  to  the  clear  day. 
When  trees  look  green,  full  well  the  gardener  knows 
That  fruits  and  blooms  will  deck  the  coming  year. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

What  will  you  bet  ? — now  I  am  sure  of  winning  ■ 
Only,  observe  you  give  me  full  permission 
To  lead  him  softly  on  my  path. 

THE  LORD. 

As  long 
As  he  shall  live  upon  the  earth,  so  long 
Is  nothing  unto  thee  forbidden — Man 
Must  err  till  he  has  ceased  to  struggle. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Thanks. 
And  that  is  all  I  ask;  for  willingly 
I  never  make  acquaintance  with  the  dead. 
The  full  fresh  cheeks  of  youth  are  food  for  me ; 
And  if  a  corpse  knocks,  I  am  not  at  home. 
For  I  am  like  a  cat — I  like  to  play 
A  little  with  the  mouse  before  I  eat  it. 

THE  LORD. 

Well,  well!  it  is  permitted  thee.     Draw  thou 
His  spirit  from  its  springs  ;  as  thou  find'st  power, 
Seize  him  and  lead  him  on  thy  downward  path; 
And  stand  ashamed  when  failure  teaches  thee 
That  a  good  man,  even  in  his  darkest  longings, 
Is  well  aware  of  the  right  way. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Well  and  good. 
I  am  not  in  much  doubt  about  my  bet ; 
And  if  I  lose,  then  'tis  your  turn  to  crow  : 
Enjoy  your  triumph  then  with  a  full  breast. 
Ay!  dust  shall  he  devour,  and  that  with  pleasure, 
Like  my  old  paramour,  the  famous  Snake. 

THE  LORD. 

Pray  come  here  when  it  suits  you ;  for  I  never 
Had  much  dislike  for  people  of  your  sort. 


And,  among  all  the  Spirits  who  rebell'd. 
The  knave  was  ever  the  least  tedious  to  me. 
The  active  spirit  of  man  soon  sleeps,  and  soon 
He  seeks  unbroken  quiet ;  therefore  I 
Have  given  him  the  Devil  for  a  companion. 
Who  may  provoke  him  to  some  sort  of  work. 
And  must  create  for  ever. — But  ye,  pure 
Children  of  God,  enjoy  eternal  beauty; — 
Not  that  which  ever  operates  and  lives 
Clasp  you  within  the  limits  of  its  love  ; 
And  seize  with  sweet  and  melancholy  thoughts 
The  floating  phantoms  of  its  loveliness. 

[Heavoi  closes  ;  the  Archangels  exeunt 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

From  time  to  time  I  visit  the  old  fellow. 

And  I  take  care  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  him. 

Civil  enough  is  this  same  God  Almighty, 

To  talk  so  freely  with  the  Devil  himself. 


MAY-DAY  NIGHT. 

Scene — The  Hartz  Mountain,  a  desolate  Country. 

Faust,  Mephistopheles. 

mephistopheles. 
Would  you  not  like  a  broomstick  ?  As  for  me, 
I  wish  I  had  a  good  stout  ram  to  ride ; 
For  we  are  still  far  from  the  appointed  place. 

FAUST. 

This  knotted  staff  is  help  enough  for  me. 

Whilst  I  feel  fresh  upon  my  legs.     What  good 

Is  there  in  making  short  a  pleasant  way  ? 

To  creep  along  the  labyrinths  of  the  vales, 

And  clirnb  those  rocks,  where  ever-babbling  springs 

Precipitate  themselves  in  waterfalls. 

Is  the  true  sport  that  seasons  such  a  path. 

Already  Spring  kindles  the  birchen  spray. 

And  the  hoar  pines  already  feel  her  breath : 

Shall  she  not  work  also  within  our  limbs  ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Nothing  of  such  an  influence  do  I  feel  : 

My  body  is  all  wintry,  and  I  wish 

The  flowers  upon  our  path  were  frost  and  snow 

But  see,  how  melancholy  rises  now. 

Dimly  uplifting  her  belated  beam, 

The  blank  unwelcome  round  of  the  red  moon, 

And  gives  so  bad  a  light,  that  every  step 

One  stumbles  'gainst  some  crag.  With  your  permission 

I'll  call  an  Ignis-fatuns  to  our  aid; 

I  see  one  yonder  burning  jollily. 

Halloo,  my  friend  !  may  I  request  that  you 

Would  favor  us  with  your  bright  company? 

Why  should  you  blaze  away  there  to  no  purpose? 

Pray  be  so  good  as  light  us  up  this  way. 

IG.MS-FATUUS. 

With  reverence  be  it  spoken,  I  will  try 
To  overcome  the  lightness  of  my  nature : 
Our  course,  you  know,  is  generally  zigzag. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Ha  !  ha !  your  worship  thinks  you  have  to  deal 
With  men.  Go  straight  on,  in  the  Devil's  name 
Or  I  shall  puff  your  flickering  life  out. 


IGNIS-FATUUS. 


Well, 


I  see  you  are  the  master  of  the  house ; 
I  will  accommodate  myself  to  you. 

66  509 


262 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Only  consider,  that  to-night  this  mountain 

Is  all  enchanted,  and  if  Jack-a-Lanlern 

Sliows  you  his  way,  though  you  should  miss  your  own, 

You  ought  not  to  be  too  exact  with  him. 

FAUST,  MEPHISTOPHELES,  and  iGNis-FATUus,  in  alter- 
nate Chorus. 

The  limits  of  the  sphere  of  dream, 

The  bounds  of  true  and  false,  are  past. 

Lead  us  on,  thou  wandering  Gleam, 
Lead  us  onward,  far  and  fast, 
To  the  wide,  the  desert  waste. 

But  see,  how  swift  advance  and  shift, 

Trees  behind  trees,  row  by  row, — 
How  clift  by  clifi,  rocks  bend  and  lift 

Their  frowning  foreheads  as  we  go. 

The  giant-snouted  crags,  ho  !  ho  ! 

How  they  snort,  and  how  they  blow ! 

Through  the  mossy  sods  and  stones 
Stream  and  streamlet  hurry  down, 
A  rushing  throng !  A  sound  of  song 
Beneath  the  vault  of  Heaven  is  blown ! 
Sweet  notes  of  love,  the  speaking  tones 
Of  this  bright  day,  sent  down  to  say 
That  Paradise  on  Earlh  is  known, 
Resound  around,  beneath,  above. 
All  we  hope  and  all  we  love 
Finds  a  voice  in  this  blithe  strain, 
Which  wakens  hill  and  wood  and  rill, 
And  vibrates  far  o'er  field  and  vale, 
And  which  Echo,  like  the  tale 
"Of  old  times,  repeats  again. 

Tu-whoo !  tu-whoo  I  near,  nearer  now 
The  sound  of  song,  the  rushing  throng! 
Are  the  screech,  the  lapwing,  and  the  jay. 
All  awake  as  if  'twere  day? 

See,  with  long  legs  and  belly  wide, 

A  salamander  in  the  brake ! 

Every  root  is  like  a  snake. 

And  along  the  loose  hill-side, 

With  strange  contortions  through  the  night, 

Curls,  to  seize  or  to  atfright; 

And,  animated,  strong,  and  many. 

They  dart  forth  polypus-antennaj. 

To  blister  with  their  poison  spume 

The  wanderer.     Through  the  dazzling  gloom 

The  many-color'd  mice,  ihat  thread 

The  dewy  turf  beneath  our  tread, 

In  troops  each  other's  motions  cross, 

Through  the  nealh  and  through  the  moss ; 

And,  in  legions  intertangled. 

The  fire-flies  flit,  and  swarm,  and  throng, 

Till  all  the  mountain  depths  are  spangled. 

Tell  me,  shall  we  go  or  stay  ? 
Shall  we  onward?  Come  along! 
Every  thing  around  is  swept 
Forward,  onward,  far  away  ! 
Trees  and  masses  intercept 
The  sight,  and  wisps  on  every  side 
Are  pufT'd  up  and  multiplied. 


MEPHISTOPHELES. 

IVow  vigorously  seize  my  skirt,  and  gain 
This  pinnacle  of  isolated  crag. 
One  may  observe  with  wonder  from  this  point, 
How  Mammon  glows  among  the  mountains. 


Ay— 
And  strangely  througli  the  solid  depth  below 
A  melancholy  light,  like  the  red  dawn. 
Shoots  from  the  lowest  gorge  of  tlie  abyss 
Of  mountains,  lightening  hilherward :  there  rise 
Pillars  of  smoke,  here  clouds  float  gently  by  ; 
Here  the  light  burns  soft  as  the  enkindled  air, 
Or  the  illumined  dust  of  golden  flowers ; 
And  now  it  glides  like  tender  colors  spreading; 
And  now  bui'sts  forth  in  fountains  from  the  earth ; 
And  now  it  winds,  one  torrent  of  broad  light. 
Through  the  far  valley  with  a  hundred  veins ; 
And  now  once  more  within  Ihat  narrow  corner 
Masses  itself  into  intensive  splendor. 
And  near  us,  see,  sparks  spring  out  of  the  ground. 
Like  golden  sand  scatter'd  upon  the  darkness ; 
The  pinnacles  of  that  black  wall  of  mountains 
That  hems  us  in,  are  kindled. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Rare,  in  faith ! 
Does  not  Sir  Mammon  gloriously  illuminate 
His  palace  for  this  festival — it  is 
A  pleasure  which  you  had  not  known  before. 
I  spy  the  boisterous  guests  already. 

FAUST. 

How 

The  children  of  the  wind  rage  in  the  air ! 

With  what  fierce  strokes  they  fall  upon  my  neck ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Cling  tightly  to  the  old  ribs  of  the  crag. 
Beware !  for  if  with  them  thou  warrest 
In  their  fierce  flight  towards  the  wilderness. 
Their  breath  will  sweep  thee  into  dust,  and  drag 
Thy  body  to  a  grave  in  the  abyss. 

A  cloud  thickens  the  night. 
Hark!  how  the  tempest  crashes  through  the  forest 

The  owls  fly  out  in  strange  affright ; 
The  columns  of  the  evergreen  palaces 
Are  split  and  shatter'd ; 
The  roots  creak,  and  stretch,  and  groan ; 
And  ruinously  overthrown. 
The  trunks  are  crush'd  and  shatter'd 
By  the  fierce  blast's  unconquerable  stress. 
Over  each  other  crack  and  crash  they  all. 
In  terrible  and  intertangled  fall; 
And  through  the  ruins  of  the  shaken  mountaiB 

The  airs  hiss  and  howl — 
It  is  not  the  voice  of  the  fountain. 
Nor  the  wolf  in  his  midnight  prowl. 
Dost  thou  not  hear  ? 

Strange  accents  are  ringing 
Aloft,  afar,  anear ; 

The  witches  are  singing! 
The  torrent  of  a  raging  wizard  song 
Streams  the  whole  mountain  along. 

CHORUS  OF  WITCHES. 

The  stubble  is  yellow,  the  corn  is  green, 
Now  to  the  brocken  the  witches  go ; 
The  mighty  multitude  here  may  be  seen 
Gathering,  wizard  and  witch,  below. 
510 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


203 


Sir  Urean  is  sitting  aloft  in  the  air ; 
Iley  over  slock !  and  hey  over  stone  ! 
'Twixt  witches  and  incubi,  what  shall  bo  ione  ? 
Tell  it  who  dare  !  tell  it  who  dare ! 

A  VOICE. 

ITpon  a  sow-swine,  whose  farrows  were  nine, 
Old  Baubo  rideth  alone, 

CHORUS. 

Honor  her,  to  whom  honor  is  due, 

Old  mother  Baubo,  honor  to  you ! 

An  able  sow,  with  old  Baubo  upon  her. 

Is  worthy  of  glory,  and  \\orihy  of  honor! 

The  legion  of  witches  is  coming  behind. 

Darkening  the  night,  and  outspeeding  the  wind — 

A  VOICE. 

Which  way  coraest  thou  ? 

A  VOICE. 

Over  Ilsenstein. 
The  owl  was  awake  in  the  white  moonshine : 
I  saw  her  at  rest  in  her  downy  nest, 
And  she  stared  at  me  with  her  broad,  bright  eye. 

VOICES. 

And  you  may  now  as  well  take  your  course  on  to  Hell, 
Since  you  ride  by  so  fast  on  the  headlong  blast. 

A  VOICE. 

She  dropp'd  poison  upon  me  as  I  past. 
Here  are  the  wounds 

CHORUS  OF  WITCHES. 

Come  away !  come  along ! 
The  way  is  wide,  the  way  is  long, 
But  what  is  that  for  a  Bedlam  throng  ? 
Stick  with  the  prong,  and  scratch  with  the  broom, 
The  child  in  the  cradle  lies  strangled  at  home. 
And  the  mother  is  clapping  her  hands. 

SEMI-CHORUS  OF  WIZARDS  I. 

We  glide  in 
Like  snails  when  the  women  are  all  away ; 
And  from  a  house  once  given  over  to  sin 
Woman  has  a  thousand  steps  to  stray. 

SEMI-CHORUS  II. 

A  thousand  steps  must  a  woman  take, 
Where  a  man  but  a  single  spring  will  make. 

VOICES  ABOVE. 

Come  with  us,  come  with  us,  from  Feluasee. 

VOICES  BELOW. 

With  what  joy  would  we  fly  through  the  upper  sky! 
We  are  wash'd,  we  are  'nointed,  stark  naked  are  we; 
But  our  toil  and  our  pain  are  for  ever  in  vain. 

BOTH  CHORUSSES. 

The  wind  is  still,  the  stars  are  fled, 
The  melancholy  moon  is  dead  ; 
The  magic  notes,  like  spark  on  spark, 
Drizzle,  whistling  through  the  dark. 
Come  away  I 

VOICES  BELOW. 

Slay,  oh  stay ! 

VOICES  ABOVE. 

Out  of  the  crannies  of  the  rocks 
Who  calls  ? 

VOICES  BELOW. 

Oh,  let  me  join  your  flocks! 
I  three  hundred  years  have  striven 
To  catch  your  skirt  and  mount  to  Heaven, — 
And  still  in  vain.    Oh,  might  I  be 
With  company  akin  to  me ! 


BOTH  CHORUSSES. 

•Some  on  a  ram  and  some  on  a  prong. 

On  poles  and  on  broomsticks  we  flutter  along ; 

Forlorn  is  the  wight  who  can  rise  not  to-night 

A  HALF-WITCH  BELOW. 

I  have  been  tripping  this  many  an  hour : 
Are  the  others  already  so  far  belbrc  ? 
No  quiet  at  home,  and  no  peace  abroad ! 
And  less  melhinks  is  found  by  the  road. 

CHORUS  OF  WITCHES. 

Come  onward  away  !  aroint  thee,  aroint ' 

A  witch  to  be  strong  must  anoint — anoint  — 

Then  every  trough  will  be  boat  enough  ; 

With  a  rag  for  a  sail  we  can  sweep  through  the  sky-— 

Who  flies  not  to-night,  when  means  he  to  fly  ? 

BOTH   CHORUSSES. 

We  cling  to  the  skirt,  and  we  strike  on  the  ground , 
Witch-legions  thicken  around  and  around  : 
Wizard-swarms  cover  the  heath  all  over. 

[They  descend 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Wliat  thronging,  dashing,  raging,  rustling  ; 
What  whispering,  babbling,  hissing,  busihng, 
What  glimmering,  spurting,  stinking,  burmng, 
As  Heaven  and  Earth  were  overturning. 
There  is  a  true  witch  element  about  us  ! 
Take  hold  on  me,  or  we  shall  be  divided     - 
Where  are  you  ? 

FAUST  (^from  a  distance) 
Here! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

What  ? 
I  must  exert  my  authority  in  the  house ! 
Place  for  young  Voland — Pray  make  way,  good  people. 
Take  hold  on  me,  Doctor,  and  with  one  step 
Let  us  escape  from  this  unpleasant  crowd : 
They  are  too  mad  for  people  of  my  sort. 
Just  there  shines  a  peculiar  kind  of  light — 
Something  attracts  me  in  those  bushes.    ConiO 
This  way :  we  shall  slip  down  there  in  a  minute 

FAUST. 

Spirit  of  Contradiction!    Well,  lead  on — 
'Twere  a  wise  feat  indeed  to  wander  out 
Into  the  brocken  upon  May-day  night, 
And  then  to  isolate  oneself  in  scorn, 
Disgusted  with  the  humors  of  the  time. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

See  yonder,  round  a  many-color'd  flame 
A  merry  club  is  huddled  altogether  : 
Even  with  such  little  people  as  sit  there, 
One  would  not  be  alone. 

FAUST. 

Would  that  I  were 
Up  yonder  in  the  glow  and  whirling  smoke. 
Where  the  blind  million  rush  impetuously 
To  meet  the  evil  ones ;  there  might  I  solve 
Many  a  riddle  that  torments  me ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Yet 

Many  a  riddle  there  is  tied  anew 
Inextricably.    Let  the  great  world  rage ! 
We  will  stay  here  safe  in  the  quiet  dwellings. 
'Tis  an  old  custom.    Men  have  ever  built 
Their  own  small  world  in  the  great  world  of  alL 
I  see  young  witches  naked  there,  and  old  ones 
Wisely  attired  with  greater  decency. 
511 


^64 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Be  guided  now  by  me,  and  you  shall  buy 
A  pound  of  pleasure  with  a  dram  of  trouble. 
I  hear  them  tune  their  instruments — one  must 
Get  used  to  this  damn'd  scraping.  Come,  I  '11  lead  you 
Among  them;  and  what  there  you  do  and  see, 
As  a  fresh  compact  'twixt  us  two  shall  be. 
How  say  you  now  ?  this  space  is  wide  enough — 
Look  forth,  you  cannot  see  the  end  of  it — 
A  hundred  bonfires  burn  iri  rows,  and  they 
Who  throng  around  them  seem  innumerable  ; 
Dancing  and  drinking,  jabbering,  making  love. 
And  cooking,  are  at  work.    Now  tell  me,  friend, 
What  is  there  better  in  the  world  than  this  ? 

FAUST. 

In  introducing  us,  do  you  assume 
The  character  of  wizard  or  of  devil  ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

In  truth,  I  generally  go  about 

In  strict  incognito ;  and  yet  one  likes 

To  wear  one's  orders  upon  gala-days. 

I  have  no  ribbon  at  my  knee  ;  but  here 

At  home,  the  cloven  foot  is  honorable. 

See  you  that  snail  there? — she  comes  creeping  up, 

And  with  her  feeling  eyes  hath  smelt  out  something. 

I  could  not,  if  I  would,  mask  myself  here. 

Come  now,  we  '11  go  about  from  fire  to  fire : 

I  '11  be  the  pimp,  and  you  shall  be  the  lover. 

[To  some  Old  Women,  who  are  sitting  round  a 
heap  of  glimmering  coals. 
Old  gentlewomen,  what  do  you  do  out  here  ? 
You  ought  to  be  with  the  young  rioters 
Right  in  the  thickest  of  the  revelry — 
But  every  one  is  best  content  at  home. 

GENERAL. 

Who  dare  confide  in  right  or  a  just  claim  ? 

So  much  as  I  had  done  for  them  I  and  now — 
With  women  and  the  people  'tis  the  same. 
Youth  will  stand  foremost  ever, — age  may  go 
To  the  dark  grave  unhonor'd. 

MI.MSTER. 

Now-a-days 
People  assert  their  rights  :  they  go  too  far ; 

But  as  for  me,  the  good  old  times  I  praise ; 
Then  we  were  all  in  all,  'twas  something  worth 

One's  while  to  be  in  place  and  wear  a  star ; 
That  was  indeed  the  golden  age  on  earth. 

PARVENU.* 

We  too  are  active,  and  we  did  and  do 
What  we  ought  not,  perhaps ;  and  yet  we  now 
Will  seize,  whilst  all  things  are  whirl'd  round  and  round, 
A  spoke  of  Fortune's  wheel,  and  keep  our  ground. 

AUTHOR. 

Who  now  can  taste  a  treatise  of  deep  sense 
And  ponderous  volume  ?  'tis  impertinence 
To  write  what  none  will  read,  therefore  will  I 
To  please  the  young  and  thoughtless  people  try. 
MEPHISTOPHELES  {wlio  at  once  appears  to  have  grown 

very  old). 
I  find  the  people  ripe  for  the  last  day. 
Since  I  last  came  up  to  the  wizard  mountain ; 
And  as  my  little  cask  runs  turbid  now 
So  is  the  world  drain'd  to  the  dregs. 


PEDLAR    WITCH. 


Look  here, 


*  A  sort  of  fundholder. 


Gentlemen ;  do  not  hurry  on  so  fast, 

And  lose  the  chance  of  a  good  pennyworth 

I  have  a  pack  full  of  the  choicest  v^ares 

Of  every  sort,  and  yet  in  all  my  bundle 

Is  nothing  like  what  may  be  found  on  earth ; 

Nothing  that  in  a  moment  will  make  rich 

Men  and  the  world  with  fine  malicious  mischiof 

There  is  no  dagger  drunk  with  blood  ;  no  bowl 

From  which  consuming  poison  may  be  drain'd 

By  innocent  and  healthy  lips  ;  no  jewel. 

The  price  of  an  abandon'd  maiden's  shame ; 

No  sword  which  cuts  the  bond  it  cannot  loose 

Or  stabs  the  wearer's  enemy  in  the  back ; 

No 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Gossip,  you  know  little  of  these  times 
What  has  been,  has  been  ;  what  is  done,  is  par- 
They  shape  themselves  into  the  innovations 
They  breed,  and  innovation  drags  us  with  it. 
The  torrent  of  the  crov^'d  sweeps  over  us 
You  think  to  impel,  and  are  yourself  impell'd. 

FAUST. 

Who  is  that  yonder  ? 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Mark  her  well.    It  is 
LiUth. 

FAUST. 

Who? 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Liliih,  the  first  wife  of  Adam 
Beware  of  her  fair  hair,  for  she  excels 
All  women  in  the  magic  of  her  locks  ; 
And  when  she  winds  them  round  a  young  man's  necJi 
She  will  not  ever  set  him  free  again. 

FAUST. 

There  sit  a  girl  and  an  old  woman — they 
Seem  to  be  tired  with  pleasure  and  with  play. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

There  is  no  rest  to-night  for  any  one  : 
When  one  dance  ends,  another  is  begun  ; 
Come,  let  us  to  it ;  we  shall  have  rare  fun. 

[Faust  dances  and  sings  with  a  Girl,  and  Mr 
PHISTOPHELES  with  an  Old  Woman. 

BROCTO-PHANTASMIST. 

WTiat  is  this  cursed  multitude  about? 

Have  we  not  long  since  proved  to  demonstration 

That  ghosts  move  not  on  ordinary  feet  ? 

But  these  are  dancing  just  like  men  and  women. 

THE    GIRL. 

What  does  he  want  then  at  our  ball  ? 

FAUST. 

Oh'  he 
Is  far  above  us  all  in  his  conceit : 
Whilst  we  enjoy,  he  reasons  of  enjoyment ; 
And  any  step  which  in  our  dance  we  tread. 
If  it  be  left  out  of  his  reckoning, 
Is  not  to  be  consider'd  as  a  step. 
There  are  few  things  that  scandalize  him  not : 
And  when  you  whirl  round  in  the  circle  now, 
As  he  went  round  the  wheel  in  his  old  mill. 
He  says  that  you  go  wrong  in  all  respects. 
Especially  if  you  congratulate  him 
Upon  the  strength  of  the  resemblance. 


BROCTO-PHANTASMIST. 


Flyr 


Vanish !    Unheard-of  impudence !  What,  still  there 
512 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


205 


In  this  enlighteii'cl  age  too,  since  you  have  been 
Proved  not  to  exist ! — But  this  infernal  brood 
Will  hear  no  reason  and  endure  no  rule. 
Are  we  so  wise,  and  is  the  pond  still  haunted  ? 
How  long  have  I  been  sweeping  out  this  rubbish 
Of  superstition,  and  the  world  will  not 
Come  clean  with  all  my  pains ! — it  is  a  case 
Unheard  of! 

THE    GIRL. 

Then  leave  off  teasing  us  so. 

BROCTO-PH.\NTASMIST. 

I  tell  you,  spirits,'  to  your  faces  now, 
That  I  should  not  regret  this  despotism 
Of  spirits,  but  that  mine  can  wield  it  not. 
To-night  I  shall  make  poor  work  of  it ; 
Yet  I  will  take  a  round  with  you,  and  hope 
Before  my  last  step  in  the  living  dance 
To  beat  the  poet  and  the  devil  together. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

At  last  he  will  sit  down  in  some  foul  puddle  ! 
That  is  his  way  of  solacing  himself; 
Until  some  leech,  diverted  with  his  gravity, 
Cures  him  of  spirits  and  the  spirit  together. 

[To  Faust,  who  has  seceded  from  the  dance. 
Why  do  you  let  that  fair  girl  pass  from  you, 
Who  sung  so  sweetly  to  you  in  the  dance  ? 

FAUST. 

A  red  mouse  in  the  middle  of  her  singing 
Sprang  from  her  mouth. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

That  was  all  right,  my  friend  ; 
Be  it  enough  that  the  mouse  was  not  gray. 
Do  not  disturb  your  hour  of  happiness 
With  close  consideration  of  such  trifles. 


Then  saw  I- 


MEPHISTOPIIELES. 

What? 


FAIJST. 

Seest  thou  not  a  pale 
Fair  girl,  standing  alone,  far,  far  away? 
She  drags  herself  now  forvk-ard  with  slow  steps. 
And  seems  as  if  she  moved  with  shackled  feet: 
I  cannot  overcome  the  thought  that  she 
Is  like  poor  Margaret. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Let  it  be — pass  on — 
No  good  can  come  of  it — it  is  not  well 
To  meet  it — it  is  an  enchanted  phantom, 
A  lifeless  idol ;  with  its  numhing  look, 
It  freezes  up  the  blood  of  man ;  and  they 
Who  meet  its  ghastly  stare  are  turn'd  to  stone. 
Like  those  who  saw  Medusa. 

FAL'ST. 

Oh,  too  true! 
Iler  eyes  are  like  tbe  eyes  of  a  fresh  corpse 
Which  no  beloved  hand  has  closed,  alas! 
That  is  the  heart  which  Margaret  yielded  to  me — 
Those  are  the  lovely  limbs  which  I  enjoy 'd  ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

It  is  all  magic,  poor  deluded  fool ! 

She  looks  to  every  one  like  his  first  love. 

FAUST. 

Oh,  what  delight  I  what  woe!  I  cannot  turn 
My  looks  from  her  sweet  piteous  countenance. 
How  strangely  does  a  single  blood-red  line, 
3P 


Not  broader  than  the  sharp  edge  of  a  knife. 
Adorn  her  lovely  neck ! 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

Ay,  she  can  carry 
Her  head  under  her  arm  upon  occasion ; 
Perseus  has  cut  it  off  for  her.    These  pleasures 
End  in  delusion. — Gain  tliis  rising  ground, 
It  is  as  airy  here  as  in  a  [  ] 

And  if  I  am  not  mightily  deceived, 
I  see  a  theatre — What  may  this  mean  ? 

ATTENDANT. 

Quite  a  ne\v  piece,  the  last  of  seven,  for  'tis 
The  custom  now  to  represent  that  number. 
'Tis  written  by  a  Dilettante,  and 
The  actors  who  perform  are  Dilettanti ; 
Excuse  me,  gentlemen ;  but  I  must  vanish, 
I  am  a  Dilettante  curtain-lifter. 


FRAGMENTS. 


GINEVRA.* 

Wild,  pale,  and  wonder-stricken,  even  as  one 
Who  staggers  forth  into  the  air  and  sun 
From  the  dark  chamber  of  a  mortal  fever, 
Bewilder'd,  and  incapable,  and  ever 
Fancying  strange  comments  in  her  dizzy  brain 
Of  usual  shapes,  till  the  familiar  train 
Of  objects  and  of  persons  pass'd  like  things 
Strange  as  a  dreamer's  mad  imaginings, 
Ginevra  from  the  nuptial  allar  went; 
The  vows  to  which  her  lips  had  sworn  assent 
Rung  in  her  brain  still  with  a  jarring  din, 
Deafening  the  lost  intelligence  within. 

And  so  she  moved  under  the  bridal  veil, 
Which  made  the  paleness  of  her  cheek  more  pale. 
And  deepen'd  the  faint  crimson  of  her  mouth. 
And  darken'd  her  dark  locks  as  moonlight  doth, — 
And  of  the  gold  and  jewels  glittering  there 
She  scarce  felt  conscious, — but  the  weary  glare 
Lay  like  a  chaos  of  unwelcome  light. 
Vexing  the  sense  with  gorgeous  undelight. 
A  moonbeam  in  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Was  less  heavenly  fair — her  face  was  bow'd. 
And  as  she  pass'il,  the  diamonds  in  her  hair 
Were  mirror'd  in  the  polish'd  marble  stair 
Which  led  from  the  cathedral  to  the  street ; 
And  ever  as  she  went,  her  light  fair  feet 
Erased  these  images. 

The  bride-maidens  who  round  her  thronging  came, 
Some  with  a  sense  of  self-rebuke  and  shame. 
Envying  the  unenviable  ;  and  others 
Making  the  joy  which  should  have  been  another's 
Their  own  by  gentle  sympathy;  and  some 
Sighing  to  think  of  an  unhappy  home: 
Some  few  admiring  what  can  ever  lure 
Maidens  to  leave  the  heaven  serene  and  pure 
Of  parents'  smiles  for  life's  great  cheat ;  a  thing 
Bitter  to  taste,  sweet  in  imagining. 


*  This  fragment  is  part  of  a  poem  which  Mr.  Shelley  in- 
tended to  write,  founded  on  a  story  to  be  found  In  the  first 
volume  of  a  book  entitled  "L'Osservalore  Fiorentino." 
513 


266 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  they  are  all  dispersed — and,  lo !  she  stands 

Looking  in  idle  grief  on  her  white  hands, 

Alone  within  the  garden  now  her  own  ; 

And  through  the  sunny  air,  with  jangling  tone, 

The  music  of  the  merry  marriage-bells, 

Killing  the  azure  silence,  sinks  and  swells; — 

Absorb'd  like  one  within  a  dream  who  dreams 

That  he  is  dreaming,  until  slumber  seems 

A  mockery  of  itself^ — when  suddenly 

Antonio  stood  before  her,  pale  as  she. 

^Vith  agony,  with  sorrow,  and  with  pride, 

He  lifted  his  wan  eyes  upon  the  bride. 

And  said — "  Is  this  thy  failh?"  and  then  as  one 

Whose  sleeping  face  is  stricken  by  the  sun 

With  light  like  a  harsh  voice,  which  bids  him  rise 

And  look  upon  his  day  of  life  with  eyes 

Which  weep  in  vain  that  they  can  dream  no  more, 

Ginevra  saw  her  lover,  and  forbore 

To  shriek  or  faint,  and  check'd  the  stifling  blood 

Rushing  upon  her  heart,  and  unsubdued 

Said — "  Friend,  if  earthly  violence  or  ill, 

Suspicion,  doubt,  or  the  tyrannic  will 

Of  parents,  chance,  or  custom,  time  or  change, 

Or  circumstance,  or  terror,  or  revenge, 

Or  wilder'd  looks,  or  words,  or  evil  speech, 

With  all  their  stmgs  [       ]  can  impeach 

Our  love, — we  love  not : — if  the  grave  which  hides 

The  victim  from  the  tyrant,  and  divides 

The  cheek  that  whitens  from  the  eyes  that  dart 

Imperious  inquisition  lo  the  heart 

That  is  another's,  could  dissever  ours. 

We  love  not." — "  What,  do  not  the  silent  hours 

Beckon  thee  to  Gherardi's  bridal-bed  ? 

Is  not  that  ring" a  pledge,  he  would  have  said, 

Of  broken  vows,  but  she  with  patient  look 

The  golden  circle  from  her  finger  took. 

And  said — "  Accept  this  token  of  my  faith, 

The  pledge  of  vows  to  be  absolved  by  death; 

And  I  am  dead,  or  shall  be  soon — my  knell 

Will  mix  its  music  with  that  merry  bell : 

Does  it  not  sound  as  if  they  sweetly  said, 

'  We  toll  a  corpse  out  of  the  marriage-bed  ?' 

The  flowers  upon  my  bridal-chamber  strewn 

Will  serve  unfaded  for  my  bier — so  soon 

That  even  the  dying  violet  will  not  die 

Before  Ginevra."    The  strong  phantasy 

Had  made  her  accents  weaker  and  more  weak, 

And  quench'd  the  crimson  life  upon  her  cheek, 

And  glazed  her  eyes,  and  spread  an  atmosphere 

Round  her,  which  chill'd  the  burning  noon  with  fear. 

Making  her  but  an  image  of  the  thought, 

Which,  like  a  prophet  or  a  shadow,  brought 

News  of  the  terrors  of  the  coming  time. 

Like  an  accuser  branded  with  the  crime 

He  would  have  cast  on  a  beloved  friend. 

Whose  dying  eyes  reproach  not  to  the  end 

The  pale  betrayer — he  then  with  vain  repentance 

Would  share,  he  cannot  now  avert,  the  sentence — 

Antonio  stood  and  would  have  spoken,  when 

The  compound  voice  of  women  and  of  men 

Was  heard  appi-oaching ;  he  retired,  while  she 

Was  led  amid  the  admiring  company 

Back  to  the  palace, — and  her  maidens  soon 

Changed  her  attire  for  the  afternoon. 

And  loft  her  at  her  own  request  to  keep 

An  hour  of  quiet  and  rest ; — like  one  asleep 


With  open  eyes  and  folded  hands  she  lay, 
Pale  in  the  light  of  the  declining  day. 

Meanwhile  the  day  sinks  fast,  the  sun  is  set, 
And  in  the  lighted  hall  the  guests  are  met ; 
The  beautiful  looked  lovelier  in  the  hght 
Of  love,  and  admiration,  and  delight 
Reflected  from  a  thousand  hearts  and  eyes, 
Kindling  a  momentary  Paradise. 
This  crowd  is  safer  than  the  silent  wood. 
Where  love's  own  doubts  disturb  the  solitude  i 
On  frozen  hearts  the  fiery  rain  of  wine 
Falls,  and  the  dew  of  music  more  divine 
Tempers  the  deep  emotions  of  the  time 
To  spirits  cradled  in  a  sunny  clime  : — 
How  many  meet,  who  never  yet  have  mec, 
To  part  too  soon,  but  never  to  forget. 
How  many  saw  the  beauty,  power  and  wit 
Of  looks  and  words  which  ne'er  enchanted  yet ; 
But  life's  familiar  veil  was  now  withdrawn, 
As  the  world  leaps  before  an  earthquake's  dawn 
And  unprophetic  of  the  coming  hours, 
The  matin  winds  from  the  expanded  flowers 
Scatter  their  hoarded  incense,  and  awaken 
The  earth,  until  the  dewy  sleep  is  shaken 
From  every  living  heart  which  it  possesses, 
Through  seas  and  winds,  cities  and  wildernesses. 
As  if  the  future  and  the  past  were  all 
Treasured  i'  the  instant; — so  Gherardi's  hall 
Laugh 'd  in  the  mirth  of  its  lord's  festival. 
Till  some  one  ask'd — "  Where  is  the  Bride  ?"  And  then 
A  bride's-maid  went, — apd  ere  she  came  again 
A  silence  fell  upon  the  guests — a  pause 
Of  expectation,  as  when  beauty  awes 
All  hearts  with  its  approach,  though  unbeheld  : 
Then  wonder,  and  then  fear  that  wonder  quell'd  ; — 
For  whispers  pass'd  from  mouth  to  ear  which  drew 
The  color  from  the  hearer's  cheeks,  and  flew 
Louder  and  swifter  round  the  company ; 
And  then  Gherardi  enter'd  with  an  eye 
Of  ostentatious  trouble,  and  a  crowd 
Surrounded  hitn,  and  some  were  weeping  loud. 

They  found  Ginevra  dead  I  if  it  be  death, 
To  lie  without  motion,  or  pulse,  or  breath. 
With  waxen  cheeks,  and  limbs  cold,  slifT,  and  wliite, 
And  open  eyes,  whose  fix'd  and  glassy  light 
Mock"d  at  the  speculation  they  had  own'd. 
If  it  be  death,  when  lliere  is  felt  around 
A  smell  of  clay,  a  pale  and.  icy  glare, 
And  silence,  and  a  .sense  that  lifts  the  hair 
From  the  scalp  to  the  ankles,  as  it  were 
Corruption  from  the  spirit  passing  forth. 
And  giving  all  it  shrouded  to  the  earth. 
And  leaving  as  swift  lightning  in  its  flight 
Ashes,  and  smoke,  and  darkness:  in  our  night 
Of  thought  we  know  thus  much  of  death, — no  moie 
Than  the  unborn  dream  of  our  life  before 
Their  barks  are  wreck'd  on  its  inhospitable  shore. 
The  marriage-feast  and  its  solemnity 
Was  turn'r"  *o  funeral  pomp — the  company 
With  heavy  hearts  and  looks,  broke  up;  nor  they 
Who  loved  the  dead  went  weeping  on  their  way 
Alone,  but  sorrow  mix'd  with  sad  surprise 
Loosen'd  the  springs  of  pity  in  all  eyes, 
On  which  that  form,  whose  fate  they  weep  in  vaiii,    • 
Will  never,  thought  they,  kmdle  smiles  again. 
.514 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEIMS. 


267 


The  lamps  which,  half-extinguish'd  in  their  haate, 

Gleam'd  few  and  faint  o'er  the  abandon'd  feast, 

Show'd  as  it  were  within  the  vaulted  room 

A  cloud  of  sorrow  hanging,  as  if  gloom 

Had  pass'd  out  of  men's  minds  into  the  air. 

Some  few  yet  stood  around  Gherardi  there, 

Friends  and  relations  of  the  dead, — and  he, 

A  loveless  man,  accepted  torpidly 

The  consolation  that  he  wanted  not, — 

Awe  in  the  place  of  grief  within  him  wrotight. 

Their  whispers  made  the  solemn  silence  seem 

More  still — some  wept,  [  ] 

Some  melted  into  tears  without  a  sob, 

And  some  with  hearts  that  might  be  heard  to  throb 

Leant  on  t\ie  table,  and  at  intervals 

Shudder'd  to  hear  through  the  deserted  halls 

And  corridors  the  thrilling  shrieks  which  came 

Upon  the  breeze  of  night,  that  shook  the  flame 

Of  every  torch  and  taper  as  it  swept 

From  out  the  chamber  where  the  women  kept ; — 

Their  tears  fell  on  the  dear  companion  cold 

Of  pleasures  now  departed  ;  then  was  knoll'd 

The  bell  of  death,  and  soon  the  priests  arrived. 

And  findr.ig  death  their  penitent  had  shrived, 

Return'd  like  ravens  from  a  corpse  whereon 

A  vulture  has  just  feasted  to  the  bone. 

And  then  the  mourning  women  came. — 


THE    DIRGE. 

Old  winter  was  gone 
,n  his  weakness  back  to  the  mountains  hoar, 

And  the  spring  came  down 
From  the  planet  that  hovers  upon  the  shore 
Where  the  sea  of  sunlight  encroaches 
On  the  limits  of  wintry  night ; 
If  the  land,  and  the  air,  and  the  sea 
Rejoice  not  when  spring  approaches. 
We  did  not  rejoice  in  thee, 
Ginevra ! 
She  is  still,  she  is  cold 

On  the  bridal  couch. 
One  step  to  the  white  death-bed, 

And  one  to  the  bier, 
And  one  to  the  charnel — and  one,  O  where  ? 

The  dark  arrow  fled 

In  the  noon. 
Ere  the  sun  through  Heaven  once  more  has  roll'd, 
The  rats  in  her  heart 
Will  have  made  their  nest. 
And  the  worms  be  alive  in  her  golden  hair ; 
While  the  spirit  that  guides  the  sun. 
Sits  throned  in  his  flaming  chair, 

She  shall  sleep. 


Pisa,  1821. 


CHARLES  THE  FIRST. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE    I. 

Hie  Pageant  to  [celebrate]  the  arrival  of  the  Queen. 

A    PURSUIVANT. 

"LACE,  for  the  Marshal  of  the  Masque ! 


I'-IRST    SPEAKER. 

What  thinkest  thou  of  this  quaint  masque,  which  turns 
Like  morning  Irom  the  shadow  of  the  night. 
The  night  to  day,  and  London  to  a  place 
Of  peace  and  joy  \ 

SECOND    SPEAKER. 

And  Hell  to  Heaven. 
Eight  years  are  gone, 

And  they  seem  hours,  since  in  this  populous  street 
I  trod  on  grass  made  green  by  summer's  rain. 
For  the  red  plague  kept  state  within  that  palace 
Where  now  reigns  vanity — in  nine  years  more 
The  roots  will  be  refresh'd  with  civil  blood ; 
And  thank  the  mercy  of  insulted  Heaven 
That  sin  and  wrongs  wound,  as  an  orphan's  cry, 
The  patience  of  the  great  Avenger's  ear. 

THIRD    SPEAKER  (O  yOUth). 

Yet,  father,  'tis  a  happy  sight  to  see, 

Beautiful,  innocent,  and  unforbidden 

By  God  or  man; — 'tis  like  the  bright  procession 

Of  skiey  visions  in  a  solemn  dream 

From  which  men  wake  as  from  a  paradise, 

And  draw  new  strength  to  tread  the  thorns  of  life. 

If  God  be  good,  wherefore  should  this  be  evil? 

And  if  this  be  not  evil,  dost  thou  not  draw 

Unseasonable  poison  from  the  flowers 

Which  bloom  so  rarely  in  this  barren  world  ? 

O,  kill  these  bitter  thoughts,  which  make  the  present 

Dark  as  the  future  I — 

********* 

When  avarice  and  tyranny,  vigilant  fear, 
And  open-eyed  conspiracy  lie  sleeping. 
As  on  Hell's  threshold  ;  and  all  gentle  thoughts 
Waken  to  worship  him  who  giveth  joys 
With  [lis  own  gift. 

SECOND    SPEAKER. 

How  young  art  thou  in  this  old  age  of  time ! 

How  green  in  this  gray  world !  Canst  thou  not  Haxjk. 

Of  change  in  that  low  scene,  in  which  thou  art 

Not  a  spectator  but  an  actor  ?  [  ] 

The  day  that  dawns  in  fire  will  die  in  storms, 

Even  though  the  noon  bo  calm.    My  travel's  done; 

Before  the  whirlwind  wakes,  I  shall  have  found 

My  inn  of  lasting  rest,  but  thou  must  still 

Be  journeying  on  in  this  inclement  air. 


FIRST    SPEAKER. 


Is  the  Archbishop. 


That 


SECOND    SPEAKER. 

Rather  say  the  Pope. 
London  will  be  soon  his  Rome  :  he  walks 
As  if  he  trod  upon  the  heads  of  men. 
He  looks  elate,  drunken  with  blood  and  gold ; — 
Beside  him  moves  the  Babylonian  Avoman 
Invisibly,  and  with  her  as  \\\\\\  his  shadow, 
Mitred  adulterer!  he  is  join'd  in  sin. 
Which  turns  Heaven's  milk  of  mercy  to  revenge 

ANOTHER  CITIZEN  (liflinfr  rip  his  eijes). 
Good  Lord !  rain  it  down  upon  him.  [         ] 
Amid  her  ladies  walks  the  papist  queen, 
As  if  her  nice  feet  scorn'd  our  English  earth. 
There's  old  Sir  Henry  Vane,  the  Earl  of  Pembroke, 
Lord  Essex,  and  J^rd-Keepcr  Coventry, 
And  others  who  make  tjase  their  English  breed 
By  vile  participation  of  their  honors 
515 


2G8 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


With  papists,  atheists,  tyrants,  and  apostates. 
When  lawyers  mask,  'tis  time  for  honest  men 
To  strip  the  visor  from  their  purposes. 

lli:!,******* 

FOURTH  SPEAKER  (a  pursuivant). 
Give  place,  give  place  I — 
You  torch-bearers,  advance  to  the  great  gate, 
And  then  attend  the  Marshal  of  the  Masque 
Into  the  Royal  presence. 

FIFTH  SPEAKER  (a  law  Student). 

What  thinkest  thou 
Of  this  quaint  show  of  ours,  my  aged  friend  ? 

FIRST    SPEAKER. 

I  will  not  think  but  that  our  country's  wounds 
May  yet  be  heal'd — Tlie  king  is  just  and  gracious, 
Though  wicked  counsels  now  pervert  liis  will : 
These  once  cast  off- — 

SECOND    SPEAKER. 

As  adders  cast  their  skins 
And  keep  their  venom,  so  kings  often  change ; 
Councils  and  counsellors  hang  on  one  another, 
Hiding  the  lothesome     [  ] 

Like  the  base  patchwork  of  a  leper's  rags. 

THIRD    SPEAKER. 

O,  still  those  dissonant  thoughts — List!  loud  music 
Grows  on  the  enchanted  air!  And  see,  the  torches 
Restlessly  flashing,  and  the  crowd  divided 
Like  waves  before  an  Admiral's  prow. 


ANOTHER    SPEAKER. 


Give  place — 


To  the  Marshal  of  the  Masque ! 

THIRD    SPEAKER. 

How  glorious  !  See  those  thronging  chariots 
Rolling  like  painted  clouds  before  the  wind 

Some  are 
Like  curved  shells  dyed  by  the  azure  depths 
Of  Indian  seas;  some  like  the  new-born  moon; 
And  some  like  cars  in  which  the  Romans  climb'd 
(Canopied  by  Victory's  eagle  wings  outspread) 
The  Capitolian — See  how  gloriously 
The  mettled  horses  in  the  torchlight  stir 
Their  gallant  riders,  while  they  check  their  pride. 
Like  shapes  of  some  diviner  element ! 

SECOND    SPEAKER. 

Ay,  there  they  are — 
Nobles,  and  sons  of  nobles,  patentees, 
Monopolists,  and  stewards  of  this  poor  farm, 
On  whose  lean  sheep  sit  the  prophetic  crows. 
Here  is  the  pomp  that  strips  the  houseless  orphan. 
Here  is  the  pride  that  breaks  the  desolate  heart. 
These  are  the  lilies  glorious  as  Solomon, 
Who  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin, — unless 
It  be  the  webs  they  catch  poor  rogues  withal. 
Here  is  the  surfeit  which  to  them  who  earn 
The  niggard  wages  of  liie  earth,  scarce  leaves 
The  tithe  that  will  support  them  till  they  crawl 
Back  to  its  cold  hard  bosom.    Here  is  health 
Follow'd  by  grim  disease,  glory  by  shame. 
Waste  by  lame  famine,  wealth  by  squalid  want, 
And  England's  sin  by  England's  punishment. 
And,  as  the  effect  pursues  the  cause  foregone, 
Lo,  giving  substance  to  my  words,  behold 
At  once  the  sign  and  the  thing  signified — 
A  troop  of  cripples,  beggars,  and  lean  outcasts. 
Horsed  upon  stumbling  shapes,  carted  with  dung. 


Dragg'd  for  a  day  from  cellars  and  low  cabins 
And  rotten  hiding-holes,  to  point  the  moral 
Of  this  presentiment,  and  bring  up  the  rear 
Of  painted  pomp  with  misery ! 

SPEAKER. 

'Tis  but 

The  anti-masque,  and  serves  as  discords  do 
In  sweetest  music.    Who  would  love  May  flowers 
If  they  succeeded  not  to  Winter's  flaw ; 
Or  day  unchanged  by  night ;  or  joy  itself 
Without  the  touch  of  sorrow  ? 


SCENE    II. 

A  Chamber  in  Whitehall. 

Enter  the  King,  Queen,  Laud,  Wentworth,  and 
Archy. 


Thanks,  gentlemen,  I  heartily  accept    - 
This  token  of  your  service:  your  gay  masque 
Was  performed  gallantly. 

auEEN. 

And,  gentlemen. 
Call  your  poor  Queen  your  debtor.  Yourquaint  pageanf 
Rose  on  me  like  the  figures  of  past  years, 
Treading  their  still  path  back  to  infancy, 
More  beautiful  and  mild  as  tliey  draw  nearer 
The  quiet  cradle.    I  could  have  almost  wept 
To  think  I  was  in  Paris,  where  these  shows 
Are  well  devised — such  as  I  was  ere  yet 
My  young  heart  shared  with  [  J  the  task, 

The  careful  weight  of  this  great  monarchy. 
There,  gentlemen,  between  the  sovereign's  pleasure 
And  that  which  it  regards,  no  clamor  lifts 
Its  proud  interposition. 


My  lord  of  Canterbury. 

archy. 

The  fool  is  here. 

LAUD. 

I  crave  permission  of  your  Majesty 
To  order  that  this  insolent  fellow  be 
Chastised  :  he  mocks  the  sacred  character, 
Scoffs  at  the  stake,  and — 

KING. 

What,  my  Archy ! 
He  mocks  and  mimics  all  he  sees  and  hears, 
Yet  with  a  quaint  and  graceful  license — Prithee 
For  this  once  do  not  as  Prynne  would,  were  he 
Primate  of  England. 

He  lives  in  his  own  world  ;  and,  like  a  parrot. 
Hung  in  his  gilded  prison  from  the  window 
Of  a  queen's  bower  over  the  public  way, 
Blasphemes  with  a  bird's  mind  : — his  words,  like  arrow* 
Wliich  know  no  aim  beyond  the  archer's  wit. 
Strike  sometimes  what  eludes  philosophy. 

QUEEN. 

Go,  sirrah,  and  repent  of  your  offence 

Ten  minutes  in  the  rain:  be  it  your  penance 

To  bring  news  how  the  world  goes  there.  Poor  Archy! 

He  weaves  about  himself  a  world  of  mirth 

Out  of  this  wreck  of  ours. 

516 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


269 


LAUD. 

I  take  with  patience,  as  my  master  did, 
All  scoffi  permitted  from  above. 

KING. 

My  lord, 
Pray  overlook  these  papers.     Archy's  words 
Had  wings,  but  these  have  talons. 

QUEEN. 

And  the  lion 
That  wears  them  must  be  tamed.     My  dearest  lord, 
I  see  the  new-born  courage  in  your  eye 
Arm'd  to  strike  dead  the  spirit  of  the  time. 

***** 

Do  thou  persist :  for,  faint  but  in  resolve. 

And  it  were  better  thou  had  still  remain'd 

The  slave  of  thine  own  slaves,  who  tear  like  curs 

The  fugitive,  and  flee  from  the  pursuer ! 

And  opportunity,  that  empty  wolf, 

FUes  at  his  throat  who  falls.     Subdue  thy  actions 

Even  to  the  disposition  of  thy  purpose, 

And  be  that  temper'd  as  the  Ebro's  steel : 

And  banish  weak-eyed  Mercy  to  the  weak, 

Whence  she  will  greet  thee  with  a  gift  of  peace, 

And  not  betray  thee  with  a  traitor's  kiss. 

As  when  she  keeps  the  company  of  rebels. 

Who  think  that  she  is  fear.     This  do,  lest  we 

Should  fall  as  from  a  glorious  pinnacle 

In  a  bright  dream,  and  wake  as  from  a  dream 

Out  of  our  worshipp'd  state. 


*  *     And  if  this  suffice  not. 

Unleash  the  sword  and  fire,  that  in  their  thirst 

They  may  lick  up  that  scum  of  schismatics. 

I  laugh  at  those  weak  rebels  who,  desiring 

What  we  possess,  still  prate  of  Christian  peace, 

As  if  those  dreadful  messengers  of  wrath. 

Which  play  the  part  of  God  'twixt  right  and  wrong. 

Should  be  let  loose  against  innocent  sleep 

Of  templed  cities  and  the  smiling  fields. 

For  some  poor  argument  of  policy 

Which  touches  our  own  profit  or  our  pride. 

Where  indeed  it  were  Christian  charity 

To  turn  the  cheek  even  to  the  smiter's  hand : 

And  when  our  great  Redeemer,  when  our  God 

Is  scorn'd  in  his  immediate  ministers. 

They  talk  of  peace  : 

Such  peace  as  Canaan  found,  let  Scotland  now. 

***** 

aUEEN. 

My  beloved  lord. 

Have  you  not  noted  that  the  fool  of  late 
Has  lost  his  careless  mirth,  and  that  his  words 
Sotmd  hke  the  echoes  of  our  saddest  fears  ? 
What  can  it  mean  ?  I  should  be  loth  to  think 
Some  factious  slave  had  tutor'd  him. 


It  partly  is. 
That  our  minds  piece  the  vacant  intervals 
Of  his  wild  words  with  their  own  fashioning ; 
As  in  the  imagery  of  summer  clouds, 
Or  coals  in  the  winter  fire,  idlers  find 
The  perfect  shadows  of  their  teeming  thoughts: 
And  partly,  that  the  terrors  of  the  time 
Are  sown  by  wandering  Rumor  in  all  spirits; 


And  in  the  lightest  and  the  least,  may  best 
Be  seen  the  current  of  the  coming  wind. 

QUEEN. 

Your  brain  is  overwrought  with  these  deep  thoughts ; 

Come,  I  will  sing  to  you ;  let  us  go  try 

These  airs  from  Italy, — and  you  shall  see 

A  cradled  miniature  of  yourself  asleep, 

Stamp'd  on  the  heart  by  never-erring  love ; 

Liiker  than  any  Vandyke  ever  made, 

A  pattern  to  the  unborn  age  of  thee. 

Over  whose  sweet  beauty  I  have  wept  for  joy 

A  thousand  times,  and  now  should  weep  for  sorrow, 

Did  I  not  think  that  after  we  were  dead 

Our  fortunes  would  spring  high  in  him,  and  that 

The  cares  we  waste  upon  our  heavy  crown 

Would  make  it  light  and  glorious  as  a  wreath 

Of  heaven's  beams  for  his  dear  innocent  brow. 


Dear  Henrietta  1 


SCENE  HI. 


Hampden,  Pym,  Cromwell,  and  the  younger  Vane. 

HAMPDEN. 

England,  farew^ell !  thou,  who  hast  been  my  cradle, 

Shalt  never  be  my  dungeon  or  my  grave ! 

I  held  what  I  inherited  in  thee. 

As  pawn  for  that  inheritance  of  freedom 

Wliich  thou  hast  sold  for  thy  despoiler's  smile  :— 

How  can  I  call  thee  England,  or  my  country  1 

Does  the  wind  hold  ? 

VANE. 

The  vanes  sit  steady 
Upon  the  Abbey  towers.     The  silver  lightnings 
Of  the  evening  star,  spite  of  the  city's  smoke, 
Tell  that  the  north  wind  reigns  in  the  upper  air. 
Mark  too  that  flock  of  fleecy-winged  clouds 
Sailing  athwart  St.  Margaret's. 

HAMPDEN. 

Hail,  fleet  herald 
Of  tempest !  that  wild  pilot  who  shall  guide 
Hearts  free  as  his,  to  realms  as  pure  as  thee, 
Beyond  the  shot  of  tyranny !    And  thou. 
Fair  star,  whose  beam  lies  on  the  wide  Atlantic, 
Athwart  its  zones  of  tempest  and  of  calm. 
Bright  as  the  path  to  a  beloved  home, 
O  light  us  to  the  isles  of  th'  evening  land ! 
Like  floating  Edens,  cradled  in  the  glimmer 
Of  sunset,  through  the  distant  mist  of  years 
Tinged  by  departing  Hope,  they  gleam.  Lone  regions^ 
Where  power's  poor  dupes  and  victims,   yet  have 

never 
Propitiated  the  savage  fear  of  kings 
With  purest  blood  of  noblest  hearts ;  whose  dew 
Is  yet  unstain'd  with  tears  of  those  who  wake 
To  weep  each  day  the  wrongs  on  which  it  dawns ; 
Whose  sacred  silent  air  owtis  yet  no  echo 
Of  formal  blasphemies  ;  nor  impious  rites 
Wrest  man's  free  worship  from  the  God  who  loves, 
Towards  the  worm  who  envies  us  his  love ; 
Receive  thou  young  [  ]  of  Paradise, 

These  exiles  from  the  old  and  sinful  world ! 
This  glorious  clime,  this  firmament  v^hose  hghts 
Dart  mitigated  influence  through  the  veil 
Of  pale  blue  atmosphere ;  whose  tears  keep  green 
67  517 


270 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  pavement  of  this  moist  all-feeding  earth  ; 
This  vaporous  horizon,  whose  dim  round 
Is  bastion'd  by  the  circumfluous  sea, 
Repelling  invasion  from  the  sacred  towers, 
Presses  upon  me  like  a  dungeon's  grate, 
A  low  dark  roof,  a  damp  and  narrow  vault : 
The  mighty  universe  becomes  a  cell 
Too  narrow  for  the  soul  that  owns  no  master. 

While  the  lotheliest  spot 
Of  this  wide  prison,  England,  is  a  nest 
Of  cradled  peace  built  on  the  mountain-tops, 
To  which  the  eagle-spirits  of  the  free, 
Which  range  through  heaven  and  earth,  and  scorn 

the  storm 
Of  time,  and  gaze  upon  the  light  of  truth. 
Return  to  brood  over  the  [  ]  thoughts 

That  cannot  die,  and  may  not  be  repelled. 


FRAGMENTS 

FROM  AN  UNFINISHED  DRAMA. 

He  came  like  a  dream  in  the  dawn  of  life. 

He  fled  like  a  shadow  before  its  noon ; 
He  is  gone,  and  my  peace  is  turn'd  to  strife. 
And  I  wander  and  wane  like  the  weary  moon. 
O  sweet  Echo  wake, 
And  for  my  sake 
Make  answer  the  while  my  heart  shall  break  ! 

But  the  heart  has  a  music  which  Echo's  lips, 

Though  tender  and  true,  yet  can  answer  not ; 
And  the  shadow  that  moves  in  the  soul's  eclipse 
Can  return  not  the  kiss  by  his  now  forgot ; 
Sweet  lips !  he  who  hath 
On  my  desolate  path 
Cast  the  darkness  of  absence  worse  than  death ! 


INDIAN. 

And  if  my  grief  should  still  be  dearer  to  me 
Than  all  the  pleasure  in  the  world  beside. 
Why  would  you  lighten  it  ? — 

LADY. 

I  offer  only 
That  which  I  seek,  some  human  sympathy 
In  this  mysterious  island. 

THE  INDIAN. 

Oh  !  my  friend. 
My  sister,  my  beloved !    What  do  I  say  ? 
My  brain  is  dizzy,  and  I  scarce  know  whether 
I  speak  to  thee  or  her.     Peace,  perturbed  heart! 
I  am  to  thee  only  as  thou  to  mine. 
The  passing  wind  which  heals  the  brow  at  noon, 
And  may  strike  cold  into  the  breast  at  night, 
Yet  cannot  linger  where  it  soothes  the  most, 
Or  long  soothe  could  it  linger.     But  you  said 
You  also  loved. 

I.ADY. 

Loved !  Oh,  I  love.     Methinks 
This  word  of  love  is  fit  for  all  the  world, 
And  that  for  gentle  hearts  another  name 
Would  speak  of  gentler  thoughts  than  the  world 

owns. 
I  have  loved. 

I  THE  INDIAN. 

And  thou  lovest  not  ?  if  so. 
Young  as  thou  art,  thou  canst  afl!brd  to  weep. 


LADV. 

Oh  !  would  that  I  could  claim  exemption 

From  all  the  bitterness  of  that  sweet  name ! 

I  loved,  I  love,  and  when  I  love  no  more. 

Let  joys  and  grief  perish,  and  leave  despair 

To  ring  the  knell  of  youth.     He  stood  beside  me. 

The  embodied  vision  of  the  brightest  dream, 

Which  like  a  dawn  heralds  the  day  of  life  ; 

The  shadow  of  his  presence  made  my  world 

A  paradise.     All  famiUar  things  he  touch'd. 

All  common  words  he  spoke,  became  to  me 

Like  forms  and  sounds  of  a  diviner  world. 

He  was  as  is  the  sun  in  his  fierce  youth. 

As  terrible  and  lovely  as  a  tempest ; 

He  came,  and  went,  and  left  me  what  I  am. 

Alas !    Why  must  I  think  how  oft  we  two 

Have  sate  together  near  the  river  springs. 

Under  the  green  pavilion  which  the  willow 

Spreads  on  the  floor  of  the  unbroken  fountain 

Strewn  by  the  nurslings  that  linger  there, 

Over  that  islet  paved  with  flowers  and  moss, 

While  the  musk-rose  leaves,  like  flakes  of  crimson 

snow, 
Shower'd  on  us,  and  the  dove  moum'd  in  the  pine, 
Sad  prophetess  of  sorrows  not  our  own. 


Your  breath  is  like  soft  music,  your  words  are 
The  echoes  of  a  voice  which  on  my  heart 
Sleeps  like  a  melody  of  early  days. 
But  as  you  said — 

LADY. 

He  was  so  awful,  yet 
So  beautiful  in  mystery  and  terror. 
Calming  me  as  the  loveliness  of  heaven 
Soothes  the  unquiet  sea : — and  yet  not  so, 
For  he  seem'd  stormy,  and  would  often  seem 
A  quenchless  sun  mask'd  in  portentous  clouds ; 
For  such  his  thoughts,  and  even  his  actions  were; 
But  he  was  not  of  them,  nor  they  of  him. 
But  as  they  hid  his  splendor  from  the  earth. 
Some  said  he  was  a  man  of  blood  and  peril. 
And  steep'd  in  bitter  infamy  to  the  Hps. 
More  need  was  there  I  should  be  innocent, 
More  need  that  I  should  be  most  true  and  Idnd, 
And  much  more  need  that  there  should  be  found  one 
To  share  remorse,  and  scorn  and  solitude. 
And  all  the  ills  that  wait  on  those  who  do 
The  tasks  of  ruin  in  the  world  of  life. 
He  fled,  and  I  have  follow'd  him. 


February,  1822. 


PRINCE  ATHANASE, 
A  FRAGMENT. 


There  was  a  youth,  who,  as  with  toil  and  travel. 
Had  grown  quite  weak  and  gray  before  his  time ; 
Nor  any  could  the  restless  griefs  unravel 

Which  burn'd  within  him,  withering  up  his  prime 
And  goading  him,  like  fiends,  from  land  to  land 
Not  his  the  load  of  any  secret  crime. 

For  naught  of  ill  his  heart  could  understand, 
But  pity  and  wild  sorrow  for  the  same ; — 
Not  his  the  tliirst  for  glory  or  command, 
518 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


271 


Baffled  Avith  blast  of  hope-consuming  shame ; 
Nor  evil  joys  which  fire  the  vulgar  breast, 
And  quench  in  speedy  smoke  its  feeble  flame, 

Had  left  within  his  soul  their  dark  unrest : 
Nor  what  religion  fables  of  the  grave 
Fear'd  he, — Philosophy's  accepted  guest. 

For  none  than  he  a  purer  heart  could  have, 

Or  that  loved  good  more  for  itself  alone ; 

Of  naught  in  heaven  or  earth  was  he  the  slave. 

What  sorrow  deep,  unshadowy,  and  unknown, 
Sent  him,  a  hopeless  wanderer,  through  mankind  ? — 
If  with  a  human  sadness  he  did  groan, 

He  had  a  gentle  yet  aspiring  mind ; 
Just,  innocent,  with  varied  learning  fed ; 
And  such  a  glorious  consolation  find 

In  others'  joy,  when  all  their  own  is  dead  : 
He  loved,  and  labor'd  for  his  kind  in  grief, 
And  yet,  unhke  all  others,  it  is  said. 

That  from  such  toil  he  never  found  relief: 
Although  a  child  of  fortune  and  of  power, 
Of  an  ancestral  name  the  orphan  chief. 

His  soul  had  wedded  wisdom,  and  her  dower 
Is  love  and  justice,  clothed  in  which,  he  sate 
Apart  from  men,  as  in  a  lonely  tower. 

Pitying  the  tumult  of  their  dark  estate — 
Yet  even  in  youth  did  he  not  e'er  abuse 
The  strength  of  wealth  or  thought,  to  consecrate 

Those  false  opinions  which  the  harsh  rich  use 
To  blind  the  world  they  famish  for  their  pride ; 
Nor  did  he  hold  from  any  man  his  dues. 

But  like  a  steward  in  honest  dealings  tried. 

With  those  who  toil'd  and  wept,  the  poor  and  wise 

His  riches  and  his  cares  he  did  divide. 

Fearless  he  was,  and  scorning  all  disguise. 

What  he  dared  do  or  think,  though  men  might  start, 

He  spoke  with  mild  yet  unaverted  eyes ; 

Liberal  he  wa.s  of  soul,  and  frank  of  heart. 
And  to  his  many  friends — all  loved  him  well — 
Whate'er  he  knew  or  felt,  he  would  impart. 

If  words  he  found  those  inmost  thoughts  to  tell ; 
If  not,  he  smiled  or  wept ;  and  his  weak  foes 
He  neither  spurn'd  nor  hated  .  though  wdth  fell 

And  mortal  hate  their  thousand  voices  rose. 
They  past  like  aimless  arrows  from  his  ear — 
Nor  did  his  heart  or  mind  its  portal  close 

To  those  or  them,  or  any  whom  life's  sphere 
May  comprehend  within  its  wide  array. 
What  sadness  made  that  vernal  spirit  sere  ? 

He  knew  not.     Though  his  life,  day  after  day. 
Was  failing  like  an  imreplenish'd  stream. 
Though  in  his  eyes  a  cloud  and  burthen  lay, 


Through  which  his  soul,  like  Vesper's  serene  beam 
Piercing  the  chasms  of  ever-rising  clouds, 
Shone,  softly  burning ;  though  his  lips  did  seem 

Like  reeds  which  quiver  in  impetuous  floods; 
And  througk  his  sleep,  and  o'er  each  waking  hour. 
Thoughts  after  thoughts,  unresting  multitudes, 

Were  driven  ■within  him,  by  some  secret  power. 
Which  bade  them  blaze,  and  live,  and  roll  afar, 
Like  Ughts  and  sounds,  from  haunted  tower  to  tower 

O'er  castled  mountains  borne,  when  tempest's  war 

Is  levied  by  the  night-contending  winds. 

And  the  pale  dalesmen  watch  with  eager  ear ; — 

Though  such  were  in  liis  spirit,  as  the  fiends 
Which  wake  and  feed  on  ever-living  woe, — 
What  was  this  grief,  wliich  ne'er  in  other  minds 

A  mirror  found, — he  Itnew  not — none  could  know; 
But  on  whoe'er  might  question  him,  he  tum'd 
The  light  of  his  frank  eyes,  as  if  to  show 

He  knew  not  of  the  grief  within  that  bum'd. 
But  ask'd  forbearance  with  a  mournful  look; 
Or  spoke  in  words  from  which  none  ever  learn'd 

The  cause  of  his  disquietude ;  or  shook 
With  spasms  of  silent  passion  ;  or  turn'd  pale  : 
So  that  his  friends  soon  rarely  undertook 

To  stir  his  secret  pain  without  avuil ; — 

For  all  who  knew  and  loved  him  then,  perceived 

That  there  was  drawn  an  adamantine  veil 

Between  his  heart  and  mind, — both  unreheved 
Wrought  in  his  brain  and  bosom  separate  strife. 
Some  said  that  he  was  mud,  otliers  believed 

That  memories  of  an  antenatal  life 

Made  this,  where  now  he  dwelt,  a  penal  hell; 

And  others  said  that  such  mysterious  grief 

From  God's  displeasure,  like  a  darkness,  fell 
On  souls  like  his,  which  own'd  no  higher  law 
Than  love ;  love  calm,  stedl'ast,  invincible 

By  mortal  fear  or  supernatural  awe ; 

And  others, — "  'Tis  the  shadovv  of  a  dream 

Which  the  veil'd  eye  of  memoiy  never  saw, 

"  But  through  the  soul's  abyss,  like  some  dark  stream 
Through  shatter'd  mines  and  caverns  underground 
Rolls,  shaking  its  foundations ;  and  no  beam 

"  Of  joy  may  rise,  but  it  is  quench'd  and  drown'd 
In  the  dim  whirlpools  of  this  dream  obscure. 
Soon  its  exhausted  waters  will  have  found 

"  A  lair  of  rest  beneath  thy  spirit  pure, 
O  Athanese  I — in  one  so  good  and  great, 
Evil  or  tumult  cannot  long  endure." 

So  spake  they :  idly  of  another's  state 
Babbling  vain  words  and  fond  philosophy ; 
This  was  their  consolation ;  such  debate 
519 


272 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Men  held  with  one  another  ;  nor  did  he, 
Like  one  who  labors  with  a  human  woe, 
Decline  this  talk ;  as  if  its  theme  might  be 

Another,  not  himself,  he  to  and  fro 

Question'd  and  canyass'd  it  with  subtlest  wit, 

And  none  but  those  who  loved  him  best  could  know 

That  which  he  knew  not,  how  it  gall'd  and  bit 
His  weary  mind,  this  converse  vain  and  cold ; 
For  like  an  eyeless  night-mare,  grief  did  sit 

Upon  his  being ;  a  snake  which  fold  by  fold 
Press'd  out  the  life  of  life,  a  clinging  fiend 
Which  clench'd  him  if  he  stirr'd  with  deadUer  hold ; 
And  so  his  grief  remain'd — let  it  remain — untold.* 


FRAGMENT  I. 


Prince  Athanase  had  one  beloved  friend, 

An  old,  old  man,  with  hair  of  silver  white, 

And  lips  where  heavenly  smiles  would  hang  and  blend 

With  his  wise  words ;  and  eyes  whose  arrowy  light 
Shone  like  the  reflex  of  a  thousand  minds. 
He  was  the  last  whom  superstition's  blight 

Had  spared  in  Greece — the  blight  that  cramps  and 

bUnds, — 
And  in  his  olive  bower  at  ffinoe 
Had  sate  from  earliest  youth.     Like  one  who  finds 

A  fertile  island  in  the  barren  sea. 

One  mariner  who  has  survived  his  mates 

Many  a  drear  month  in  a  great  ship — so  he. 

With  soul-sustaining  songs,  and  sweet  debates 
Of  ancient  lore,  there  fed  his  lonely  being : — 
"  The  mind  becomes  that  which  it  contemplates," 

And  thus  Zonoras,  by  for  ever  seeing 

Their  bright  creations,  grew  like  wisest  men  ; 

And  when  he  heard  tlie  crash  of  nations  fleeing 

A  bloodier  power  than  ruled  thy  ruins  then, 

O  sacred  Hellas  !  many  weary  years 

He  wander'd  till  the  path  of  Laian's  glen 

Was  grass-grown — and  the  unremember'd  tears 

Were  dry  in  Laian  for  their  honor'd  chief. 

Who  fell  in  Byzant,  pierced  by  Moslem  spears : — 

And  as  the  lady  look'd  with  faithful  grief 
From  her  high  lattice  o'er  the  rugged  path, 
Where  she  once  saw  that  horseman  toil,  wdth  brief 

And  blighting  hope,  who  with  the  news  of  death 
Struck  body  and  soul  as  with  a  mortal  blight. 
She  saw  beneath  the  chestnuts,  far  beneath, 


*  The  Author  was  pursuing  a  fuller  development  of  the 
ideal  character  of  Athanase,  when  it  struck  him  that  in 
an  attempt  at  extreme  refinement  and  analysis,  his  con- 
ceptions might  be  betrayed  into  the  assuming  a  morbid 
character.  The  reader  will  judge  whether  he  is  a  loser 
or  gainer  by  this  diffidence. — Author's  JVole. 


An  old  man  toiling  up,  a  weary  v^'ight, 

And  soon  within  her  hospitable  hall 

She  saw  his  white  hairs  glittering  in  the  light 

Of  the  wood  fire,  and  round  his  shoulders  fall ; 
And  his  wan  visage  and  his  wither'd  mien 
Yet  calm  and  [  ]  and  majestical. 

And  Athanase,  her  child,  who  must  have  been 
Then  three  years  old,  sate  opposite  and  gazed. 


FRAGMENT  II. 

Such  was  Zonoras ;  and  as  daylight  finds 
An  amaranth  glittering  on  the  path  of  frost. 
When  autimm  nights  have  nipt  all  weaker  kinds, 

Thus  had  his  age,  dark,  cold,  and  tempest-tost, 
Shone  truth  upon  Zonoras ;  and  he  fill'd 
From  fountains  pure,  nigh  overgrown  and  lost, 

The  spirit  of  Prince  Athanase,  a  child, 
With  soul-sustaining  songs  of  ancient  lore 
And  philosophic  wisdom,  clear  and  mild 

And  sweet  and  subtle  talk  they  evermore, 
The  pupil  and  master  shared ;  until, 
Sharing  the  undiminishable  store. 

The  youth,  as  shadows  on  a  grassy  hill 
Outrun  the  winds  that  chase  them,  soon  outran 
EUs  teacher,  and  did  teach  with  native  skill 

Strange  truths  and  new  to  that  experienced  man ; 
Still  they  were  friends,  as  few  have  ever  been 
Who  mark  the  extremes  of  life's  discordant  span, 

And  in  the  caverns  of  the  forest  green. 
Or  by  the  rocks  of  echoing  ocean  hoar, 
Zonoras  and  Prince  Athanase  were  seen 

By  summer  woodmen ;  and  when  winter's  roar 
Sounded  o'er  earth  and  sea  its  blast  of  war. 
The  Balearic  fisher,  driven  from  shore. 

Hanging  upon  the  peaked  wave  afar. 

Then  saw  their  lamp  from  Laian's  turret  gleam, 

Piercing  the  stormy  darkness  like  a  star. 

Which  pours  beyond  the  sea  one  stedfast  beam, 

Whilst  all  the  constellations  of  the  sky 

Seem'd  wrecked.  They  did  but  seem- 

For,  lo !  the  wintry  clouds  are  all  gone  by. 

And  bright  Arcturus  through  yon  pines  is  glowing 

And  far  o'er  southern  waves,  immovably 

Belted  Orion  hangs — warm  light  is  flowing 
From  the  young  moon  into  the  sunset's  chasm. — 
"  O,  summer  night !  with  pow  er  divine,  bestowing 

"  On  thine  own  bird  the  sweet  enthusiasm 
Which  overflows  in  notes  of  liquid  gladness. 
Filling  the  sky  like  light !  How  many  a  spasm 
520 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEI^IS. 


273 


"  Of  fever'd  brains,  oppress'd  with  grief  and  madness, 

Were  luU'd  by  ihee,  delightful  nightingale  ! 

And  those  soft  waves,  murmuring  a  gentle  sadness, 

"  And  the  far  sighings  of  yon  piny  dale 

Made  vocal  by  some  wind,  we  feel  not  here, — 

I  bear  alone  what  nothing  may  avail 

"  To  lighten — a  strange  load  ! " — No  human  ear 
Heard  this  lament ;  but  o'er  the  visage  wan 
Of  Athanase,  a  ruffing  atmosphere 

Of  dark  emotion,  a  swift  shadow  ran. 
Like  wind  upon  some  forest-bosom'd  lake. 
Glassy  and  dark. — And  that  divine  old  man 

Beheld  his  mystic  friend's  whole  being  shake, 
Even  where  its  inmost  depths  were  gloomiest — 
And  with  a  calm  and  measured  voice  he  spake. 

And  with  a  soft  and  equal  pressure,  prest 

That  cold  lean  hand  : — "  Dost  thou  remember  yet 

When  the  curved  moon,  then  lingering  in  the  west, 

"  Paused  in  yon  waves  her  mighty  horns  to  wet. 
How  in  those  beams  we  walk'd,  half  resting  on  the 

sea  ? 
'Tis  just  one  year — sure  thou  dost  not  forget — 

■'  Then  Plato's  words  of  light  in  thee  and  me 
tinge  r'd  hke  moonlight  in  the  moonless  east, 
For  we  had  just  then  read — thy  memory 

"  Is  faithful  now — the  story  of  the  feast ; 

And  Agathon  and  Diotima  seem'd 

From  death  and  [  ]  released. 


FRAGMENT   III. 

'T  WAS  at  the  season  when  the  Earth  upsprings 
From  slumber,  as  a  sphered  angel's  child, 
Shadowing  its  eyes  with  green  and  golden  wings, 

Stands  up  before  its  mother  bright  and  mild. 
Of  whose  soft  voice  the  air  expectant  seems — 
So  stood  before  the  sun,  which  shone  and  smiled 

To  see  it  rise  thus  joyous  from  its  dreams, 
The  fresh  and  radiant  Earth.     The  hoary  grove 
Wax'd  green — and  flowers  burst  forth  like  starry 
beams ; — 

The  grass  in  the  warm  sun  did  start  and  move. 
And  sea-buds  burst  under  the  waves  serene : — 
How  many  a  one,  though  none  be  near  to  love, 

Loves  then  the  shade  of  his  own  soul,  half  seen 
In  any  mirror — or  the  spring's  young  minions, 
The  winged  leaves  amid  the  copses  green ; — 


How  many  a  spirit  then  puts  on  the  pinions 
Of  fancy,  and  outstrips  the  lagging  blast, 
And  his  own  steps — and  over  wide  dominior 


'Twas  at  this  sea.son  that  Prince  Athanase 

Past  the  white  Alps — those  eagle-baffling  mountains 

Slept  in  their  shrouds  of  snow ; — beside  the  ways 

The  waterfalls  were  voiceless^for  their  fountains 
Were  changed  to  mines  of  sunless  crystal  now, 
Or  by  the  curdling  winds — like  brazen  wings 

Which  clang'd  alone  the  mountain's  marble  brow, 
Warp'd  into  adamantine  fretwork,  hung 
And  fill'd  with  frozen  light  the  chasm  below. 


Sweeps  in  his  dream-drawn  chariot,  far  and  fast, 
More  fleet  than  storms — the  wide  world  shrinks  below 
AVhen  winter  and  despondency  are  past. 
3Q 


FRAGMENT   IV. 

Thou  art  the  wine  whose  drunkenness  is  all 
We  can  desire,  O  Love.!  and  happy  souls, 
Ere  from  thy  vine  the  leaves  of  autumn  fall. 

Catch  thee,  and  feed  from  their  o'erflowing  bowls 
Thousands  who  thirst  for  thy  ambrosial  dew ; — 
Thou  art  the  radiance  which  where  ocean  rolls 

Invests  it ;  and  when  heavens  are  blue 
Thou  fillest  them ;  and  when  the  earth  is  fail 
The  shadow  of  thy  moving  wings  imbue 

Its  deserts  and  its  mountains,  till  they  wear 
Beauty  like  some  briglit  robe  ; — thou  ever  s'jarest 
Among  the  towers  of  men,  and  as  soft  air 

In  spring,  which  moves  the  unawaken'd  forest, 
Clothing  with  leaves  its  branches  bare  and  bleak. 
Thou  floatest  among  men  ;  and  aye  imploresi 

That  which  from  thee  they  should  implore : — the  weak 

Alone  kneel  to  thee,  offering  up  the  hearts 

The  strong  have  broken — yet  where  shall  any  seek 

A  garment  whom  thou  clothest  not  ? 
Marlow,  1817. 


MAZENGHI.* 

Oh  !  foster-nurse  of  man's  abandon'd  glory, 
Since  Athens,  its  great  mother,  sunk  in  splendor  « 
Thou  shadowest  forth  that  mighty  shape  in  story, 
As  ocean  its  wreck'd  fanes,  severe  yet  tender : 
The  light-invested  angel  Poesy 
Was  drawn  from  the  dim  world  to  welcome  thee. 

And  thou  in  painting  didst  transcribe  all  taught 

By  loftiest  meditations  ;  marble  knew 

The  sculptor's  fearless  soul — and  as  he  wrought, 

The  grace  of  his  own  power  and  freedom  grew. 

And  more  than  all,  heroic,  just,  sublime 

Thou  wert  among  the  false — was  this  thy  crime  ? 

Yes ;  and  on  Pisa's  marble  walls  the  twine 
Of  direst  weeds  hangs  garlanded — the  snake 
Inhabits  its  wreck'd  palaces ; — in  thine 
A  beast  of  subtler  venom  now  doth  make 
Its  lair,  and  sits  amid  their  glories  overthrown, 
And  thus  thy  victim's  fate  is  as  thine  own. 

*  This  fragment  refers  to  an  event,  told  in  Sismondi  a 
Histoire  des  Repuhliques  Italienncs,  which  occurred  du- 
ring the  war  when  Florence  finally  subdued  Pisa,  and  re- 
duced it  to  a  province.  The  opening  stanzas  are  addressed 
to  the  conquering  city. 

521 


274 


SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  sweetest  flowers  are  ever  frail  and  rare, 
And  love  and  freedom  blossom  but  to  wither ; 
And  good  and  ill  like  vines  entangled  are, 
So  that  their  grapes  may  ol't  be  pluck'd  together; — 
Divide  the  vintage  ere  thou  drink,  then  make 
Thy  heart  rejoice  for  dead  Mazenghi's  sake. 

Ko  record  of  his  crime  remains  in  story, 
But  if  the  morning  bright  as  evening  shone, 
It  was  some  high  and  holy  deed,  by  glory 
Pursued  into  forgetfulness,  which  won 
From  the  blind  crowd  he  made  secure  and  free 
The  patriot's  meed,  toil,  death,  and  infamy. 

For  when  by  sound  of  trumpet  was  declared 
A  price  upon  his  life,  and  there  was  set 
A  penalty  of  blood  on  all  who  shared 
So  much  of  water  with  him  as  might  wet 
His  lips,  which  speech  divided  not — he  went 
Alone  as  you  may  guess,  to  banishment. 

Amid  the  mountains,  like  a  hunted  beast, 
He  hid  himself  and  hunger,  cold,  and  toil, 
Month  after  month  endured  ;  it  was  a  feast 
Whene'er  he  found  those  globes  of  deep-red  gold 
Which  in  the  woods  the  strawberry-tree  doth  bear, 
Suspended  in  their  emerald  atmosphere. 

And  in  the  roofless  huts  of  vast  morasses. 
Deserted  by  the  fever-stricken  serf, 
All  overgrown  with  reeds  and  long  rank  grasses, 
And  hillocks  heap'd  of  moss-inwoven  turf. 
And  where  the  huge  and  speckled  aloe  made 
Rooted  in  stones,  a  broad  and  pointed  shade, 

He  housed  himself     There  is  a  point  of  strand 
IVear  Vada's  tower  and  town  ;  and  on  one  side 
The  treacherous  marsh  divides  it  from  the  land, 
Shadow'd  by  pine  and  ilex  forests  wide, 
And  on  the  other  creeps  eternally. 
Through  muddy  weeds,  the  shallow,  sullen  sea. 
Naples,  1818. 


THE  WOODMAN  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

A  WOODMAN  whose  rough  heart  was  out  of  tune 
(I  think  such  hearts  yet  never  came  to  good) 
Hated  to  hear,  under  the  stars  or  moon. 

One  nightingale  in  an  interfluous  wood 
Satiate  the  hungry  dark  with  melody  ; — 
And  as  a  vale  is  water'd  by  a  flood, 

Or  as  the  moonlight  fills  the  open  sky 
Struggling  with  darkness — as  a  tuberose 
Peoples  some  Indian  dell  with  scents  which  lie 

Like  clouds  above  the  flower  from  which  they  rose, 
The  singing  of  that  happy  nightingale 
In  this  sweet  forest,  from  the  golden  close 

Of  evening,  till  the  star  of  dawn  may  fall. 
Was  interfused  upon  the  silentness  ; 
The  folded  roses  and  the  violets  pale 

Heard  her  within  their  slumbers,  the  abyss 
Of  heaven  with  all  its  planets ;  the  dull  ear 
Of  the  night-cradled  eartli ;  the  loneliness 


Of  the  circumfluous  waters, — every  sphere 

And  every  flower  and  beam  and  cloud  and  wave 

And  every  wind  of  the  mute  atmosphere. 

And  every  beast  stretch'd  in  its  rugged  cave. 
And  every  bird  luU'd  on  its  mossy  bough. 
And  every  silver  moth  fresh  from  the  grave. 

Which  is  its  cradle — ever  from  below 
Aspiring  like  one  who  loves  too  fair,  too  far 
To  be  consumed  within  the  purest  glow 

Of  one  serene  and  unapproached  star. 
As  if  it  were  a  lamp  of  earthly  light, 
Unconscious,  as  some  human  lovers  are, 

Itself  how  low,  how  high  beyond  all  height 

The  heaven  where  it  would  perish ! — and  every  forai 

That  worshipp'd  in  the  temple  of  the  night 

Was  awed  into  delight,  and  by  the  charm 

Girt  as  with  an  interminable  zone. 

Whilst  that  sweet  bird,  whose  music  was  a  storm 

Of  sound,  shook  forth  the  dull  oblivion 
Out  of  their  dreams ;  harmony  became  love 
In  every  soul  but  one — 


And  so  this  man  return'd  with  axe  and  saw 
At  evening  close  from  killing  the  tall  treen, 
The  soul  of  whom  by  nature's  gentle  law 

Was  each  a  wood-nymph,  and  kept  ever  green 
The  pavement  and  the  roof  of  the  wild  copse. 
Chequering  the  sunlight  of  the  blue  serene 

With  jagged  leaves,  and  from  the  forest  tops 
Singing  the  winds  to  sleep — or  weeping  oft 
Fast  showers  of  aerial  water-drops 

Into  their  mother's  bosom,  sweet  and  soft, 
Nature's  pure  tears  which  have  no  bitterness  ; — 
Around  the  cradles  of  the  birds  aloft 

They  spread  themselves  into  the  loveliness 
Of  fan-like  leaves,  and  over  pallid  flowers 
Hang  like  moist  clouds : — or,  where  high  branches 
kiss. 

Make  a  green  space  among  the  silent  bowers. 
Like  a  vast  fane  in  a  metropolis. 
Surrounded  by  the  columns  and  the  towers 

All  overwrought  with  branch-like  traceries 
In  which  there  is  religion — and  the  mute 
Persuasion  of  unkindled  melodies, 

Odors  and  gleams  and  murmurs,  which  the  lute 

Of  the  blind  pilot-spirit  of  the  blast 

Stirs  as  it  sails,  now  grave  and  now  acute. 

Wakening  the  leaves  and  waves  ere  it  has  past 

To  such  brief  unison  as  on  the  brain 

One  tone,  which  never  can  recur,  has  cast. 


One  accent  never  to  return  again. 


522 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


275 


TO  THE  MOON. 
Art  thou  pale  for  weariness 
Of  climbing  heaven,  and  gazing  on  the  earth, 

Wandering  companionless 
Among  the  stars  that  have  a  diflerent  birth, — 
And  ever  changing,  like  a  joyless  eye 
That  finds  no  object  worth  its  constancy  ? 


SONG  FOR  TASSO. 
I  LOVED — alas !  our  life  is  love ; 
But  when  we  cease  to  breathe  and  move 
I  do  suppose  love  ceases  too. 
I  thought,  but  not  as  now  I  do, 
Keen  thoughts  and  bright  of  linked  lore, 
Of  all  that  men  had  thought  before, 
And  all  that  nature  shows,  and  more. 

And  still  I  love,  and  still  I  think, 
But  strangely,  for  my  heart  can  drink 
The  dregs  of  such  despair,  and  live. 
And  love ;  [  ] 

And  if  I  think,  my  thoughts  come  fast, 
I  mix  the  present  with  the  past, 
And  each  seems  uglier  than  the  last. 


Sometimes  I  see  before  me  flee 

A  silver  spirit's  form,  like  thee, 

O  Leonora,  and  I  sit 

[  ]  still  watcliing  it. 

Till  by  the  grated  casement's  ledge 

It  fades,  with  such  a  sigh,  as  sedge 

Breathes  o'er  the  breezy  streamlet's  edge. 


EPITAPH. 


These  are  two  friends  whose  lives  were  undivided 
So  let  their  memory  be,  now  they  have  glided 
Under  the  grave ;  let  not  their  bones  be  parted, 
For  their  two  hearts  in  life  were  single-hearted. 


THE  WANING  MOON. 

And  like  a  dying  lady,  lean  and  pale. 
Who  totters  forth,  wrapt  in  a  gauzy  veil. 
Out  of  her  chamber,  led  by  the  insane 
And  feeble  wanderings  of  her  fading  brain. 
The  moon  arose  up  in  the  murky  earth, 
A  white  and  shapeless  mass. 

523 


THE  END  OF  SHELLEY'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE 


OF 


JOHN   KEATS. 


68 


©ontentfis* 


Page 

MEMOIR  OF  JOHN  KEATS v 

ENDYMION ;  a  Poetic  Romance 1 

LARHA 34 

ISABELLA,  OR  THE  POT  OF  BASIL;   a 

Story  from  Boccaccio 40 

THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES 44 

HYPERION 48 

AflSCELLANEOUS  POEMS  :— 

Dedication  to  Leigh  Hunt,  Esq 55 

"  I  stood  tiptoe  upon  a  little  hill " ib. 

Specimen  of  an  Induction  to  a  Poem  ....  57 

Calidore  ;  a  Fragment 58 

To  some  Ladies  on  receiving  a  curious  Shell  59 
On  receiving  a  Copy  of  Verses  from  the 

same  Ladies ib. 

To 60 

To  Hope ib. 

Imitation  of  Spenser 61 

"Woman!  when  I  behold  thee  flippant,  vain"  ib. 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale ib. 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 62 

Ode  to  Pysche 63 

Fancy ib. 

Ode 64 

Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern ib. 

Robin  Hood 65 

To  Autumn ib. 

Ode  on  Melancholy ib. 

Sleep  and  Poetry 66 

38*  3G 


Pago 

Sonnet  To  my  Brother  George 69 

To ib. 

Written  on  the  day  that  Mr.  Leigh 

Hunt  left  Prison ib. 

"  How  many  bards  gild  the  lapses 

of  time ! " ib. 

To  a  Friend  who  sent  me  some  Roses  ib. 

ToG.  A.  W 70 

"  O  Solitude !  if  I  must  with  thee 

dwell " t& 

To  ray  Brothers ib. 

"  Keen  fitful  gusts  are  whispering 

here  and  there " ib. 

~—^^  "  To  one  who  has  been  long  in 

city  pent " ib, 

On   first  looking  into   Chapman's 

Homer ib. 

On  leaving  some  Friends  at  an 

early  hour ib. 

Addressed  to  Haydon 71 

the  same ib 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket  .  ib. 

To  Kosciusko ib. 

"  Happy  is  England !  I  could  be 

content " ib. 

The  Human  Seasons ib. 

On  a  Picture  of  Leander ib. 

To  Ailsa  Rock ib. 

Epistles.  To  George  Fellon  Mathew 72 

'              To  my  Brother  George 16. 

To  Charles  Cowden  Clarke 74 

Stanzas   75 

527 


J^emoiv  of  Sotin  Witntu. 


The  short  career  of  John  Keats  was  marked  by 
tlic  development  of  powers  which  have  been  rarely 
exliibited  in  one  at  so  inimatured  an  age.  He  had 
but  just  completed  his  twenty-fourtli  year  when 
he  was  snatched  away  frorn  the  world,  and  an  end 
put  fbr  ever  to  a  genius  of  a  lofty  and  novel  order. 
Certain  party  critics,  who  made  it  their  object  to 
lacerate  the  feelings,  and  endeavor  to  put  down  by 
vituperation  and  misplaced  ridicule  every  effort 
which  emanated  not  from  their  own  servile  de- 
pendants or  followers,  furiously  attacked  the  wri- 
tings of  Keats  on  their  appearance.  Their  promise 
of  greater  excellence  was  unquestionable,  their 
beauties  were  obvious, — but  so  also  were  defects, 
which  might  easily  be  made  available  for  an  attack 
upon  the  author ;  and  which  certain  writers  of  the 
Quarterly  Review  instantly  seized  upon  to  gratify 
party  malice, — not  against  the  author  so  much  as 
against  his  friends.  The  unmerited  abuse  poured 
upon  Keats  by  this  periodical  work  is  supposed  to 
have  hastened  his  end,  which  was  slowly  ap- 
proachmg  when  the  criticism  before-mentioned 
appeared. 

This  original  and  smgular  example  of  poetical 
genius  was  of  humble  descent,  and  was  born  in 
Moorfields,  London,  October  29,  1796,  at  a  livery- 
stables  which  had  belonged  to  his  grandfather. 
He  received  a  classical  education  at  Enfield,  under 
a  Mr.  Clarke,  and  was  apprenticed  to  Mr.  Ham- 
mond, a  surgeon  at  Edmonton.  The  son  of  his 
schoolmaster  Clarke  encouraged  the  first  germs  of 
the  poetical  faculty  which  lie  early  observed  in  the 
young  poet,  and  introduced  him  to  Mr.  Leigh 
Hunt,  who  is  reported  to  have  been  the  means  of 
his  introduction  to  the  public.  Keats  was  an  indi- 
vidual of  extreme  sensitiveness,  so  that  he  would 
betray  emotion  even  to  tears  on  hearing  a  noble 
action  recited,  or  at  the  mention  of  a  glowing 
thought  or  one  of  deep  pathos :  j'et  both  his  moral 
and  personal  courage  were  above  all  suspicion. 
His  health  was  always  delicate,  for  he  had  been 
a  seven  months'  child ;  and  it  appears  that  the 
symptoms  of  premature  decay,  or  rather  of  fragile 
vitality,  were  long  indicated  by  his  organization, 
before  consumption  decidedly  displayed  itself 

The  juvenile  productions  of  Keats  were  pub- 
lished ui  1817,  the  author  being  at  that  time  in 
his  twenty-first  year.  His  favorite  sojourn  appears 
to  have  been  Hampstead,  the  localities  of  which 


village  were  the  scenes  of  his  earUest  abstractionSj 
and  the  prompters  of  many  of  his  best  poetical 
productions  :  most  of  his  personal  friends,  too,  re- 
sided in  the  neighborhood.  His  first  published 
volume,  though  the  greater  part  of  it  was  not 
above  mediocrity,  contained  passages  and  lines  of 
rare  beauty.  His  political  sentiments  differing 
from  those  of  the  Quarterly  Review,  being  manly 
and  independent,  were  sins  never  to  be  forgiven ; 
and  as  in  that  party  work  literary  judgment  was 
always  dealt  out  according  to  political  congeniali- 
ty of  feeling,  with  tlie  known  servility  of  its  wri- 
ters,  an  author  like  Keats  had  no  chance  of  being 
judged  fiirly.  He  was  friendless  and  unknown, 
and  could  not  even  attract  notice  to  a  just  com- 
plaint if  he  appealed  to  the  public,  from  his  being 
yet  obscure  as  an  autlior.  This  Gifford,  the  editor 
of  the  Quarterly,  well  knew,  and  poured  his  ma- 
lignity upon  his  unoffending  victim  in  proportion 
as  he  was  conscious  of  the  want  of  power  in  the 
object  of  his  attack  to  resist  it.  A  scion  of  nobility 
might  have  scribbled  nonsense  and  been  certain 
of  applause  ;  but  a  singular  genius  springing  up 
by  its  own  vitality  in  an  obscure  corner,  was  by 
all  means  to  be  crushed. — Gifford  had  been  a  cob- 
bler, and  the  son  of  the  lirery-stable-kceper  was 
not  worthy  of  Iiis  critical  toleration  !  Thus  it  al- 
ways is  with  those  narrow-minded  persons  who 
rise  by  the  force  of  accident  from  vulgar  obscu- 
rity :  they  cannot  tolerate  a  brother,  much  less  su- 
perior power  or  genius  in  that  brother.  On  the 
publication  of  Keats's  next  work,  "Endymion," 
Gifford  attacked  it  with  all  the  bitterness  of  which 
Iiis  pen  was  capable,  and  did  not  hesitate,  before 
he  saw  the  work,  to  announce  his  intention  of 
doing  so  to  the  publisher.  Keats  had  endeavored, 
as  much  as  was  consistent  with  independent  feel- 
ing, to  conciliate  the  critics  at  large,  as  may  be 
observed  in  his  preface  to  that  poem.  He  merited 
to  be  treated  with  indulgence,  not  woimded  by  the 
envenomed  shafts  of  political  animosity  for  literary 
errors.  His  book  abounded  in  passages  of  true 
poetry,  which  were  of  course  passed  over  ;  and  it 
is  difficult  to  decide  whether  the  cowardice  or  the 
cruelty  of  the  attack  upon  it,  most  deserve  execra- 
tion. Of  great  sensitiveness,  as  already  observed, 
and  his  frame  already  touched  by  a  mortal  dis- 
temper, he  felt  his  hopes  withered,  and  Jiis  at- 
tempts to  obtain  honorable  public  notice  in  hia 
529 


VI 


MEMOIR  OF  JOHN  KEATS. 


own  scantily  allotted  days  frustrated.  He  was 
never  to  see  his  honorable  fame :  this  preyed  upon 
his  spirit  and  hastened  his  end,  as  has  been  alrea- 
dy noticed.  The  third  and  last  of  liis  works  was 
the  little  volume  (his  best  work)  containing  "  La- 
mia," "  Isal)ella,"  "  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,"  and 
"  Hyperion." — That  he  was  not  a  finished  writer, 
must  be  conceded  ;  that,  like  Koerncr  in  Germany, 
he  gave  rich  promise  rather  than  matured  fruit, 
may  be  granted ;  but  they  must  indeed  be  ill 
judges  of  genius  who  are  not  delighted  with  what 
he  left,  and  do  not  see  that,  had  lie  lived,  he  might 
nave  worn  a  wreath  of  renown  which  time  would 
not  easily  have  withered.  His  was  indeed  an  "  un- 
toward fate,"  as  Byron  observes  of  lihn  in  the 
eleventh  canto  of  "  Don  Juan." 

For  several  years  before  liis  death,  Keats  had 
felt  that  the  disease  which  preyed  upon  loim  was 
mortal, — that  the  agents  of  decay  were  at  work 
upon  a  body  too  imperfectly  organized,  or  too 
feebly  constructed  to  sustain  long  the  fire  of  exist- 
ence. He  had  neglected  his  own  health  to  attend 
a  brother  on  his  death-bed,  when  it  would  have 
been  far  more  prudent  that  he  had  recollected  it 
was  necessary  he  should  take  care  of  himself. 
Under  the  bereavement  of  this  brother  he  was 
combating  his  keen  feelings,  when  the  Zoilus  of 
the  Quarterly  so  ferociously  attacked  him.  The 
excitement  of  spirit  was  too  much  for  his  frame  to 
sustain ;  and  a  blow  from  another  quarter,  coming 
about  the  same  time,  shook  him  so  much,  that  he 
told  a  friend  with  tears  "  his  heart  was  breaking." 
— He  was  now  persuaded  to  try  tlie  climate  of 
Italy,  the  refuge  of  those  who  have  no  more  to 
hope  for  in  their  own  ;  but  which  is  commonly  de- 
layed until  tlie  removal  only  leads  the  traveller  to 
the  tomb.  Thither  he  went  to  die.  He  was  ac- 
companied Dy  Mr.  Severn,  an  artist  of  considerable 
talent,  well  known  since  in  Rome.  Mr.  Severn 
was  a  valuable  and  attached  friend  of  the  poet ; 
and  they  went  first  to  Naples,  and  tliencc  journey- 
ed to  Rome, — where  Keats  closed  liis  e)^es  on  the 
world  on  the  24th  of  February,  1821.  He  wislicd 
ardently  for  death  before  it  came.  The  springs  of 
vitality  were  left  nearly  dry  long  before ;  his  lin- 
gering as  he  did  astonished  his  medical  attendants. 
His  suff'erings  were  great,  but  lie  was  all  resigna- 
tion. He  said,  not  long  before  he  died,  that  he 
"  felt  the  flowers  growing  over  him." 

On  the  examination  of  his  body,  post  moHem, 
by  his  physicians,  they  found  that  life  rarely  so 
long  tenanted  a  body  sliattered  as  his  was:  his 
lungs  were  well-nigh  annihilated. — His  remains 
were  deposited  in  the  cemetery  of  tlie  Protestants 
at  Rome,  at  the  foot  of  the  pyramid  of  Caius  Ces- 
tius,  near  the  Porta  San  Paolo,  where  a  wliite 
marble  tombstone,  bearing  tlie  following  inscrip- 
tion, surmounted  by  a  lyre  in  lasso  relievo,  has 
been  erected  to  his  memory  : — 


This  Grave 
contains  all  that  was  mortal 

of  a 

YOUNG  ENGLISH  POET, 

who, 

on  his  (leath-bed, 

in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart 

at  the  malicious  power  of  his  enemies, 

desired 

these  words  to  be  engraved  on  his  tombstone  — 

HERE  LIES  ONE 
WHOSE  NAME  WAS  WRIT  IN  WATER. 

Feb.  24th,  1821. 

The  physiognomy  of  the  young  poet  mdicated 
his  character.  Sensibility  was  predominant,  but 
there  was  no  deficiency  of  poAver.  His  features 
were  well-defined,  and  delicately  susceptible  ot 
every  impression.  His  eyes  were  large  and  dark, 
but  his  cheeks  were  sunk,  and  his  face  pale  when 
he  was  tranquil.  His  Imir  was  of  a  brown  color, 
and  curled  naturally.  His  head  was  small,  and 
set  upon  broad  high  shoulders,  and  a  body  dispro- 
portionately large  to  his  lower  limbs,  which,  how- 
ever, were  well-made.  His  stature  was  low ;  and 
his  hands,  says  a  friend  (Mr.  L.  Hunt),  were 
faded,  having  prominent  veins — which  he  would 
look  upon,  and  pronounce  to  belong  to  one  who 
had  seen  fifty  years.  His  temper  was  of  the  gen- 
tlest description,  and  he  felt  deeply  aU  favors  con- 
ferred  upon  him :  in  fact,  lie  was  one  of  those 
marked  and  rare  characters  which  genius  stamps 
from  their  birth  in  her  own  mould ;  and  whose 
early  consignment  to  the  tomb  has,  it  is  most 
probable,  deprived  the  world  of  works  calculated 
to  delight,  if  not  to  astonish  mankind — of  produc- 
tions to  whicli  every  congenial  spirit  and  kind 
quality  of  the  human  heart  would  have  done 
homage,  and  confessed  the  power.  It  is  to  be  la- 
mented that  such  promise  should  have  been  so 
prematurely  blighted. 

Scattered  through  the  writings  of  Keats  will 
be  found  passages  which  come  home  to  every 
bosom  alive  to  each  nobler  and  kindlier  feeling  of 
the  human  heart.  There  is  much  in  them  to  be 
corrected,  mucli  to  be  altered  for  the  better ;  but 
there  are  sparkling  gems  of  the  first  lustre  every, 
where  to  be  found.  It  is  strange,  that  in  civihzed 
societies  writings  should  be  judged  of,  not  by  their 
merits,  but  by  the  faction  to  which  tlieir  author 
belongs,  though  their  productions  may  be  solely 
confined  to  subjects  the  most  remote  from  contro 
versy.  In  England,  a  party-man  must  yield  up 
every  thing  to  the  opinions  and  dogmatism  of  his 
caste.  He  must  reject  truths,  pervert  reason,  mis- 
represent all  tilings  coming  from  an  opponent  of 
another  creed  in  religion  or  politics.  Such  a  stat^ 
of  virulent  and  lamentable  narrow-mindedness,  is 
the  most  certain  that  can  exist  for  blighting  the 
tender  blossoms  of  genius,  and  blasting  the  inno- 
cent and  virtuous  hopes  of  tlic  j'oung  aspirant  af- 
ter honest  fame.  It  is  not  necessary  that  a  young 
530 


MEMOIR  OF  JOHN  KEATS. 


Vll 


£ind  ardent  mind  avow  principles  hostile  to  tliose 
who  set  up  for  its  enemies — if  he  be  but  the  friend 
of  a  friend  openly  opposed  to  them,  it  is  enough ; 
and  the  worst  is,  that  the  hostility  displayed  is 
neither  limited  by  truth  and  candor,  sound  princi- 
ples of  criticism,  humanity,  or  honorable  feeling  : 
it  fights  with  all  weapons,  in  tlie  dark  or  in  the 
light,  by  craft,  or  in  any  mode  to  obtain  its  bitter 
objects.  The  critics  who  hastened  the  end  of 
Keats,  had  his  works  been  set  before  them  as  being 
those  of  an  imknown  writer,  would  have  acknow- 
ledged their  talent,  and  applauded  where  it  was 
due,  for  their  attacks  upon  him  were  not  made 
from  lack  of  judgment,  but  from  wilful  hostility. 
One  knows  not  how  to  characterize  such  demonia- 


cal insincerity.  Keats  belonged  to  a  school  of 
pohtics  which  they  from  their  ambush  anatliema- 
tized : — hence,  and  hence  alone,  their  malice  to- 
wards hun. 

Keats  was,  as  a  poet,  like  a  rich  fruit-tree  which 
the  gardener  has  not  pruned  of  its  luxuriance : 
time,  had  it  been  allotted  him  by  Heaven,  would 
have  seen  it  as  trim  and  rich  as  any  brother  of  the 
garden.  It  is  and  will  ever  be  regretted  by  the 
readers  of  his  works,  that  he  lingered  no  longer 
among  living  men,  to  bring  to  perfection  what  lie 
meditated,  to  contribute  to  British  literature  a 
greater  name,  and  to  delight  the  lovers  of  true 
poetry  witli  the  rich  melody  of  his  musically  era. 
bodied  thoughts. 

531 


THE 

POETICAL  WORKS 

OF 


ar®msr  i 


Sntrjiiniou ; 


A  POETIC  ROMANCE. 

INSCRIBED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 


The  stretched  metre  of  an  Antique  Song 


PREFACE. 


Knowing  within  myself  the  manner  in  which  this 
Poem  has  been  produced,  it  is  not  without  a  feeling 
cf  reg^ret  that  I  make  it  public. 

What  manner  I  mean,  will  be  quite  clear  to  the 
reader,  who  must  soon  perceive  great  inexperience, 
immaturity,  and  every  error  denoting  a  feverish  at- 
tempt, rather  than  a  deed  accomplished.  The  two 
first  books,  and  indeed  the  two  last,  I  feel  sensible 
are  not  of  such  completion  as  to  warrant  their  passing 
the  press ;  nor  should  they,  if  I  thought  a  year's  cas- 
tigation  would  do  them  any  good  ; — it  will  not :  the 
foundations  are  too  sandy.  It  is  just  that  this  youngster 
should  die  away :  a  sad  thought  for  me,  if  I  had  not 
some  hope  that  while  it  is  dwindling  I  may  be  plot- 
ting, and  fitting  myself  for  verses  fit  to  live. 

This  may  be  speaking  too  presumptuously,  and 
may  deserve  a  punishment :  but  no  feeling  man  will 
y>e  forward  to  inflict  it :  he  will  leave  me  alone,  with 
t  lie  conviction  that  there  is  not  a  fiercer  hell  than  the 
failure  in  a  great  object.  This  is  not  wTitten  with 
the  least  atom  of  purpose  to  forestall  criticisms  of 
course,  but  from  the  desire  I  have  to  conciliate  men 
who  are  competent  to  look,  and  who  do  look  with  a 
jealous  eye,  to  the  honor  of  English  literature. 

The  imagination  of  a  boy  is  healthy,  and  the  ma- 
ture imagination  of  a  man  is  healthy ;  but  there  is  a 
space  of  life  between,  in  which  the  soul  is  in  a  fer- 
ment, the  character  undecided,  the  way  of  life  un- 
certain, the  ambition  thick-sighted  :  thence  proceed 
mawkishness,  and  all  the  thousand  bitters  which 
those  men  I  speak  of,  must  necessarily  taste  in  going 
over  the  following  pages. 

I  hope  I  have  not  in  too  late  a  day  touched  the 
beautiful  mythology  of  Greece,  and  dulled  its  bright- 
ness :  for  I  wish  to  try  once  more,  before  I  bid  it 
farewell. 


Teignmouth,  April  10,  1818. 


ENDYMION. 


BOOK  I. 

A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever : 

Its  loveliness  increases  ;  it  will  never 

Pass  into  nothingness ;  but  still  will  keep 

A  bovver  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 

Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breathing 

Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreatiiing 

A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth. 

Spite  of  despondence,  of  th'  inhuman  dearth 

Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days. 

Of  all  the  unhealthy  and  o'er-darken'd  ways 

Made  for  our  searching :  yes,  in  spite  of  all, 

Some  shape  of  beauty  moves  away  the  pall 

From  our  dark  spirits.     Such  the  sun,  the  moon. 

Trees  old  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 

For  simple  sheep ;  and  such  are  daffodils 

With  the  green  world  they  live  in ;  and  clear  rills 

That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 

'Gainst  the  hot  season  ;  the  mid-forest  brake, 

Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fair  musk-rose  blooms)  ■ 

And  such  too  is  the  grandeur  of  the  dooms 

We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead  ; 

All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read: 

An  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink. 

Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences 
For  one  short  hour ;  no,  even  as  the  trees 
That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 
Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the  moon, 
The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite, 
flaunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light 
Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us  so  fast. 
That,  whether  there  be  shine,  or  gloom  o'ercast 
They  always  must  be  with  us,  or  we  die. 
63  533 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Therefore,  'tis  with  full  happiness  that  I 
Will  trace  the  story  of  Endyniion. 
The  very  music  uf  the  name  has  gone 
Into  my  being,  and  each  pleasant  scene 
Is  growing  fresh  before  me  as  the  green 
Of  our  own  valleys :  so  1  will  begin 
Now  while  I  cannot  hear  the  city's  din ; 
Now  while  the  early  budders  are  just  new, 
And  run  in  mazes  of  the  youngest  hue 
About  old  foresls ;  while  the  willow  trails 
lis  delicate  amber ;  and  the  dairy  pails 
Bring  home  increase  of  milk.     And,  as  the  year 
Grows  lush  in  juicy  stalks,  I  '11  smoothly  steer 
My  little  boat,  for  many  quiet  hours, 
With  streams  that  deepen  freshly  into  bowers. 
Many  and  many  a  verse  I  hope  to  write, 
Before  the  daisies,  vermeil  rimm'd  and  white, 
Hide  in  deep  herbage ;  and  ere  yet  the  bees 
Hum  about  globes  of  clover  and  sweet  peas, 
I  must  be  near  the  middle  of  my  story. 
O  may  no  wintry  season,  bare  and  hoary, 
See  it  half  finish'd  :  but  let  Autumn  bold. 
With  univereal  tinge  of  sober  gold. 
Be  all  about  me  when  I  make  an  end. 
And  now  at  once,  adventuresome,  I  send 
My  herald  thought  into  a  wilderness: 
There  let  its  trumpet  blow,  and  quickly  dress 
My  uncertain  path  with  green,  that  I  may  speed 
Easily  onward,  thorough  flowers  and  weed. 

Upon  the  sides  of  Lafmos  was  outspread 
A  mighty  forest ;  for  the  moist  earth  led 
So  plenteously  all  weed-hidden  roots 
Into  o'erhanging  boughs,  and  precious  fruits. 
And  it  had  gloomy  shades,  sequester'd  deep. 
Where  no  man  w  ent ;  and  if  from  shepherd's  keep 
A  lamb  stray'd  far  adown  those  inmost  glens. 
Never  again  saw  he  the  happy  pens 
Whither  his  brethren,  bleating  with  content, 
Over  the  hills  at  every  nightfall  went. 
Among  the  shepherds  't  was  believed  ever. 
That  not  one  fleecy  lamb  which  thus  did  sever 
From  the  white  flock,  but  pass'd  unworried 
By  any  wolf,  or  pard  with  piying  head, 
Until  it  came  to  some  uiifooted  plains 
Where  fed  the  herds  of  Pan :  ay,  great  his  gains 
Who  thus  one  lamb  did  lose.  Paths  there  were  many. 
Winding  through  palmy  fern,  and  rushes  fenny. 
And  ivy  banks;  all  leading  pleasantly 
To  a  wide  lawn,  whence  one  could  only  see 
Stems  thronging  all  around  between  the  swell 
Of  turf  and  slanting  branches :  who  could  tell 
The  freshness  of  the  space  of  heaven  above. 
Edged  round  with  dark  tree-tops  ?  through  which  a 

dove 
Would  often  beat  its  wings,  and  often  too 
A  little  cloud  would  move  across  the  blue. 


•  Full  in  the  middle  of  this  pleasantness 
There  stood  a  marble  altar,  with  a  tress 
Of  flowers  budded  newly ;  and  the  dew 
Had  taken  fairy  fantasies  to  strew 
Daisies  upon  the  sacred  sward  last  eve, 
And  so  the  dawned  light  in  pomp  receive. 
For  'twas  the  morn:  Apollo's  upward  fire 
Made  every  eastern  cloud  a  silvery  pyre 


Of  brightness  so  unsullied,  that  therein 

A  melancholy  spirit  well  might  win 

Obhvion,  and  melt  out  his  essence  fine 

Into  the  winds  :  rain-scented  eglantine 

Gave  temperate  sweets  to  that  well-wooing  sun ; 

The  lark  was  lost  in  him ;  cold  springs  had  run 

To  warm  their  chilliest  bubbles  in  the  grass ; 

Man's  voice  was  on  the  mountains ;  and  the  mass 

Of  nature's  lives  and  wonders  pulsed  tenfold, 

To  feel  this  sunrise  and  its  glories  old. 

Now  while  the  silent  workings  of  the  dawn 
Were  busiest,  into  that  self-same  lawn 
All  suddenly,  with  joyful  cries,  there  sped 
A  troop  of  little  children  garlanded  ; 
Who,  gathering  round  the  altar,  seem'd  to  pry 
Earnestly  round  as  wishing  to  espy 
Some  folk  of  holiday  :  nor  had  they  waited 
For  many  moments,  ere  their  ears  were  sated 
With  a  faint  breath  of  music,  which  ev'n  then 
Fill'd  out  its  voice,  and  died  away  again. 
Within  a  little  space  again  it  gave 
Its  airy  swellings,  with  a  gentle  wave. 
To  light-hung  leaves,  in  smoothest  echoes  breaking 
Through  copse-clad  valleys, — ere  their  death,  o'ei 

taking 
The  surgy  murmurs  of  the  lonely  sea. 

And  now,  as  deep  into  the  wood  as  we 
Might  mark  a  lynx's  eye,  there  glimmer'd  light 
Fair  faces  and  a  rush  of  garments  white 
Plainer  and  plainer  showing,  till  at  last 
Into  the  widest  alley  they  all  past, 
Making  directly  for  the  woodland  altar. 
O  kindly  muse !  let  not  my  weak  tongue  falter 
In  telling  of  this  goodly  company. 
Of  their  old  piety,  and  of  their  glee  : 
But  let  a  portion  of  ethereal  dew 
Fall  on  my  head,  and  presently  unmew 
My  soul ;  that  I  may  dare,  in  wayfaring. 
To  stammer  where  old  Chaucer  used  to  sing 


Leading  the  way,  young  damsels  danced  along, 
Bearing  the  burden  of  a  shepherd's  song ; 
Each  having  a  white  wicker  over-brimm'd 
With  April's  tender  younglings :  next,  well  trimm'd 
A  crowd  of  shepherds  with  as  sunburnt  looks 
As  may  be  read  of  in  Arcadian  books ; 
Such  as  sat  listening  round  Apollo's  pipe. 
When  the  great  deity,  for  earth  too  ripe, 
Let  his  divinity  o'erflowing  die 
In  music,  through  the  vales  of  Thessaly : 
Some  idly  trail'd  their  sheep-hooks  on  the  ground 
And  some  kept  up  a  shrilly  mellow  sound 
With  ebon-tipped  flutes :  close  after  these. 
Now  coming  from  beneath  the  forest  trees, 
A  venerable  priest  full  soberly. 
Begirt  with  ministering  looks :  alway  his  eye 
Stedfast  upon  the  matted  turf  he  kept. 
And  after  him  his  sacred  vestments  swept. 
From  his  right  hand  there  swung  a  vase,  milk-white 
Of  mingled  wine,  out-sparkling  generous  light  ; 
And  in  his  left  he  held  a  basket  full 
Of  all  sweet  herbs  that  searching  eye  could  cull  • 
Wild  thyme,  and  valley-lilies  vvhiter  still 
Than  Leda's  love,  and  cresses  from  the  rill. 
534 


ENDYMION. 


His  aged  head,  crown'd  with  beechen  wreath, 

Seem"d  like  a  poll  of  ivy  in  the  teeth 

Of  winter  hoar.    Then  came  another  crowd 

Of  shepherds,  lifting  in  duo  time  aloud 

Their  share  of  the  ditty.    After  ihcm  appear'd, 

Up-follow"d  by  a  multitude  that  rear'd 

Their  voices  to  the  clouds,  a  fair  wrought  car 

Easily  rolling  so  as  scarce  to  mar 

The  freedom  of  three  steeds  of  dapple  brown : 

Who  stood  therein  did  seem  of  great  renown 

Among  the  throng.    His  youth  was  fully  blown, 

Showing  like  Ganymede  to  manhood  grown ; 

And,  for  those  simple  times,  his  garments  were 

A  chieftain  king's :  beneath  his  breast,  half  bare, 

Was  hung  a  silver  bugle,  and  between 

His  ner\y  knees  there  lay  a  boar-spear  keen. 

A  smile  was  on  his  countenance ;  he  seem'd, 

To  common  lookers-on,  like  one  who  dream'd 

Of  idleness  in  groves  Elysian : 

But  there  were  some  who  feelingly  could  scan 

A  lurkmg  trouble  in  his  netiier  lip. 

And  see  ihat  oftentimes  the  reins  would  slip 

Through  his  forgotten  hands:  then  would  they  sigh, 

And  think  of  yellow  leaves,  of  owlets'  cry, 

Of  logs  piled  solemnly. — Ah,  well-a-day, 

Why  should  our  young  Endymion  pine  away  ! 

Soon  the  assembly,  in  a  circle  ranged, 
Stood  silent  round  the  shrine :  each  look  was  changed 
To  sudden  veneration  :  women  meek 
Beckon'd  their  sons  to  silence  ;  while  each  cheek 
Of  virgin  bloom  paled  gently  for  slight  fear. 
Endymion  too,  without  a  forest  peer. 
Stood,  wan,  and  pale,  and  with  an  awed  face, 
Among  his  brothers  of  the  mountain  chase. 
In  midst  of  all,  the  venerable  priest 
Eyed  them  with  joy  from  greatest  to  the  least, 
And,  after  lifting  up  his  aged  hands, 
Thus  spake  he  :  "  Men  of  Latmos  I  .shepherd  bands ! 
Whose  care  it  is  to  guard  a  thousand  flocks : 
Whether  descended  from  beneath  the  rocks 
That  overtop  your  mountains  ;  whether  come 
From  valleys  where  the  pipe  is  never  dumb ; 
Or  from  your  swelling  downs,  where  sweet  air  stirs 
Blue  harebells  lightly,  and  where  prickly  furze 
Buds  lavish  gold  ;  or  ye,  whose  precious  charge 
Nibble  their  till  at  ocean's  very  marge. 
Whose  mellow  reeds  are  touch'd  with  sounds  forlorn 
By  the  dim  echoes  of  old  Triton's  horn : 
Mothers  and  wives  I  who  day  by  day  prepare 
The  scrip,  with  needments,  for  the  mountain  air ; 
And  all  ye  gentle  girls  who  foster  up 
Udderless  lambs,  and  in  a  little  cup 
Will  put  choice  honey  for  a  favor'd  youth : 
Yea,  every  one  attend  I  for  in  good  truth 
Our  vows  are  wanting  to  our  great  god  Pan. 
Are  not  our  lowing  heifers  sleeker  than 
Night-swollen  mushrooms  ?    Are  not  our  wide  plains 
Speckled  with  countless  fleeces  ?   Have  not  rains 
Green'd  over  April's  lap  ?  No  howling  sad 
Sickens  our  fearful  ewes ;  and  we  have  had 
Great  bounty  from  Endymion  our  lord. 
The  earth  is  glad  :  the  merry  lark  has  pour'd 
His  early  song  against  yon  breezy  sky. 
That  spreads  so  clear  o'er  our  solemnity." 

Thus  ending,  on  the  shrine  he  heap'd  a  spire 
Of  teeming  sweets,  enkindling  sacred  fire  ; 
39  3H 


Anon  he  stain'd  the  thick  and  spongy  sod 
With  wine,  in  honor  of  the  shepherd-god. 
Mow  while  the  earth  was  drinking  it,  and  while 
Bay  leaves  were  crackling  in  the  fragrant  pile. 
And  gummy  frankincense  was  sparkling  bright 
'Neath  smothering  parsley,  and  a  hazy  light 
Spread  grayly  eastward,  thus  a  chorus  sang  : 


"  0  thou,  whose  mighty  palace  roof  doth  hang 
From  jagged  trunks,  and  overshadowelh 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  life,  death 
Of  unseen  flowers  in  heavy  peacefulness ; 
Who  lovest  to  see  the  hamadryads  dress 
Their  ruffled  locks  where  meeting  hazels  darken ; 
And  through  whole  solemn  hours  dost  sit,  and  hearken 
The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds — 
In  desolate  places,  where  dank  moisture  breeds 
The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrov\th, 
Bethinldng  thee,  how  melancholy  loth 
Thou  wast  to  lose  fair  Syrinx — do  thou  now, 
By  thy  love's  milky  brow  I 
By  all  the  trembling  mazes  that  she  ran, 
Hear  us,  great  Pan  I 


"O  thou,  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet,  turtles 
Passion  their  voices  cooingly  'mong  myrtles, 
What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 
Through  sunny  meadows,  that  outskirt  the  side 
Of  thine  enmossed  realms  :  O  thou,  to  whom 
Broad-leaved  fig-trees  even  now  foredoom 
Their  ripen'd  fruitage ;  yellow-girted  bees 
Their  golden  honeycomlDS ;  our  village  leas 
Their  fairest  blossom'd  beans  and  poppied  corn ; 
The  chuckling  hnnet  its  five  young  unborn. 
To  sing  for  thee ;  low  creeping  strawberries 
Their  summer  coolness;  pent  up  butterflies 
Their  freckled  wings;  yea,  the  fresh  budding  yeai 
All  its  completions — be  quickly  near, 
By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain  pine, 
O  forester  divine ! 


"  Thou,  to  whom  every  faun  and  satyr  fhes 
For  willing  service;  whether  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half-sleeping  fit  ; 
Or  upward  ragged  precipices  fht 
To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle's  maw ; 
Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewilder'd  shepherds  to  their  path  again ; 
Or  to  tread  breathless  round  the  frothy  main. 
And  gather  up  all  fancifullest  shells 
For  thee  to  tumble  into  Naiads'  cells. 
And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  their  out-peeping, 
Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leaping. 
The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the  crown 
With  silvery  oak-apples,  and  fir-cones  brown- 
By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring. 
Hear  us,  O  satyr  king  I 


"  O  Hearkener  to  the  loud-clapping  shears, 
Wliile  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers 
A  ram  goes  bleating :  Winder  of  the  horn. 
When  snouted  wild-boars  routing  tender  com 
Anger  our  huntsman :  Breather  round  our  fanM, 
To  keep  off  mildevv's,  and  all  weather  harms : 
535 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Strange  minislrant  of  undescribed  sounds, 
That  come  a-swoouing  over  hollow  grounds, 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors  : 
Dread  opene'  of  the  mysterious  doors 
Leading  to  universal  knowledge — see, 
Great  son  of  Dryope, 

The  many  ihat  are  come  to  pay  their  vows 
With  lea\  es  about  their  brows  ! 

"  Be  still  the  unimaginable  lodge 
For  solitary  thinkings  ;  such  as  dodge 
Conception  to  the  very  bourn  of  Heaven, 
Then  leave  the  naked  brain :  be  still  the  leaven, 
That  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded  earth, 
Gives  it  a  touch  ethereal — a  new  birth: 
Be  still  a  symbol  of  immensity ; 
A  firmament  reflected  in  a  sea  ; 
An  element  filling  the  space  between  ; 
An  unknown — but  no  more  :  we  humbly  screen 
With  uplift  hands  our  foreheads,  lowly  bending. 
And  giving  out  a  shout  most  heaven-rending, 
Conjure  thee  to  receive  our  humble  Paean, 
Upon  thy  Mount  Lycean  ! " 

Even  while  they  brought  the  burden  to  a  close, 
A  shout  from  the  whole  multitude  arose. 
That  linger'd  in  the  air  like  dying  rolls 
Of  abrupt  thunder,  when  Ionian  shoals 
Of  dolphins  bob  their  noses  through  the  brine. 
Meantime,  on  shady  levels,  mossy  fine. 
Young  companies  nimbly  began  dancing 
To  the  swift  treble  pipe,  and  humming  string. 
Aye,  those  fair  living  forms  swam  heavenly 
To  tunes  forgotten — out  of  memory : 
Fair  creatures!  whose  young  childrens'  children  bred 
Thermopylae  its  heroes — not  yet  dead. 
But  in  old  marbles  ever  beautiful. 
High  geniiors,  unconscious  did  they  cull 
Time's  sweet  firet-fruits — they  danced  to  weariness, 
Ana  then  in  quiet  circles  did  they  press 
The  hillock  turf,  and  caught  the  latter  end 
Of  some  strange  history,  potent  to  send 
A  young  mind  from  its  bodily  tenement. 
Or  they  might  watch  the  quoit-pitchers,  intent 
On  either  side ;  pitying  the  sad  death 
Of  Hyacinthus,  when  the  cruel  breath 
Of  Zephyr  slew  him, — Zephyr  penitent, 
Who  now,  ere  Phoebus  mounts  the  firmament. 
Fondles  the  flower  amid  the  sobbing  rain. 
The  archers  too,  upon  a  wider  plain. 
Beside  the  feathery  whizzing  of  the  shaft. 
And  the  dull  twanging  bowstring,  and  the  raft 
Bfanch  down  sweeping  from  a  tall  ash  top, 
Call'd  up  a  thousand  thoughts  to  envelop 
Those  who  would  watch.  Perhaps,  the  trembling  knee 
And  frantic  gape  of  lonely  Niobe, 
Poor,  lonely  Niobe  !  w  hen  her  lovely  young 
Were  dead  and  gone,  and  her  caressing  tongue 
Lay  a  lost  thing  upon  her  paly  lip. 
And  very,  very  deadliness  did  nip 
Her  motherly  cheeks.    Aroused  from  this  sad  mood 
By  one,  who  at  a  distance  loud  halloo'd, 
Uplifting  his  strong  bow  into  the  air, 
Many  might  after  brighter  visions  stare : 
After  the  Argonauts,  in  blind  amaze 
Tossing  about  on  Neptune's  restless  ways, 


Until,  from  the  horizon's  vaulted  side. 

There  shot  a  golden  splendor  far  and  wide. 

Spangling  those  million  poutings  of  the  brine 

With  quivering  ore  :  't  was  even  an  awful  shine 

From  the  exaltation  of  Apollo's  bow ; 

A  heavenly  beacon  in  their  dreary  woe. 

Who  thus  were  ripe  for  high  contemplating. 

Might  turn  their  steps  towards  the  sober  ring 

Where  sat  Endymion  and  the  aged  priest 

'Mong  shepherds  gone  in  eld,  whose  looks  increased 

The  silvery  setting  of  their  mortal  star. 

There  they  discoursed  upon  the  fragile  bar 

That  keeps  us  from  our  homes  ethereal ; 

And  what  our  duties  there :  to  nightly  call 

Vesper,  the  beauty-crest  of  summer  weather ; 

To  summon  all  the  downiest  clouds  together 

For  the  sun's  purple  couch ;  to  emulate 

In  ministering  the  potent  rule  of  fate 

With  speed  of  fire-tail'd  exhalations ; 

To  tint  her  pallid  cheek  with  bloom,  who  cons 

Sweet  poesy  by  moonlight :  besides  these, 

A  world  of  other  unguess'd  offices. 

Anon  they  wander'd,  by  divine  converse, 

Into  Elysium ;  vying  to  rehearse 

Each  one  his  own  anticipated  bliss. 

One  felt  heart-certain  that  he  could  not  miss 

His  quick-gone  love,  among  fair  blossom'd  boughs 

Where  every  zephyr-sigh  pouts,  and  endows 

Her  lips  with  music  for  the  welcoming 

Another  wish'd,  'mid  that  eternal  spring, 

To  meet  his  rosy  child,  with  feathery  sails. 

Sweeping,  eye-earnestly,  through  almond  vales  : 

Who,  suddenly,  should  stoop  through  the  smooth  winr 

And  with  the  balmiest  leaves  his  temples  bind ; 

And,  ever  after,  through  those  regions  be 

His  messenger,  his  little  Mercury. 

Some  were  athirst  in  soul  to  see  again 

Their  fellow-huntsmen  o'er  the  wide  champaign 

In  times  long  past ;  to  sit  with  them,  and  talk 

Of  all  the  chances  in  their  earthly  walk ; 

Comparing,  joyfully,  their  plenteous  stores 

Of  happiness,  to  when  upon  the  moors, 

Benighted,  close  they  huddled  from  the  cold, 

And  shared  their  famish'd  scrips.    Thus  all  out-told 

Their  fond  imaginations, — saving  him 

Whose  eyelids  curtain'd  up  their  jewels  dim, 

Endymion  :  yet  hourly  had  he  striven 

To  hide  the  cankering  venom,  that  had  riven 

His  fainting  recollections.    Now  indeed 

His  senses  had  swoon'd  off:  he  did  not  heed 

The  sudden  silence,  or  the  whispers  low, 

Or  the  old  eyes  dissolving  at  his  woe, 

Or  anxious  calls,  or  close  of  trembling  palms. 

Or  maiden's  sigh,  that  grief  itself  embalms  : 

But  in  the  self-same  fixed  trance  he  kept. 

Like  one  who  on  the  earth  had  never  stept 

Aye,  even  as  dead-still  as  a  marble  man. 

Frozen  in  that  old  tale  Arabian. 

Who  whispers  him  so  pantingly  and  close  ? 
Peona,  his  sweet  sister :  of  all  those, 
His  friends,  the  dearest.    Hushing  signs  she  made 
And  breathed  a  sister's  sorrow  to  persuade 
A  yielding  up,  a  cradling  on  her  care. 
Her  eloquence  did  breathe  away  the  curse : 
I  She  led  him,  like  some  midnight  spirit  nurse 
536 


ENDYMION. 


Of  happy  changes  in  emphatic  dreams, 

Along  a  path  between  two  little  streams, — 

Guarding  his  ibrehead,  with  her  round  elbow. 

From  low-grown  branches,  and  his  footsteps  slow 

From  stumbling  over  stumps  and  hillocks  small ; 

Until  they  came  to  where  these  streamlets  fall, 

With  mingled  bubblings  and  a  gentle  rush. 

Into  a  river,  clear,  brimful,  and  flush 

With  crystal  mocking  of  the  trees  and  sky. 

A  little  shallop  floating  there  hard  by. 

Pointed  its  beak  over  the  fringed  bank ; 

And  awn  it  lightly  dipt,  and  ruse,  and  sank, 

And  dipt  again,  with  the  young  couple's  weight, — 

Peona  guiding,  through  the  water  straight, 

Towards  a  bowery  island  opposite ; 

Which  gaining  presently,  she  steered  light 

Into  a  shady,  fresh,  and  ripply  cove. 

Where  nested  was  an  arbor,  overwove 

By  many  a  summer's  silent  fingering ; 

To  whose  cool  bosom  she  was  used  to  bring 

Her  playmates,  with  their  needle  broidery. 

And  minstrel  memories  of  times  gone  by. 


So  she  was  gently  glad  to  see  him  laid 
Under  her  favorite  bovver's  quiet  shade. 
On  her  own  couch,  new  made  of  flower  leaves. 
Dried  carefully  on  the  cooler  side  of  sheaves 
When  last  the  sun  his  autumn  tresses  shook, 
And  the  tann'd  harvesters  rich  armfuls  took. 
Soon  was  he  quieted  to  slumbrous  rest : 
But,  ere  it  crept  upon  him,  he  had  prest 
Peona's  busy  hand  against  his  lips. 
And  still,  a-sleeping,  held  her  finger-tips 
In  lender  pressure.     And  as  a  willow  keeps 
A  patient  watch  over  the  stream  tliat  creeps 
Windingly  by  it,  so  the  quiet  maid 
Held  her  in  peace  :  so  that  a  whispering  blade 
Of  grass,  a  wailful  gnat,  a  bee  bustling 
Down  in  the  blue-bells,  or  a  wren  light  rustling 
Among  sere  leaves  and  tv\igs,  might  all  be  heard. 


O  magic  sleep  !  O  comfortable  bird. 
That  broodest  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  the  mind 
Till  it  is  hush'd  and  smooth  I  O  unconfined 
Restraint !  imprison'd  liberty  !  great  key 
To  golden  palaces,  strange  minstrelsy, 
Fountaiiiis  grotesque,  new  trees,  bespangled  caves, 
Echoing  grottoes,  full  of  tumbling  waves 
And  moonlight ;  aye,  to  all  the  mazy  world 
Of  silvery  enchantment  I — who,  upfurl'd 
Beneath  thy  drowsy  wing  a  triple  hour. 
But  renovates  and  lives  ? — Thus,  in  the  tower, 
Endymion  was  calm'd  to  life  again. 
Opening  his  eyelids  with  a  healthier  brain, 
He  said  :  "  I  feel  this  thine  endearing  love 
All  through  my  bosom :  thou  art  as  a  dove 
Trembling  its  closed  eyes  and  sleeked  wings 
Aliout  me;  and  the  pearliest  dew  not  brings 
Such  morning  incense  from  the  fields  of  May, 
As  do  those  brighter  drops  that  twinkling  stray 
From  those  kind  eyes, — the  very  home  and  haunt 
Of  sisterly  aflTeciion.     Can  I  want 
Aught  else,  aught  nearer  heaven,  tlian  such  tears? 
Yet  dry  them  up,  in  bidding  hence  all  fears 
That,  any  hunger,  I  will  pass  my  days 
Alone  and  sad.     No,  I  will  once  more  raise 


My  voice  upon  the  mountain-heights;  once  more 
Make  my  horn  parley  from  their  foreheads  hoar : 
Again  my  trooping  hounds  their  tongues  shall  loll 
Around  the  breathed  boar  :  again  I  '11  poll 
The  fair-grown  yew-tree,  for  a  chosen  bow : 
And,  when  the  pleasant  sun  is  getting  low. 
Again  I'll  linger  in  a  sloping  mead 
To  liear  the  speckled  thrushes,  and  see  feed 
Our  idle  sheep.     So  be  thou  cheered,  sweet ! 
And,  if  thy  lute  is  here,  softly  entreat 
My  soul  to  keep  in  its  resolved  course." 

Hereat  Peona,  in  their  silver  source. 
Shut  her  pure  sorrow-drops  with  glad  exclaim. 
And  took  a  lute,  from  vvliich  there  pulsing  came 
A  lively  prelude,  fashioning  the  way 
In  which  her  voice  should  wander.     'Twas  a  lay 
More  subtle  cadenced,  more  forest  wild 
Than  Dryope's  lone  lulling  of  her  child  ; 
And  nothing  since  has  floated  in  the  air 
So  mournful  strange.     Surely  some  influence  rare 
Went,  spiritual,  through  the  damsel's  hand  ; 
For  still,  with  Delphic  emphasis,  she  spann'd 
The  quick  invisible  strings,  even  though  .she  saw 
Endymion's  spirit  melt  away  and  thaw 
Before  the  deep  intoxication. 
But  soon  she  came,  willi  sudden  burst,  upon 
Her  self-possession — swung  the  lute  aside. 
And  earnestly  said  :  "Brother,  'tis  vain  to  liide 
That  thou  dost  know  of  things  mysterious. 
Immortal,  starry ;  such  alone  could  thus 
Weigh  down  thy  nature.     Hast  thou  sinn'd  in  aught 
Oflfensive  to  the  heavenly  powers  ?  Caught 
A  Paphian  dove  upon  a  message  sent  ? 
Thy  deathful  bow  against  some  deer-herd  bent. 
Sacred  to  Dian  ?  Haply,  thou  hast  seen 
Her  naked  limbs  among  the  alders  green  ; 
And  that,  alas !  is  death.     Ko,  I  can  trace 
Something  more  high  perplexing  in  thy  face  !  " 

Endymion  look'd  at  her,  and  press'd  her  hand, 
And  said,  "  Art  thou  so  pale,  who  wast  so  bland 
And  merry  in  our  meadows  ?  How  is  this  >. 
Tell  me  thine  ailment :  tell  me  all  amiss ! — 
Ah!  thou  hast  been  unhappy  at  tlie  change 
Wrought  suddenly  in  me.  What  indeed  more  strange? 
Or  more  complete  to  overwhelm  surmise  ? 
Ambition  is  no  sluggard  :  'tis  no  prize, 
That  toiling  years  would  put  within  my  grasp. 
That  I  have  sigh'd  for :  with  so  deadly  gasp 
No  man  e'er  panted  for  a  mortal  love. 
So  all  have  set  my  heavier  grief  above 
These  things  which  happen.  Rightly  have  they  done  ■ 
I,  who  still  saw  the  horizontal  sun 
Heave  his  broad  shoulder  o'er  the  edge  of  the  world, 
Out-facing  Lucifer,  and  then  had  hurl'd 
My  spear  aloft,  as  signal  for  tlie  chase — 
I,  who,  for  very  sport  of  heart,  would  race 
With  my  own  steed  from  Araby;  pluck  down 
A  vulture  from  his  towery  perching;  frown 
A  hon  into  growling,  loth  retire — 
To  lose,  at  once,  all  my  toil-breeding  firo. 
And  sink  thus  low !  but  I  w'ill  ease  rny  breast 
Of  secret  grief,  here  in  this  bowery  nest. 

"  This  river  does  not  see  the  naked  sky. 
Till  it  begins  to  progress  silverly 

537 


6 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Around  the  western  border  of  the  wood, 

Whence,  from  a  certain  spot,  its  winding  flood 

Seems  at  the  distance  like  a  crescent  moon  : 

And  in  that  nook,  the  very  pride  of  June, 

Had  I  been  used  to  pass  my  weary  eves ; 

The  rather  for  the  sun  unwilling  leaves 

So  dear  a  picture  of  his  sovereign  power. 

And  I  could  v^itness  his  most  kingly  hour, 

When  he  doth  lighten  up  the  golden  reins, 

And  paces  leisurely  down  amber  plains 

His  snorting  four.     Now  when  his  chariot  last 

Its  beams  against  the  zodiac-lion  cast. 

There  blossom'd  suddenly  a  magic  bed 

Of  sacred  ditamy,  and  poppies  red  : 

At  which  I  wonder'd  greatly,  knowing  well 

That  but  one  night  had  wrought  this  flowery  spell ; 

And,  sitting  down  close  by,  began  to  muse 

What  it  might  mean.    Perhaps,  thought  I,  Morpheus, 

In  passing  here,  his  owlet  pinions  shook ; 

Or,  it  may  be,  ere  matron  Night  uplook 

Her  ebon  urn,  young  Mercury,  by  stealth. 

Had  dipt  his  rod  in  it:  such  garland  wealth 

Came  not  by  common  growth.     Thus  on  I  thought, 

Until  my  head  was  dizzy  and  distraught. 

Moreover,  through  the  dancing  poppies  stole 

A  breeze,  most  softly  lulling  to  my  soul; 

And  shaping  visions  all  about  my  sight 

Of  colors,  wings,  and  bursts  of  spangly  light ; 

The  which  became  more  strange,  and  strange,  and 

dim. 
And  then  were  gulf'd  in  a  tumultuous  swim: 
And  then  I  fell  asleep.     Ah,  can  I  tell 
The  enchantment  that  afterwards  befell  ? 
Yet  it  was  but  a  dream :  yet  such  a  dream 
That  never  tongue,  although  it  overteem 
With  mellow  utterance,  like  a  cavern  spring. 
Could  figure  out  and  to  conception  bring 
All  I  beheld  and  felt.     Methought  I  lay 
Watching  the  zenith,  where  the  milky  way 
Among  the  stars  in  virgin  splendor  pours; 
And  travelling  my  eye,  until  the  doors 
Of  heaven  appear'd  to  open  for  my  flight, 
I  became  loth  and  fearful  to  alight 
From  such  high  soaring  by  a  downward  glance : 
So  kept  me  stedfast  in  that  airy  trance. 
Spreading  imaginary  pinions  wide. 
When,  presently,  the  stars  began  to  glide, 
And  faint  away,  before  my  eager  view: 
At  which  I  sigh'd  that  I  could  not  pursue. 
And  dropt  my  vision  to  the  horizon's  verge  ; 
And  lo !  from  opening  clouds,  I  saw  emerge 
The  loveliest  moon,  that  ever  silver'd  o'er 
A  shell  for  Neptune's  goblet ;  she  did  soar 
So  passionately  bright,  my  dazzled  soul 
Commingling  with  her  argent  spheres  did  roll 
Through  clear  and  cloudy,  even  when  she  went 
At  last  into  a  dark  and  vapory  lent — 
Whereat,  methought,  the  lidless-eyed  train 
Of  planets  all  were  in  Ihe  blue  again. 
To  commune  with  those  orbs,  once  more  I  raised 
My  sight  right  upward  :  but  it  was  quite  dazed 
By  a  bright  something,  sailing  down  apace. 
Making  me  quickly  veil  my  eyes  and  face : 
Again  I  look'd,  and,  O  ye  deities, 
Who  from  Olympus  watch  our  destinies! 
Whence  that  completed  form  of  all  completeness  ? 
Whence  came  that  high  perfection  of  all  sweetness  ? 


Speak,  stubborn  earth,  and  tell  me  where,  0  where 

Hast  thou  a  symbol  of  her  golden  hair  I 

Nor  oat-sheaves  drooping  in  the  western  sim , 

Not — thy  soft  hand,  fair  sister!  let  me  shun 

Such  follying  before  thee — yet  she  had. 

Indeed,  locks  bright  enough  to  make  me  mad  ; 

And  they  were  simply  gordian'd  up  and  braided. 

Leaving,  in  naked  comeliness,  unshaded. 

Her  pearl  round  ears,  white  neck,  and  orbed  brow  ■, 

The  which  were  blended  in,  I  know  not  how. 

With  such  a  paradise  of  lips  and  eyes. 

Blush-tinted  cheeks,  half  smiles,  and  faintest  sigJis, 

That,  when  I  think  thereon,  my  spirit  clings 

And  plays  about  its  fancy,  till  the  stings 

Of  human  neighborhood  envenom  all. 

Unto  what  awful  power  shall  I  call  ? 

To  what  high  fane  ? — Ah !  see  her  hovering  feel 

More  bluely  vein'd,  more  soft,  more  whitely  sweel 

Than  those  of  sea-born  Venus,  when  she  rose 

From  out  her  cradle  shell.     The  wind  out-blows 

Her  scarf  into  a  fluttering  pavilion  ; 

'T  is  blue,  and  over-spangled  with  a  million 

Of  little  eyes,  as  though  thou  vvert  to  shed, 

Over  the  darkest,  lushest  bluebell  bed, 

Handfuls  of  daisies." — "  Endymion,'  how  strange ! 

Dream  within  dream  ! " — "  She  took  an  airy  range. 

And  then,  towards  me,  like  a  very  maid. 

Came  blushing,  waning,  willing,  and  afraid. 

And  press'd  me  by  the  hand:  Ah!  'twas  too  much 

Methought  I  fainted  at  the  charmed  touch. 

Yet  held  my  recollection,  even  as  one 

Who  dives  three  fathoms  where  the  waters  run 

Gurgling  in  beds  of  coral :  for  anon, 

I  felt  upmounted  in  that  region 

Where  falling  stars  dart  their  artillery  forih. 

And  eagles  struggle  with  the  buffeting  north 

That  balances  the  heavy  meteor-stone  ; — 

Felt  too,  I  was  not  fearful,  nor  alone. 

But  lapp'd  and  lull'd  along  the  dangerous  sky. 

Soon,  as  it  seem'd,  we  left  our  journeying  high, 

And  straightway  into  frightful  eddies  swoop'd  ; 

Such  as  aye  muster  where  gray  lime  has  scoop'd 

Huge  dens  and  caverns  in  a  mountain's  side : 

There  hollow  sounds  aroused  him,  and  I  sigh'd 

To  faint  once  more  by  looking  on  my  bliss — 

I  was  distracted ;  madly  did  I  kiss 

The  wooing  arms  which  held  me,  and  did  give 

My  eyes  at  once  to  death:   but  'twas  to  live. 

To  take  in  draughts  of  life  from  the  gold  fount 

Of  kind  and  passionate  looks ;  to  count,  and  count 

The  moments,  by  some  greedy  help  that  seem'd 

A  second  self,  that  each  might  be  redeem'd 

And  plunder'd  of  its  load  of  blessedness. 

Ah,  desperate  mortal !  I  ev'n  dared  to  press 

Her  very  cheek  against  my  crowned  lip, 

And,  at  that  moment,  felt  my  body  dip 

Inio  a  warmer  air  :  a  moment  more. 

Our  feet  were  soft  in  flowers.     There  was  store 

Of  newest  joys  upon  that  alp.     Sometimes 

A  scent  of  violets,  and  blossoming  limes, 

Loiler'd  around  us  ;  then  of  honey  cells. 

Made  delicate  from  all  white-flower  bells; 

And  once,  above  the  edges  of  our  nest. 

An  arch  face  peep'd, — an  Oread  as  1  guess'd. 

"  Why  did  I  dream  that  sleep  o'erpower'd  me 
In  midst  of  all  this  heaven  ?  Why  not  see, 
538 


ENDYMION. 


Far  off,  the  shadows  of  his  pinions  dark, 

And  stare  them  from  me  ?    But  no,  hke  a  spark 

That  needs  must  die,  although  its  little  beam 

Reflects  upon  a  diamond,  my  sweet  dream 

Fell  into  nothing — into  stupid  sleep. 

And  so  it  was,  until  a  gentle  creep, 

A  careful  moving  caught  my  waking  ears, 

And  up  I  started :  Ah  I  my  sighs,  my  tears, 

Wy  clenched  hands  ; — for  lo !  the  poppies  hung 

Dew-dabbled  on  their  stalks,  the  ouzel  sung 

A  heavy  ditty,  and  the  sullen  day 

Had  chidden  herald  Hesperus  away, 

With  leaden  looks:  the  solitary  breeze 

Bluster'd,  and  slept,  and  its  wild  self  did  tease 

With  wayward  melancholy;  and  I  thought, 

Mark  me,  Peona  !  that  sometimes  it  brought 

Faint  fare-thee-wells,  and  sigh-shrilled  adieus  I — 

Away  I  wander'd — all  the  pleasant  hues 

Of  heaven  and  earth  had  faded  :  deepest  shades 

Were  deepest  dungeons ;  heaths  and  sunny  glades 

Were  full  of  pestilent  light ;  our  taintless  rills 

Seem'd  sooty,  and  o'er-spread  with  upturn'd  gills 

Of  dying  fish  ;  the  vermeil  rose  had  blown 

In  frightful  scarlet,  and  its  thorns  out-grown 

Like  spiked  aloe.     If  an  innocent  bird 

Before  my  heedless  footsteps  stirr'd,  and  stirr'd 

In  little  journeys,  I  beheld  in  it 

A  disguised  demon,  missioned  to  knit 

My  soul  with  under  darkness ;  to  entice 

My  stumblings  down  some  monstrous  precipice : 

Therefore  I  eager  foUow'd,  and  did  curse 

The  disappointment.     Time,  that  aged  nurse, 

Rock'd  me  to  patience.    Now,  thank  gentle  heaven ! 

These  things,  with  all  their  comfortings,  are  given 

To  my  down-sunken  hours,  and  with  thee. 

Sweet  sister,  help  to  stem  the  ebbing  sea 

Of  weary  life." 


Thus  ended  he,  and  both 
Sat  silent :  for  the  maid  was  very  loth 
To  answer ;  feeling  well  that  breathed  words 
Would  all  be  lost,  unheard,  and  vain  as  swords 
Against  the  enchased  crocodile,  or  leaps 
Of  grasshoppers  against  the  sun.     She  weeps, 
And  wonders  ;  struggles  to  devise  some  blame  ; 
To  put  on  such  a  look  as  would  say.  Shame 
On  this  poor  weakness  !  but,  for  all  her  strife, 
She  could  as  soon  have  crush'd  away  the  life 
From  a  sick  dove      At  length,  to  break  the  pause. 
She  said  with  trembling  chance  :  "  Is  this  the  cause  ? 
This  all  ?  Yet  it  is  strange,  and  sad,  alas  ! 
That  one  who  through  this  middle  earth  should  pass 
Most  like  a  sojourning  demi-god,  and  leave 
His  name  upon  the  harp-string,  should  achieve 
No  higher  bard  than  simple  maidenhood, 
Singing  alone,  and  fearfully, — how  the  blood 
Left  his  young  cheek ;  and  how  he  used  to  stray 
He  knew  not  where;  and  how  he  would  say,  nay, 
If  any  said  'twas  love  :  and  yet  'twas  love ; 
What  could  it  be  but  love  ?    How  a  ring-dove 
Let  fall  a  sprig  of  yew-tree  in  his  path ; 
And  how  he  died  :  and  then,  that  love  doth  scathe, 
The  gentle  heart,  as  northern  blasts  do  roses ; 
And  then  the  ballad  of  his  sad  life  closes 
With  sighs,  and  an  alas  ! — Endymion  ! 
Be  rather  in  the  trumpet's  mouth, — anon 
39* 


Among  the  winds  at  large — that  all  may  hearken  ! 

Although,  before  the  crystal  heavens  darken, 

I  watch  and  dole  upon  the  silver  lakes 

Pictured  in  western  cloudiness,  that  takes 

The  semblance  of  gold  rocks  and  bright  gold  sands, 

Islands,  and  creeks,  and  amber-fretled  strands 

With  horses  prancing  o'er  them,  palaces 

And  towers  of  amethyst, — would  I  so  tease 

My  pleasant  days,  because  I  could  not  mount 

Into  those  regions  ?    The  Morphean  fount 

Of  that  fine  element  that  visions,  dreams. 

And  fitful  whims  of  sleep  are  made  of,  streams 

Into  its  airy  channels  with  so  subtle. 

So  thin  a  breathing,  that  the  spider's  shuttle, 

Circled  a  million  times  within  the  space 

Of  a  swallow's  nesl-door,  could  delay  a  trace, 

A  tinting  of  its  quality :  how  light 

Must  dreams  themselves  be;    seeing  they're  more 

slight 
Than  the  mere  nothing  that  engenders  them ! 
Then  wherefore  sully  the  intrusted  gem 
Of  high  and  noble  life  with  thoughts  so  sick  ? 
Why  pierce  high-fronted  honor  to  the  quick 
For  nothing  but  a  dream  ?"    Hereat  the  youth 
Look'd  up:  a  conflicting  of  shame  and  ruth 
Was  in  his  plaited  brow :  yet,  his  eyelids 
Widen'd  a  little,  as  when  Zephyr  bids 
A  little  breeze  to  creep  between  the  fans 
Of  careless  butterflies  :  amid  his  pains 
He  seem'd  to  taste  a  drop  of  manna-dew, 
Full  palatable ;  and  a  color  grew 
Upon  his  cheek,  while  thus  he  lifeful  spake. 

"  Poena !  ever  have  I  long'd  to  slake 
My  thirst  for  the  world's  praises :  nothing  base, 
No  merely  slumberous  phantasm,  could  unlace 
The  stubborn  canvas  for  my  voyage  prepared — 
Though  now  'tis  tatter'd  ;  leaving  my  bark  bared 
And  sullenly  drifting:  yet  my  higher  hope 
Is  of  too  wide,  too  rainbow-large  a  scope, 
To  fret  at  myriads  of  earthly  wrecks. 
Wherein  lies  happiness  ?    In  that  which  becks 
Our  ready  minds  to  fellowship  divine, 
A  fellowship  with  essence ;  till  we  shine. 
Full  alcherfiized,  and  free  of  space.     Behold 
The  clear  religion  of  heaven !  Fold 
A  rose-leaf  round  thy  finger's  tape  mess. 
And  soothe  thy  lips  :  hist !  when  the  airy  stress 
Of  music's  kiss  impregnates  the  free  winds, 
And  with  a  sympathetic  touch  unbinds 
Eolian  magic  from  their  lucid  wombs : 
Then  old  songs  waken  from  enclouded  tombs ; 
Old  ditties  sigh  above  their  father's  grave ; 
Ghosts  of  melodious  prophecyings  rave 
Round  every  spot  where  trod  Apollo's  foot; 
Bronze  clarions  awake,  and  faintly  bruit, 
^V'here  long  ago  a  giant  battle  was; 
And,  from  the  turf,  a  lullaby  doth  pass 
In  every  place  where  infant  Orpheus  slept. 
Feel  we  these  things  I — that  moment  have  we  stepl 
Into  a  sort  of  oneness,  and  our  state 
Is  like  a  floating  spirit's.     But  there  are 
Richer  entanglements,  enlhralments  far 
More  self-destroying,  leading,  by  degrees. 
To  the  chief  intensity:  the  crown  of  these 
Is  made  of  love  and  friendship,  and  sits  high 
Upon  the  forehead  of  humanity. 

539 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


All  its  more  ponderous  and  bulky  worth 

Is  friendship,  whence  there  ever  issues  forth 

A  steady  splendor ;  but  at  the  tip-top, 

There  hangs  by  unseen  film,  an  orbed  drop 

Of  light,  and  that  is  love :  its  influence 

Thrown  in  our  eyes,  genders  a  novel  sense, 

At  which  we  start  and  fret ;  till  in  the  end, 

Melting  into  its  radiance,  we  blend, 

Mingle,  and  so  become  a  part  of  it, — 

Kor  with  aught  else  can  our  souls  interknit 

So  wingedly  :  when  we  combine  therewith, 

Life's  self  is  nourish'd  by  its  proper  pith. 

And  we  are  nurtured  like  a  pelican  brood. 

Aye,  so  delicious  is  the  unsating  food. 

That  men,  who  might  have  tower'd  in  the  van 

Of  all  the  congregated  world,  to  fan 

And  winnow  from  the  coming  step  of  time 

All  chaff  of  custom,  wipe  away  all  slime 

Left  by  men-slugs  and  human  serpentry. 

Have  been  content  to  let  occasion  die. 

Whilst  they  did  sleep  in  love's  elysium. 

And,  truly,  I  would  rather  be  struck  dumb, 

Than  speak  against  this  ardent  listlessness  : 

For  I  have  ever  thought  that  it  might  bless 

The  world  with  benefits -unknowingly ; 

As  does  the  nightingale,  up-perched  high. 

And  cloister'd  among  cool  and  bunched  leaves — 

She  sings  but  to  her  love,  nor  e'er  conceives 

How  tiptoe  Night  holds  back  her  dark-gray  hood. 

Just  so  may  love,  although  'tis  understood 

The  mere  commingling  of  passionate  breath. 

Produce  more  than  our  searching  witnesselh  : 

What  I  know  not :  but  who,  of  men,  can  tell 

That  flowers  would  bloom,  or  that  green  fruits  would 

swell 
To  melting  pulp,  that  fish  would  have  bright  mail, 
The  earth  its  dower  of  river,  wood,  and  vale, 
The  meadows  runnels,  runnels  pebble-stones, 
The  seed  its  harvest,  or  the  lute  its  tones. 
Tones  ravishment,  or  ravishment  its  sweet. 
If  human  souls  did  never  kiss  and  greet  ? 

"  Now,  if  this  eartiily  love  has  power  to  make 
Men's  being  mortal,  immortal ;  to  shake  , 
Ambition  from  their  memories,  and  brim 
Their  measure  of  content ;  what  merest  whim, 
Seems  all  this  poor  endeavor  after  fame, 
To  one,  who  keeps  within  his  sledfast  aim 
A  love  immortal,  an  immortal  too. 
Look  not  so  wilder'd ;  for  these  things  are  true, 
And  never  can  be  born  of  atomies 
That  buzz  about  our  slumbers,  like  brain-flies. 
Leaving  us  fancy-sick.     No,  no,  I  'm  sure. 
My  restless  spirit  never  could  endure 
To  brood  so  long  upon  one  luxury, 
Unless  it  did,  though  fearfully,  espy 
A  hope  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 
My  sayings  will  the  less  obscured  seem 
When  I  have  told  thee  how  my  v^'aking  sight 
Has  made  me  scruple  whether  that  same  night 
Was  pass'd  in  dreaming.     Hearken,  sweet  Peona ! 
Beyond  the  matron-temple  of  Latona, 
Which  we  should  see  but  for  these  darkening  boughs, 
Lies  a  deep  hollow,  from  whose  ragged  brows 
Bushes  and  trees  do  lean  all  round  athwart. 
And  meet  so  nearly,  that  with  wings  outraught, 


And  spreaded  tail,  a  vulture  could  not  glide 
Past  them,  but  he  must  brush  on  every  side 
Some  moulder'd  steps  lead  into  this  cool  cell. 
Far  as  the  slabbed  margin  of  a  well, 
Whose  patient  level  peeps  its  crystal  eye 
Right  upward,  through  the  bushes,  to  the  sky. 
Oft  have  I  brought  thee  flowers,  on  their  stalks  set 
Like  vestal  primroses,  but  dark  velvet , 
Edges  them  round,  and  they  have  golden  pits  : 
'Twas  there  I  got  them,  from  the  gaps  and  slits 
In  a  mossy  stone,  that  sometimes  was  my  seat. 
When  all  above  was  faint  with  midday  heat. 
And  there  in  strife  no  burning  thoughts  to  heed, 
I  'd  bubble  up  the  water  through  a  reed ; 
So  reaching  back  to  boyhood :  make  me  ships 
Of  moulted  feathers,  touchwood,  alder  chips. 
With  leaves  stuck  in  them ;  and  the  Neptune  bo 
Of  their  pettj'  ocean.     Oftener,  heavily. 
When  lovelorn  hours  had  left  me  less  a  child, 
I  sat  contemplating  the  figures  wild 
Of  o'er-head  clouds  melting  the  mirror  through. 
Upon  a  day,  while  thus  I  watch'd,  by  flew 
A  cloudy  Cupid,  with  his  bow  and  quiver; 
So  plainly  character'd,  no  breeze  would  shive- 
The  happy  chance  :  so  happy,  I  was  fain 
To  follow  it  upon  the  open  plain. 
And,  therefore,  was  just  going ;  when,  behold  ! 
A  wonder,  fair  as  any  I  have  told — 
The  same  bright  face  I  tasted  in  my  sleep. 
Smiling  in  the  clear  well.     My  heart  did  leap 
Through  the  cool  depth. — It  moved  as  if  to  flee — 
I  started  up,  when  lo !  refreshfully. 
There'  came  upon  my  face,  in  plenteous  showers, 
Dew-drops,  and  dewy  buds,  and  leaves,  and  flowers 
Wrapping  all  objects  from  my  smother'd  sight. 
Bathing  my  spirit  in  a  new  delight. 
Aye,  such  a  breathless  honey-feel  of  bliss 
Alone  preserved  me  from  the  drear  abyss 
Of  death,  for  the  fair  form  had  gone  again. 
Pleasure  is  oft  a  visitant ;  but  pain 
Clings  cruelly  to  us,  like  the  gnawing  sloth. 
On  the  deer's  tender  haunches :  late,  and  loth 
'Tis  scared  away  by  slow-returning  pleasure. 
How  sickening,  how  dark  the  dreadful  leisure 
Of  weary  days,  made  deeper  exquisite 
By  a  foreknowledge  of  unslumbrous  night ! 
Like  sorrow  came  upon  me,  heavier  still. 
Than  when  I  wander'd  from  the  poppy-hill : 
And  a  whole  age  of  lingering  moments  crept 
Sluggishly  by,  ere  more  contentment  swept 
Away  at  once  the  deadly  yellow  spleen. 
Yes,  thrice  have  I  this  fair  enchantment  seen  ; 
Once  more  been  tortured  with  renewed  life. 
When  last  the  wintry  gusts  gave  over  strife 
With  the  conquering  sun  of  spring,  and  left  the  slues 
Warm  and  serene,  but  yet  wiih  moisten'd  eyes 
In  pity  of  the  shatter'd  infant  buds, — 
That  time  thou  didst  adorn,  with  amber  studs, 
My  hunting-cap,  because  I  laugh 'd  and  smiled. 
Chatted  with  thee,  and  many  days  exiled 
All  torment  from  my  breast; — 'twas  even  then, 
Straying  about,  yet,  coop'd  up  in  the  den 
Of  helpless  discontent,— hurling  my  lance 
From  place  to  place,  and  following  at  chance. 
At  last,  by  hap,  through  some  young  trees  it  struck. 
And,  plashing  among  bedded  pebbles,  stuck 
540 


ENDYMIOJN. 


In  tKe  middle  of  a  brook, — whose  silver  ramble 
Do\v^  twenty  little  falls,  through  reeds  and  bramble, 
Tracii\g  along,  it  brought  nie  to  a  cave, 
Whence  it  ran  brightly  forth,  and  white  did  lave 
The  nevher  sides  of  mossy  stones  and  rock, — 
'Mong  which  it  gurgled  blithe  adieus,  to  mock 
Its  own  sweet  grief  at  parting.    Overhead, 
Hung  a  lush  screen  of  drooping  weeds,  and  spread 
Thick,  as  to  curtain  up  some  wood-nymph's  home. 
All'  impious  mortal,  whither  do  I  roam?' 
Said  I,  low- voiced :  'Ah,  whither!  'Tis  the  grot 
Of  Proserpine,  when  Hell,  obscure  and  hot, 
Doth  her  resign:  and  where  her  tender  hands 
She  dabbles,  on  the  cool  and  sluicy  sands : 
Or  'tis  the  cell  of  Echo,  where  she  sits. 
And  babbles  thorough  silence,  till  her  wits 
Are  gone  in  tender  madness,  and  anon, 
Faints  into  sleep,  with  many  a  dying  tone 
Of  sadness.    O  that  she  would  take  my  vows. 
And  breathe  them  sighingly  among  the  boughs, 
To  sue  her  gentle  ears  for  whose  fair  head, 
Daily,  I  pluck  sweet  flowerets  from  their  bed, 
And  weave  them  dyingly — send  honey-whispers 
Round  every  leaf,  that  all  those  gentle  lispers 
May  sigh  my  love  unto  her  pitying ! 
O  charitable  echo !  hear,  and  sing 
This  ditty  to  her ! — tell  her' — so  I  stay'd 
My  foolish  tongue,  and  listening,  half  afraid, 
Stood  stupefied  with  my  own  empty  folly. 
And  blushing  for  the  freaks  of  melancholy. 
Salt  tears  were  coming,  when  I  heard  my  name 
Most  fondly  lipp'd,  and  then  these  accents  came : 
'  Endymion  !  the  cave  is  secreter 
Than  the  isle  of  Delos.    Echo  hence  shall  stir 
No  sighs  but  sigh-warm  Idsses,  or  light  noise 
Of  thy  combing  hand,  the  while  it  travelling  cloys 
And  trembles  through  my  labyrinthine  hair.' 
At  that  oppress'd,  I  hurried  in. — Ah!  where 
Are  those  swift  moments  ?  Whither  are  they  fled  ? 
I'll  smile  no  more,  Peona;  nor  will  wed 
Sorrow,  the  way  to  death ;  but  patiently 
Bear  up  against  it :  so  farewell,  sad  sigh  ; 
And  come  instead  demurest  meditation, 
To  occupy  me  wholly,  and  to  fashion 
My  pilgrimage  for  the  world's  dusky  brink. 
No  more  will  I  count  over,  link  by  link. 
My  chain  of  grief:  no  longer  strive  to  find 
A  half-forgetfulness  in  mountain  wind 
Blustering  about  my  ears :  ay,  thou  shall  see, 
Dearest  of  sisters,  what  my  life  shall  be ; 
Wliat  a  calm  round  of  hours  shall  make  my  days. 
There  is  a  paly  flame  of  hope  that  plays 
Where'er  I  look  :  but  yet,  I'll  say  'tis  naught — 
And  here  I  bid  it  die.    Have  not  I  caught, 
Already,  a  more  healthy  countenance  ? 
By  this  the  sun  is  setting ;  w'e  may  chance 
Meet  some  of  our  near-dwellers  with  my  car." 

This  said,  he  rose,  faint-smiling  like  a  star 
Through  autumn  mists,  and  took  Peona's  hand : 
They  Etept  into  the  boat,  and  launch'd  from  land. 


BOOK  II. 

O  sovEREiG.v  power  of  love !  O  grief!  O  balm  ! 

All  records,  saving  thine,  come  cool,  and  calm. 

And  shadowy,  through  the  mist  of  passed  years : 

For  others,  good  or  bad,  haired  and  tears 

Have  become  indolent ;  but  touching  thine, 

One  sigh  doth  echo,  one  poor  sob  doth  pine, 

One  kiss  brings  honey-dew  from  buried  days. 

The  woes  of  "Troy,  towers  smothering  o'er  their  blaze 

Stiff-holden  shields,  far-piercing  spears,  keen  blades, 

Struggling,  and  blood,  and  shrieks — all  dimly  fades 

Into  some  backward  corner  of  the  brain ; 

Yet,  in  our  very  souls,  we  feel  amain 

The  close  of  Troilus  and  Cressid  sweet. 

Hence,  pageant  history  !  hence,  gilded  cheat ! 

Swart  planet  in  the  universe  of  deeds  ! 

Wide  sea,  that  one  continuous  murmur  breeds 

Along  the  pebbled  shore  of  memory ! 

Many  old  rotten-timber'd  boats  there  be 

Upon  thy  vaporous  bosom,  magnified 

To  goodly  vessels ;  many  a  sail  of  pride. 

And  golden-keel'd,  is  left  unlaunch'd  and  dry. 

But  wherefore  this?  What  care,  though  owl  did  fly 

About  the  great  Athenian  admiral's  mast? 

What  care,  though  striding  Alexander  past 

The  Indus  vvith  his  Macedonian  numbers  ? 

Though  old  Ulysses  tortured  from  his  slumbers 

The  glutted  Cyclops,  what  care  I — Juliet  leaning 

Amid  her  window-flov^ers, — sighing, — weaning 

Tenderly  her  fancy  from  its  maiden  snow, 

Doth  more  avail  than  these:  the  silver  flow 

Of  Hero's  tears,  the  swoon  of  Imogen, 

Fair  Pastorella  in  the  bandit's  den. 

Are  things  to  brood  on  with  more  ardency 

Than  the  death-day  of  empires.    Fearfully 

Must  such  conviction  come  upon  his  head. 

Who,  thus  far,  discontent,  has  dared  to  tread, 

Without  one  muse's  smile,  or  kind  behest, 

The  path  of  love  and  poesy.    But  rest. 

In  chafing  restlessness,  is  yet  more  drear 

Than  to  be  crush'd,  in  striving  to  uprear 

Love's  standard  on  the  battlements  of  song. 

So  once  more  days  and  nights  aid  me  along. 

Like  legion'd  soldiers. 

Brain-sick  shepherd-prince 
What  promise  hast  thou  faithful  guarded  since 
The  day  of  sacrifice  ?    Or,  have  new  sorrows 
Come  with  the  constant  dawn  upon  thy  morrows  ? 
Alas  I  't  is  his  old  grief    For  many  days. 
Has  he  been  wandering  in  uncertain  ways : 
Through  wilderness,  and  woods  of  mossed  oaks ; 
Counting  his  woe-worn  minutes,  by  the  strokes 
Of  the  lone  wood-cutter ;  and  listening  still. 
Hour  after  hour,  to  each  lush-leaved  rill. 
Now  he  is  sitting  by  a  shady  spring, 
And  elbow-deep  with  feverous  fingering 
Stems  the  upbursting  cold :  a  wild  rose-tree 
Pavilions  him  in  bloom,  and  he  doth  see 
A  bud  which  snares  his  fancy:  lo!  but  now 
He  plucks  it,  dips  its  stalk  in  the  water :  how 
It  swells,  it  buds,  it  flowers  beneath  liis  sight 
And.  in  the  middle,  there  is  softly  pight 
70  541 


10 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  golden  butterfly ;  upon  whose  wings 

There  must  be  surely  character'd  strange  things, 

For  with  wide  eye  he  wonders,  and  smiles  oft. 

Lightly  this  little  herald  flew  aloft, 
Follow'd  by  glad  Endymion's  clasped  hands  : 
Onward  it  flies.    F'rom  languor's  sullen  bands 
His  limbs  are  loosed,  and  eager,  on  he  hies 
Dazzled  to  trace  it  in  the  sunny  skies. 
It  seem'd  he  flew,  the  way  so  easy  was ; 
And  like  a  new-born  spirit  did  he  pass 
Through  the  green  evening  quiet  in  the  sun, 
O'er  many  a  heath,  through  many  a  woodland  dun. 
Through  buried  paths,  where  sleepy  twilight  dreams 
The  summer-time  away.    One  track  unseams 
A  wooded  cleft,  and,  far  away,  the  blue 
Of  ocean  fades  upon  him ;  then,  aiaew, 
He  sinks  adown  a  solitary  glen. 
Where  there  was  never  sound  of  mortal  men. 
Saving,  perhaps,  some  snow-like  cadences 
Melting  to  silence,  when  upon  the  breeze 
Some  holy  bark  let  forth  an  anthem  sweet, 
To  cheer  itself  to  Delphi.    Still  his  feet 
Went  swift  beneath  the  merry-winged  guide, 
Uiutil  it  reach'd  a  splashing  fountain's  side 
That,  near  a  cavern's  mouth,  for  ever  pour'd 
Unto  the  temperate  air:  then  high  it  soar'd. 
And,  downward,  suddenly  began  to  dip, 
As  if,  athirst  with  so  much  toil,  'twould  sip 
The  crystal  spout-head :  so  it  did,  with  touch 
Most  delicate,  as  though  afraid  to  smutch 
Even  with  mealy  gold  the  waters  clear. 
But,  at  that  very  touch,  to  disappear 
So  fairy-quick,  was  strange  !  Bewildered, 
Endymion  sought  around,  and  shook  each  bed 
Of  covert  flowers  in  vain ;  and  then  he  flung 
Himself  along  the  grass.     What  gentle  tongue, 
What  whisperer  disturb'd  his  gloomy  rest  ? 
It  was  a  nymph  uprisen  to  the  breast 
In  the  fountain's  pebbly  margin,  and  she  stood 
'Mong  lilies,  like  the  youngest  of  the  brood. 
To  him  her  dripping  hand  she  softly  kist. 
And  anxiously  began  to  plait  and  twist 
Her  ringlets  round  her  fingers,  saying:  "  Youth  I 
Too  long,  alas,  hast  thou  starved  on  the  ruth. 
The  bitterness  of  love :  too  long  indeed. 
Seeing  thou  art  so  gentle.    Could  I  weed 
Thy  soul  of  care,  by  Heavens,  I  would  offer 
All  the  bright  riches  of  my  crystal  coffer 
To  Amphitrite;  all  my  clear-eyed  fish, 
Golden,  or  rainbow-sided,  or  purplish, 
Vermilion-tail'd,  or  finn'd  with  silvery  gauze  ; 
Yea,  or  my  veined  pebble-floor,  that  draws 
A  virgin  light  to  the  deep ;  my  grotto-sands 
Tawny  and  gold,  oozed  slowly  from  far  lands 
By  my  diligent  springs ;  my  level  lilies,  shells. 
My  charming  rod,  my  potent  river  spells; 
Yes,  every  thing,  even  to  the  pearly  cup 
Meander  gave  me, — for  I  bubbled  up 
To  fainting  creatures  in  a  desert  wild. 
But  woe  is  me,  I  am  but  as  a  child 
To  gladden  thee ;  and  all  I  dare  to  say. 
Is,  that  I  pity  thee ;  that  on  this  day 
I  've  been  thy  guide  ;  that  thou  must  wander  far 
Jn  other  regions,  past  the  scanty  bar 


To  mortal  steps,  before  thou  canst  be  ta'en 
From  every  wasting  sigh,  from  every  pain, 
Into  the  gentle  bosom  of  thy  love. 
Why  it  is  thus,  one  knows  in  Heaven  above: 
But,  a  poor  Naiad,  I  guess  not.    Farewell ! 
I  have  a  ditty  for  my  hollow  cell." 


Hereat,  she  vanish'd  from  Endymion's  gaze, 
Who  brooded  o'er  the  water  in  amaze  : 
The  dashing  fount  pour'd  on,  and  where  its  pool 
Lay,  half  asleep,  in  grass  and  rushes  cool. 
Quick  waterflies  and  gnats  were  sporting  still, 
And  fish  were  dimpling,  as  if  good  nor  ill 
Had  fallen  out  that  hour.    The  wanderer. 
Holding  his  forehead,  to  keep  off  the  burr 
Of  smothering  fancies,  patiently  sat  down  ; 
And,  while  beneath  the  evening's  sleepy  frown 
Glow-vvorras  began  to  ti-im  their  starry  lamps, 
Thus  breathed  he  to  himself:  "  Whoso  encamps 
To  take  a  fancied  city  of  delight, 

0  what  a  wretch  is  he!  and  when  'tis  his, 
After  long  toil  and  travelling,  to  miss 

The  kernel  of  his  hopes,  how  more  than  vile! 
Yet,  for  him  there's  refreshment  even  in  toil : 
Another  city  doth  he  set  about, 
Free  from  the  smallest  pebble-iiead  of  doubt 
That  he  will  seize  on  trickling  honeycombs : 
Alas,  he  finds  them  dry ;  and  llien  he  foams, 
And  onward  to  another  city  speeds. 
But  this  is  human  life :  the  war,  the  deeds, 
The  disappointment,  the  anxiety. 
Imagination's  struggles,  far  and  nigh. 
All  human  ;  bearing  in  themselves  this  good, 
That  they  are  still  the  air,  the  subtle  food. 
To  make  us  feel  existence,  and  to  show 
How  quiet  death  is.    Where  soil  is  men  grow, 
Whether  to  weeds  or  flowers  ;  but  for  me. 
There  is  no  depth  to  strike  in:  I  can  see 
Naught  earthly  worth  my  compassing  ;  so  stand 
Upon  a  misty,  jutting  head  of  land — 
Alone  ?  No,  no ;  and  by  the  Orphean  lute. 
When  mad  Eurydice  is  listening  to 't, 

1  'd  rather  stand  upon  this  misty  peak. 
With  not  a  thing  to  sigh  for,  or  to  seek. 
But  the  soft  shadow  of  my  thrice-seen  love, 
Than  be — I  care  not  what.    O  meekest  dove 

Of  Heaven !  O  Cynthia,  ten-times  bright  and  fair 
From  thy  blue  throne,  now  filling  all  the  air, 
Glance  but  one  little  beam  of  lemper'd  light 
Into  my  bosom,  that  the  dreadful  might 
And  tyranny  of  love  be  somewhat  scared  ! 
Yet  do  not  .so,  sweet  queen ;  one  torment  spared, 
Would  give  a  pang  to  jealous  misery. 
Worse  than  the  torment's  self:  but  rather  tie 
Large  wings  upon  my  shoulders,  and  point  out 
My  love's  far  dwelling.    Though  the  playful  roul 
Of  Cupids  shun  thee,  too  divine  art  thou. 
Too  keen  in  beauty,  for  thy  silver  prow 
Not  to  have  dipp'd  in  love's  most  gentle  stream 
O  be  propitious,  nor  severely  deem 
My  madness  impious ;  for,  by  all  the  stars 
That  tend  thy  bidding,  1  do  think  the  bars 
That  kept  my  spirit  in  are  burst — that  I 
Am  sailing  with  thee  through  the  dizzy  sky! 
642 


ENDYMION. 


11 


How  beautiful  thou  art !    The  world  how  deep ! 
How  tremuloiis-dazzliiigly  the  wheels  sweep 
Around  their  axle !    Tliea  these  gleamuig  reins, 
How  lithe !    When  this  thy  chariot  attains 
Its  airy  goal,  haply  some  bovver  veils 
Those  twilight  eyes  ?  Those  eyes  1 — my  spirit  fails — 
Dear  goddess,  help !  or  the  wide-gaping  air 
Will  gulf  me — help ! " — At  this,  with  madden'd  stare, 
And  lifted  hands,  and  trembling  lips,  he  stood ; 
Like  old  Deucalion  monntain'd  o'er  the  flood, 
Or  blind  Orion  hungr)^  for  the  morn. 
And,  but  from  the  deep  cavern  there  was  borne 
A  voice,  be  had  been  froze  to  senseless  stone  ; 
Nor  sigh  of  liis,  nor  plaint,  nor  passion'd  moan 
Had  more  been  heard.    Thus  swell'd  it  forth :  "  De- 
scend, 
Young  mountaineer !  descend  where  alleys  bend 
Into  the  sparry  hollows  of  the  world  ! 
Oft  hast  thou  seen  bolts  of  the  thunder  hurl'd 
As  from  thy  threshold  ;  day  by  day  hast  been 
A  little  lower  than  the  chilly  sheen 
Of  icy  pinnacles,  and  dipp'dst  thine  arms 
Into  the  deadening  ether  that  slill  charms 
Their  marble  being :  now,  as  deep  profound 
As  those  are  high,  descend !  He  ne'er  is  crown'd 
With  immortahty,  who  fears  to  follow 
Where  airy  voices  lead :  so  through  the  hollow, 
The  silent  mysteries  of  earth,  descend!" 

He  heard  but  the  last  words,  nor  could  contend 
One  moment  in  reflection :  for  he  fled 
Into  the  fearful  deep,  to  hide  his  head 
From  the  clear  moon,  the  trees,  and  coming  madness. 

'T  was  far  too  strange,  and  wonderful  for  sadness ; 
Sharpening,  by  degrees,  his  appetite 
To  dive  into  the  deepest.     Dark,  nor  light, 
The  region  ;  nor  bright,  nor  sombre  wholly, 
But  mingled  up;  a  gleaming  melancholy  ; 
A  dusky  empire  and  its  diadems  ; 
One  faint  eternal  eventide  of  gems. 
Ay,  millions  sparkled  on  a  vein  of  gold. 
Along  whose  track  the  prince  quick  footsteps  told. 
With  all  its  lines  abrupt  and  angular: 
Out-shooting  sometimes,  like  a  meteor-star. 
Through  a  vast  autre  ;  then  the  metal  woof. 
Like  V"ulcan's  rainbow,  with  some  monstrous  roof 
Curves  hugely  :  now,  far  in  the  deep  abyss, 
It  seems  an  angry  lightning,  and  doth  hiss 
Fancy  inio  belief:  anon  it  leads 
Through  winding  passages,  where  sameness  breeds 
Vexing  conceptions  of  some  sudden  change  ; 
Whether  to  silver  grots,  or  giant  range 
Of  sapphire  columns,  or  fantastic  bridge 
Athwart  a  flood  of  crystal.     On  a  ridge 
Now  farelh  he,  that  o'er  the  vast  beneath 
Towers  like  an  ocean-clifl^,  and  whence  he  seeth 
A  hundred  waterfalls,  whose  voices  come 
But  as  the  murmuring  surge.     Chilly  and  numb 
His  bosom  grew,  when  first  he,  far  away, 
Descried  an  orbed  diamond,  set  to  fray 
Old  Darkness  from  his  throne  :  'twas  like  the  sun 
Uprisen  o'er  chaos :  and  with  such  a  stun 
Came  the  amazement,  that,  absorb'd  in  it. 
He  saw'  not  fiercer  wonders — past  the  wit 
Of  any  spirit  to  tell,  but  one  of  those 
\Viin,  when  this  planet's  sphering  time  doth  close, 
31 


Will  bo  its  high  remembrancers  :  who  they  ? 

The  mighty  ones  who  have  made  eternal  day 

For  Greece  and  England.     While  astonishment 

With  deep-drawn  sighs  was  quieting,  he  went 

Into  a  marble  gallery,  passing  through 

A  mimic  temple,  so  complete  and  true 

In  sacred  custom,  that  he  well-nigh  fear'd 

To  search  it  inwards  ;  whence  far  off  appear'd, 

Tlirough  a  long  pillar'd  vista,  a  fan  shrine. 

And,  just  beyond,  on  light  tiptoe  divine, 

A  quiver'd  Dian.     Stepping  awfully, 

The  youth  approach'd  ;  oft  turning  his  veil'd  eye 

Down  sidelong  aisles,  and  into  niches  old : 

And,  when  more  near  against  the  marble  cold 

He  had  touch'd  his  forehead,  he  began  to  thread 

All  courts  and  passages,  where  silence  dead, 

Roused  by  his  whispering  footsteps,  murmur'd  faint: 

And  long  he  traversed  to  and  fro,  to  acquaint 

Himself  with  every  mystery,  and  awe ; 

Till,  weary,  he  sat  down  before  the  maw 

Of  a  wide  outlet,  fathomless  and  dim, 

To  wild  uncertainty  and  shadows  grim. 

There,  when  new  wonders  ceased  to  float  T)efoi:e, 

And  thoughts  of  self  came  on,  how  crude  and  sore 

The  journey  homeward  to  habitual  self! 

A  mad-pursuing  of  the  fog-born  elf 

Whose  flitting  lantern,  through  rude  nettle-biier. 

Cheats  us  into  a  swamp,  into  a  fire, 

Into  the  bosom  of  a  hated  thing. 


What  misery  most  drowningly  doth  sing 
In  lone  Endymion's  ear,  now  he  has  caught 
The  goal  of  consciousness?    Ah,  'tis  the  thought 
The  deadly  feel  of  .solitude  :  for,  lo  ! 
He  cannot  see  the  heavens,  nor  the  flow 
Of  rivers,  nor  hill-flowers  running  wild 
In  pink  and  purple  chequer,  nor  up-piled. 
The  cloudy  rack  slow  journeying  in  the  west. 
Like  herded  elephants ;  nor  felt,  nor  prest 
Cool  grass,  nor  tasted  the  fresh  .slumberous  air  ; 
But  far  from  such  companionship  to  wear 
An  unknown  time,  surcharged  with  grief,  away. 
Was  now  his  lot.     And  must  he  patient  stay. 
Tracing  fantastic  figures  with  his  spear  ? 
"  No!"  exclaimed  he,  "  Why  should  I  tarry  here! 
No !  loudly  echoed  times  iimumerable. 
At  which  he  straightway  started,  and  'gan  tell 
His  paces  back  into  the  temple's  chief; 
W^arming  and  glowing  strong  in  the  belief 
Of  help  from  Dian :  so  that  when  again 
He  caught  her  airy  form,  thus  did  he  plain. 
Moving  more  near  the  while.    "O  Haunter  chaste 
Of  river  sides,  and  woods,  and  heathy  waste. 
Where  with  thy  silver  how  and  arrows  keen 
Art  thou  now  forested  ?    O  woodland  Queen, 
What  smoothest  air  thy  smoother  forehead  wooes  ? 
Where  dost  thou  listen  to  the  wide  halloos 
Of  thy  disparted  nymphs  ?    Through  what  dark  tree 
Glimmers  thy  crescent  ?  Wheresoe'er  it  be, 
'Tis  in  the  breath  of  heaven:  thou  dost  taste 
Freedom  as  none  can  taste  it,  nor  dost  waste 
Thy  loveliness  in  dismal  elements ; 
But,  finding  in  our  green  earth  sweet  contents, 
There  livest  blissfully.     Ah,  if  to  thee 
It  feels  Elysian,  how  rich  to  me, 

543 


12 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


An  exiled  mortal,  sounds  its  pleasant  name ! 
Within  my  breast  there  lives  a  cholung  flame — 
O  let  me  cool  it  among  the  zephyr-boughs  ; 
A  homeward  fever  parches  up  my  tongue — 
O  let  me  slake  it  at  the  running  springs ! 
Upon  my  ear  a  noisy  nothing  rings — 
O  let  me  once  more  hear  the  linnet's  note ! 
Before  mine  eyes  thick  films  and  shadows  float — 
O  let  me  'noint  them  with  the  heaven's  light ! 
Dost  thou  now  lave  thy  feet  and  ankles  white  ? 
O  think  how  sweet  to  me  the  freshening  sluice ! 
Dost  thou  now  please  thy  thirst  with  berry-juice  ? 
O  think  how  this  dry  palate  would  rejoice ! 
If  in  soft  slumber  thou  dost  hear  my  voice, 
O  think  how  I  should  love  a  bed  of  flowers ! — 
Young  goddess  !  let  me  see  my  native  bowers ! 
Deliver  me  from  this  rapacious  deep!" 

Thus  ending  loudly,  as  he  would  o'erleap 
His  destiny,  alert  he  stood  :  but  when 
Obstinate  silence  came  heavily  again. 
Feeling  about  for  its  old  couch  of  space 
And  airy  cradle,  lowly  bow'd  his  face. 
Desponding,  o'er  the  marble  floor's  cold  thrill. 
But  't  was  not  long ;  for,  sweeter  than  the  rill 
To  its  old  channel,  or  a  swollen  tide 
To  margin  sallows,  were  the  leaves  he  spied. 
And  flowers,  and  wreaths,  and  ready  myrtle  crowns 
Up  peeping  through  the  slab:  refreshment  drowns 
Itself,  and  strives  its  own  delights  to  hide — 
Nor  in  one  spot  alone  ;  the  floral  pride 
In  a  long  whispering  birth  enchanted  grew 
Before  his  footsteps ;  as  when  heaved  anew 
Old  ocean  rolls  a  lengthen'd  wave  to  the  shore, 
Down  whose  green  back  the  shortlived  foam,  all  hoar. 
Bursts  gradual,  with  a  wayward  indolence. 

Increasing  still  in  heart,  and  pleasant  sense, 
Upon  his  fairy  journey  on  he  hastes ; 
So  anxious  for  the  end,  he  scarcely  wastes 
One  moment  with  his  hands  among  the  sweets : 
Onward  he  goes — he  stops — his  bosom  beats 
As  plainly  in  his  ear,  as  the  faint  charm 
Of  which  the  throbs  were  born.     This  still  alarm. 
This  sleepy  music,  forced  him  walk  tiptoe  : 
For  it  came  more  softly  than  the  east  could  blow 
Arion's  magic  to  the  Atlantic  isles; 
Or  than  the  west,  made  jealous  by  the  smiles 
Of  throned  Apollo,  could  breathe  back  the  lyre 
To  seas  Ionian  and  Tyrian. 

O  did  he  ever  live,  that  lonely  man, 
Who  loved — and  music  slew  not?    'Tis  the  pest 
Of  love,  that  fairest  joys  give  most  unrest; 
That  things  of  delicate  and  tenderest  worth 
Are  swallow'd  all,  and  made  a  seared  dearth, 
By  one  consuming  flame :  it  doth  immerse 
And  suflTocate  true  blessings  in  n  curse. 
Half-happy,  by  comparison  of  bliss. 
Is  miserable.     'Twas  everj  so  with  this 
Dew-dropping  melody,  in  the  Carian's  ear ; 
First  heaven,  then  hell,  and  then  forgotten  clear, 
Vanish'd  in  elemental  passion. 

And  down  some  swart  abysm  he  had  gone, 
Had  not  a  heavenly  guide  benignant  led 
To  where  thick  myrtle  branches,  'gainst  his  head 


Brushing,  awaken'd  :  then  the  sounds  again 
Went  noiseless  as  a  passing  noontide  rain 
Over  a  bovver,  where  little  space  he  stood ; 
For  as  the  sunset  peeps  into  a  wood. 
So  saw  he  panting  light,  and  towards  it  wen* 
Through  winding  alleys ;  and  lo,  wonderment 
Upon  soft  verdure  saw,  one  here,  one  there 
Cupids  a  slumbering  on  their  pinions  fair. 


After  a  thousand  mazes  overgone, 
At  last,  with  sudden  step,  he  came  upon 
A  chamber,  myrtle-wall'd,  embower'd  high, 
Full  of  light,-  incense,  tender  minstrelsy. 
And  more  of  beautiful  and  strange  beside : 
For  on  a  silken  couch  of  rosy  pride. 
In  midst  of  all,  there  lay  a  sleeping  youth 
Of  fondest  beauty ;  fonder,  in  fair  sooth. 
Than  sighs  could  fathom,  or  contentment  reach 
And  coverlids  gold-tinted  like  the  peach. 
Or  ripe  October's  faded  marigolds, 
Fell  sleek  about  him  in  a  thousand  folds — 
Not  hiding  up  an  Apollonian  curve 
Of  neck  and  shoulder,  nor  the  tenting  swerve 
Of  knee  from  knee,  nor  ankles  pointing  light ; 
But  rather,  giving  them  to  the  fill'd  sight 
Ofliciously.     Sideway  his  face  reposed 
On  one  white  arm,  and  tenderly  unclosed. 
By  tenderest  pressure,  a  faint  damask  mouth 
To  slumbery  pout ;  just  as  the  morning  south 
Disparts  a  dew-lipp'd  rose.     Above  his  head, 
Four  hly  stalks  did  their  white  honors  wed 
To  make  a  coronal ;  and  round  him  grew 
All  tendrils  green,  of  every  bloom  and  hue, 
Together  intertwined  and  tramell'd  fresh  : 
The  vine  of  glossy  sprout ;  the  ivy  mesh. 
Shading  its  Ethiop  berries ;  and  woodbine. 
Of  velvet  leaves  and  bugle-blooms  divine ; 
Convolvulus  in  streaked  vases  flush  ; 
The  creeper,  mellowing  for  an  autumn  blush  ; 
And  virgin's  bower,  trailing  airily ; 
With  others  of  the  sisterhood.    Hard  by. 
Stood  serene  Cupids  watching  silently. 
One,  kneeling  to  a  lyre,  touched  the  strings. 
Muffling  to  death  the  pathos  with  his  wings ; 
And,  ever  and  anon,  uprose  to  look 
At  the  youth's  slumber ;  while  another  took 
A  willow  bough,  distilling  odorous  dew. 
And  shook  it  on  his  hair ;  another  flew 
In  through  the  woven  roof  and  fluttering-wise 
Rain'd  violets  upon  his  sleeping  eyes. 


At  these  enchantments,  and  yet  many  more 
The  breathless  Latmian  wonder'd  o'er  and  o'er, 
Until  impatient  in  embarrassment. 
He  forthright  pass'd,  and  lightly  treading  went 
To  that  same  fealher'd  lyrist,  who  straightway. 
Smiling,  thus  whisper'd  :  "  Though  from  upper  day 
Thou  art  a  wanderer,  and  thy  presence  here 
Might  seem  unholy,  be  of  happy  cheer ! 
For  'tis  the  nicest  touch  of  human  honor. 
When  some  ethereal  and  high-favoring  donor 
Presents  immortal  bowers  to  mortal  sense ; 
As  now  'tis  done  to  thee,  Endymion.     Hence 
Was  I  in  nowise  startled.     So  recline 
Upon  these  living  flowers.     Here  is  wnne, 
544 


ENDYMION. 


13 


Alive  with  sparkles — never,  I  aver, 

Since  Ariadne  was  a  vintager. 

So  cool  a  purple  :  lasle  these  juicy  pears, 

Sent  me  by  sad  V'ertumnus,  when  his  fears 

Were  high  about  Pomona .-  here  is  cream, 

Deepening  to  richness  from  a  snowy  gleam ; 

Sweeter  than  that  nurse  Amalthea  skimm'd 

For  the  boy  Jupiter ;  and  here,  undimm'd 

By  any  touch,  a  bunch  of  blooming  plums 

Ready  to  melt  between  an  infant's  gums  : 

And  liere  is  manna  pick'd  from  Syrian  trees, 

In  starlight,  by  the  three  Hesperides. 

Feast  on,  and  meanwhile  I  will  let  thee  know 

Of  all  these  things  around  us."    He  did  so, 

Still  brooding  o'er  the  cadence  of  his  lyre ; 

And  thus :  "  I  need  not  any  hearing  tire 

By  telling  how  the  sea-born  goddess  pined 

For  a  mortal  youth,  and  how  she  strove  to  bind 

Him  all  in  all  unto  her  doting  self 

Who  would  not  be  so  prison'd  ?  but,  fond  elf, 

He  was  content  to  let  her  amorous  plea 

Faint  through  his  careless  arms ;  content  to  see 

An  unseized  heaven  dying  at  his  feet ; 

Content,  O  fool  I  to  make  a  cold  retreat. 

When  on  the  pleasant  grass  such  love,  lovelorn, 

Lay  sorrowing ;  when  every  tear  was  born 

Of  diverse  passion ;  when  her  lips  and  eyes 

Were  closed  in  sullen  moisture,  and  quick  sighs 

Came  vex'd  and  pettish  through  her  nostrils  small. 

Husli  I  no  exclaim — yet,  justly  mightst  thou  call 

Curses  upon  his  head. — I  was  half  glad. 

But  my  poor  mistress  went  distract  and  mad, 

When  the  ooar  tusk'd  him ;  so  away  she  flew 

To  Jove's  high  throne,  and  by  her  plainings  drew 

Immortal  tear-drops  down  the  thunderer's  beard; 

Whereon,  it  was  decreed  he  should  be  rear'd 

Each  summer-time  to  life.    Lo !  this  is  he, 

That  same  Adonis,  safe  in  the  privacy 

Of  this  still  region  all  his  winter-sleep. 

Ay,  sleep ;  for  when  our  love-sick  queen  did  weep 

Over  his  waned  corse,  the  tremulous  shower 

Heal'd  up  the  wound,  and,  with  a  balmy  power, 

Medicined  death  to  a  lengthen'd  drowsiness : 

The  which  she  fills  with  visions,  and  doth  dress 

In  all  this  quiet  luxury ;  and  hath  set 

Us  young  immortals,  without  any  let. 

To  watch  his  slumber  through.  'Tis  well-nigh  pass'd. 

Even  to  a  moment's  filling  up,  and  fast 

She  scuds  with  summer  breezes,  to  pant  through 

The  fu-st  long  Idss,  warm  firstling,  to  renew 

Embower'd  sports  in  Cytherea's  isle. 

Look,  how  those  winged  listeners  all  this  while 

Stand  anxious  :  see  I   behold  ! " — This  clamant  word 

Bioke  through  the  careful  silence ;  for  they  heard 

A  rustling  noise  of  leaves,  and  out  there  fluttered 

Pigeons  and  doves  :  Adonis  something  mutter'd. 

The  while  one  hand,  that  erst  upon  Ins  thigh 

Lay  dormant,  moved  convulsed  and  gradually 

Up  to  his  forehead.    Then  there  was  a  hum 

Of  sudden  voices,  echoing,  "  Come  !  come  ! 

Arise  !  awake  I  Clear  summer  has  forth  walk'd 

Unto  the  clover-sward,  and  she  has  talk'd 

Full  soothingly  to  every  nested  finch : 

Rise,  Cupids!  or  we'll  give  the  bluebell  pinch 

To  your  dimpled  arms.  Once  more  sweet  life  begin!" 

At  this,  from  every  side  they  hurried  in, 


Rubbing  their  sleepy  eyes  with  lazy  wrists. 

And  doubling  overhead  their  little  fists 

Ifi  backward  yawns.    But  all  were  soon  alive : 

For  as  delicious  wine  doth,  sparkling,  dive 

In  nectar'd  clouds  and  curls  through  water  fair. 

So  from  the  arbor  roof  down  swell'd  an  air 

Odorous  and  enlivening  ;  making  all 

To  laugh,  and  play,  and  sing,  and  loudly  call 

For  their  sweet  queen:  when  lo !  ihe  wreathed  gieen 

Disparted,  and  far  upward  could  be  seen 

Blue  heaven,  and  a  silver  car,  air-borne. 

Whose  silent  wheels,  fresh  wet  from  clouds  of  mom, 

Spun  off  a  drizzling  dew, — which  falling  chili 

On  soft  Adonis'  shoulders,  made  him  still 

Nestle  and  turn  uneasily  about. 

Soon  were  the  white  doves  plain,  with  necks  stretch'd 

out, 
And  silken  traces  lighten'd  in  descent ; 
And  soon,  returning  from  love's  banishmert. 
Queen  Venus  leaning  downward  open-arm'd  : 
Her  shadow  fell  upon  his  breast,  and  charm'd 
A  tumult  to  his  heart,  and  a  i5^w  life 
Into  his  eyes.    Ah,  miserable  strife, 
But  for  her  comforting !  unhappy  sight, 
But  meeting  her  blue  orbs !  Who,  who  can  write 
Of  these  first  minutes  ?  The  unchariest  muse 
To  embracements  warm  as  theirs  makes  coy  excuse. 

O  it  has  ruffled  every  spirit  there. 
Saving  Love's  self,  who  stands  superb  to  share 
The  general  gladness  :  awfully  he  stands  ; 
A  sovereign  quell  is  in  his  waving  hands , 
No  sight  can  bear  the  lightning  of  his  bow ; 
His  quiver  is  mysterious,  none  can  know 
What  themselves  think  of  it ;  from  forth  his  eyes 
There  darts  strange  hght  of  varied  hues  and  dyes  ; 
A  scowl  is  sometimes  on  his  brow,  but  who 
Look  full  upon  it  feel  anon  the  blue 
Of  his  fair  eyes  run  licjuid  tlirough  their  souls. 
Endymion  feels  it,  and  no  more  controls 
The  burning  prayer  within  him;  so,  bent  low, 
He  had  begun  a  plaining  of  his  woe. 
But  Venus,  bending  forward,  said  :  "  My  clxild, 
Favor  this  gentle  youth ;  his  days  are  wild 
With  love — he — laut  alas  !  too  well  I  see 
Thou  know'st  the  deepness  of  his  misery. 
Ah,  smile  not  so,  my  son :  I  tell  thee  true, 
That  when  through  heavy  hours  I  used  to  rue 
The  endless  sleep  of  this  new-born  Adon'. 
This  stranger  aye  I  pitied.    For  upon 
A  dreary  morning  once  I  fled  away 
Into  the  breezy  clouds,  to  weep  and  pray 
For  this  my  love :  for  vexing  Mars  had  teased 
Me  even  to  tears:  thence,  when  a  little  eased. 
Down-looking,  vacant,  through  a  hazy  wood. 
I  saw  this  youth  as  he  despairing  stood : 
Those  same  dark  curls  blown  vagrant  in  the  wind , 
Those  same  full  fringed  lids  a  constant  blind 
Over  his  sullen  eyes :  I  saw  him  throw 
Himself  on  wither'd  leaves,  even  as  though 
Death  had  come  sudden  ;  for  no  jot  he  moved, 
Yet  mutter'd  wildly.    I  could  hear  he  loved 
Some  fair  immortal,  and  that  his  embrace 
Had  zoned  her  through  the  night.    There  is  no  trace 
Of  this  in  heaven :  I  have  mark'd  each  cheek, 
And  find  it  is  the  vainest  thing  to  seek ; 
545 


14 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  tliat  of  all  things  't  is  kept  secretest. 

luidyiiiion  I  one  day  ihou  wil'  he  blest: 

So  still  obey  the  guiding  han.i  that  fends 

Thee  safely  through  these  wonders  for  sweet  ends. 

Tis  a  concealment  needful  in  extreme; 

And  if  I  guess'd  not  so,  the  sunny  beam 

Tliou  shouldst  mount  up  to  with  me.    Now  adieu ! 

Here  must  we  leave  thee." — At  these  words  up  flew 

The  impatient  doves,  up  rose  the  floating  ear, 

Up  went  the  hum  celestial.    High  afar 

The  Latmian  saw  them  minish  into  naught ; 

And,  when  all  were  clear  vanish'd,  still  he  caught 

A  vivid  lightning  from  that  dreadful  bow. 

When  all  was  darken'd,  with  yEtnean  throe 

The  earth  closed — gave  a  solitary  moan — 

And  left  him  once  again  in  twilight  lone. 


He  did  not  rave,  he  did  not  stare  aghast. 
For  all  those  visions  were  o'ergone,  and  past, 
And  he  in  loneliness :  he  felt  assured 
Of  happy  times,  when  all  he  had  endured 
Would  seem  a  feather  to  the  mighty  prize. 
So,  with  unusual  gladness,  on  he  hies 
Through  caves,  and  palaces  of  mottled  ore, 
Gold  dome,  and  crystal  wall,  and  turquoise  floor. 
Black  polish'd  porticoes  of  awful  shade. 
And,  at  the  last,  a  diamond  balustrade, 
Leading  afar  past  wild  magnificence, 
Spiral  through  ruggedesl  loop-holes,  and  thence 
Stretching  across  a  void,  then  guiding  o'er 
Enormous  chasms,  where,  all  foam  and  roar. 
Streams  subterranean  tease  their  granite  beds ; 
Then  heighten'd  just  above  the  silvery  heads 
Of  a  thousand  fountains,  so  that  he  could  dash 
The  waters  with  his  spear ;  but  at  the  splash, 
Done  heedlessly,  those  spouting  columns  rose 
Sudden  a  poplar's  height,  and  'gan  to  inclose 
His  diamond  path  with  fretwork  streaming  round 
Alive,  and  dazzling  cool,  and  with  a  sound, 
Haply,  like  dolphin  tumults,  when  sweet  shells 
Welcome  the  float  of  Tlietis.    Long  he  dwells 
On  this  delight ;  for,  every  minute's  space, 
The  streams  with  changed  magic  interlace : 
Sometimes  like  delicatest  lattices, 
Cover'd  with  crystal  vines;  then  weeping  trees, 
Moving  about  as  in  a  gentle  wind. 
Which,  in  a  wink,  to  watery  gauze  refined, 
Pour'd  into  shapes  of  curtain'd  canopies, 
Spangled,  and  rich  with  liquid  broideries  ' 
Of  flowers,  peacocks,  swans,  and  naiads  fair. 
Swifter  than  lightning  went  these  wonders  rare ; 
And  then  the  water,  into  stubborn  streams 
Collecting,  mimick'd  the  wrought  oaken  beams. 
Pillars,  and  frieze,  and  high  fantastic  roof, 
Of  those  dusk  places  in  times  far  aloof 
Cathedrals  call'd.    He  bade  a  loth  farewell 
To  the.se  founts  Protean,  passing  gulf,  and  dell, 
And  torrent,  and  ten  thousand  jutting  shapes. 
Half-seen  through  deepest  gloom,  and  grisly  gapes. 
Blackening  on  every  side,  and  overhead 
A  vaulted  dome  like  Heaven's,  far  bespread 
With  starlight  gems:  aye,  all  so  huge  and  strange, 
The  solitary  felt  a  harried  change 
Working  within  him  into  something  dreary, — 
Vex'd  like  a  morning  eagle,  lost,  and  weary, 


And  purblind  amid  foggy  midnight  wolts. 
But  he  revives  at  once:  for  who  beholds 
New  sudden  things,  nor  casts  his  menial  slough? 
Forth  from  a  rugged  arch,  in  tiie  dusk  below, 
Came  mother  Cybele  !  alone — alone — 
In  sombre  chariot ;  dark  foldings  thrown 
About  her  majesty,  and  front  death-pale. 
With  turrets  crown'd.    Four  nianed  lions  hale 
The  sluggish  wheels;  solemn  their  toothed  maws 
Their  surly  eyes  brow-hidden,  heavy  paws 
Uplifted  drowsily,  and  nervy  tails 
Cowering  their  tawny  brushes.    Silent  sails 
This  shadowy  queen  athwart,  and  faints  away 
In  another  gloomy  arch. 

Wherefore  delay. 
Young  traveller,  in  such  a  mournful  place  ? 
Art  thou  wayworn,  or  canst  not  further  trace 
The  diamond  path  ?  And  does  it  indeed  end 
Abrupt  in  middle  air  ?  Yet  earthward  bend 
Thy  forehead,  and  to  Jupiter  cloud-borne     . 
Call  ardently !  He  was  indeed  wayworn  ; 
Abrupt,  in  middle  air,  his  vvay  was  lost ; 
To  cloud-borne  Jove  he  bowed,  and  there  crest 
Towards  him  a  large  eagle,  'twixt  whose  wings 
Without  one  impious  word,  himself  he  flings. 
Committed  to  the  darkness  and  the  gloom  : 
Down,  down,  uncertain  to  what  pleasant  doom. 
Swift  as  a  fathoming  plummet  down  he  fell 
Through  unknown  things ;  till  exhaled  asphodel, 
And  rose,  with  spicy  fannings  interbreathed. 
Came  swelling  forth  where  little  caves  were  wreathed 
So  thick  with  leaves  and  mosses,  that  they  seem'd 
Large  honeycombs  of  green,  and  freshly  teem'd 
With  airs  delicious.    In  the  greenest  nook 
The  eagle  landed  him,  and  farewell  took. 

It  was  a  jasmine  bower,  all  bestrown 
With  golden  moss.    His  every  sense  had  grown 
Ethereal  for  pleasure  ;  'bove  his  head 
Flew  a  delight  half-graspable  ;  his  tread 
Was  Hesperean ;  to  his  capable  ears 
Silence  was  music  from  the  holy  spheres ; 
A  dewy  luxury  was  in  his  eyes;  >■ 

The  httle  flowers  felt  his  pleasant  sighs 
And  stirr'd  them  faintly.    Verdant  cave  and  cell 
He  wander'd  through,  oft  wondering  at  such  swell 
Of  sudden  exaltation  :  but,  "  Alas  !" 
Said  he,  "  will  all  this  gush  of  feeling  pass 
Away  in  solitude  ?    And  must  they  wane. 
Like  melodies  upon  a  sandy  plain. 
Without  an  echo  ?  Then  shall  I  be  left 
So  sad,  so  melancholy,  so  bereft ! 
Yet  still  I  feel  immortal !    O  my  love, 
My  breath  of  life,  where  art  thou  ?  High  above. 
Dancing  before  the  morning  gates  of  heaven  1 
Or  keeping  watch  among  those  starry  seven, 
Old  Atlas'  children  ?  Art  a  maid  of  the  waters, 
One  of  shell-winding  Triton's  bright-hair'd  daughters 
Or  art,  impossible !  a  nymph  of  Dian's, 
Weaving  a  coronal  of  tender  scions 
For  very  idleness  ?  Where'er  thou  art, 
Methinks  it  now  is  at  ray  will  to  start 
Into  thine  arms ;  to  scare  Aurora's  train. 
And  snatch  thee  from  the  morning ;  o'er  the  main 
546 


ENDYMION. 


15 


To  scud  like  a  wild  bird,  and  take  thee  off 

From  thy  spa-foamy  cradle;  or  to  doff 

Thy  shepherd  vest,  and  woo  thee  'mid  fresh  leaves. 

No,  no,  too  eagerly  my  soul  deceives 

Its  powerless  self:  I  know  this  cannot  be. 

O  let  me  then  by  some  sweet  dreaming  flee 

To  her  entrancements:  hither  sleep  awhile! 

Hither  most  gentle  sleep!  and  soolliing  foil 

For  some  few  hours  the  coming  solitude." 


Tiius  spake  he,  and  that  moment  felt  endued 
With  power  to  dream  deliciously ;  so  wound 
Through  a  dim  passage,  searching  till  he  found 
The  smoothest  mossy  bed  and  deepest,  where 
He  threw  himself,  and  just  into  the  air 
Stretching  his  indolent  arms,  he  took,  O  bliss! 
A  naked  waist:  "Fair  Cupid,  whence  is  this?" 
A  well-known  voice  sigh'd,  "  Sweetest,  here  am  I!" 
At  which  soft  ravishment,  with  doting  cry 
They  trembled  to  each  other. — Helicon  ! 
O  fountain'd  hill!  Old  Homer's  Helicon! 
That  ihou  wouldst  spout  a  little  streamlet  o'er 
These  sorry  pages ;  then  the  verse  would  soar 
And  sing  alx)ve  this  gentle  pair,  like  lark 
Over  his  nested  young:  but  all  is  dark 
Around  thine  aged  top,  and  thy  clear  fount 
Exhales  in  mists  to  Heaven.     Ay,  the  count 
Of  mighty  Poets  is  made  up ;  the  scroll 
Is  folded  by  the  Muses ;  the  bright  roll 
Is  in  Apollo's  hand  :  our  dazed  eyes 
Have  seen  a  new  tinge  in  the  western  skies : 
The  world  has  done  its  duty.    Yet,  oh  yet, 
Although  the  sun  of  poesy  is  set. 
These  lovers  did  embrace,  and  we  must  weep 
That  there  is  no  old  power  left  to  steep 
A  quill  immortal  in  their  joyous  tears. 
Long  t'nie  in  silence  did  their  anxious  fears 
Question  that  thus  it  was;  long  time  they  lay 
Fondling  and  kissing  every  doubt  away  ; 
Long  time  ere  soft  caressing  sobs  began 
To  mellow  into  words,  and  then  there  ran 
Two  bulibling  springs  of  talk  from  their  sweet  lips. 
"  O  known  Unknown !  from  whom  my  being  sips 
Such  darling  essence,  wherefore  may  I  not 
Be  ever  in  these  arms?  in  this  sweet  spot 
Pillow  my  chin  for  ever  ?  ever  press 
These  toying  hands  and  kiss  their  smooth  excess  ? 
Why  not  for  ever  and  for  ever  feel 
That  breath  about  my  63-68?  Ah,  thou  wilt  steal 
Away  from  me  again,  indeed,  indeed — 
Thou  wilt  be  gone  away,  and  wilt  not  heed 
My  lonely  madness.    Speak,  my  kindest  fair! 
Is — is  it  to  be  so  ?    No  !  Who  will  dare 
To  pluck  thee  from  me  ?    And,  of  thine  own  will, 
Full  well  I  feel  thou  wouldst  not  leave  me.    Still 
Let  me  entwine  thee  surer,  surer — now 
How  can  we  part?  Elysium!  who  art  thou? 
Who,  that  thou  canst  not  be  for  ever  here, 
Or  lift  me  with  thee  to  some  starry  sphere  ? 
Enchantress!  tell  me  by  this  soft  embrace, 
By  the  most  soft  complexion  of  thy  face, 
Those  lips,  O  slippery  blisses  !  twinkling  eyes, 
And  by  these  tenderest,  milky  sovereignties — 
These  tenderest,  and  by  the  nectar-wine, 

The  passion" "  O  loved  Ida  the  divine ! 

40 


Endymion  !  dearest !  Ah,  unhappy  me  ! 

His  soul  will  'scape  us — O  felicity ! 

How  he  does  love  me !   His  poor  temples  beat 

To  the  very  tune  of  love — how  sweet,  sweet,  sweet! 

Revive,  dear  youth,  or  I  shall  faint  and  die; 

Revive,  or  these  soft  hours  \vill  hurry  by 

In  tranced  dullness;  speak,  and  let  that  spell 

Affright  this  lethargy!  I  cannot  quell 

Its  heavy  pressure,  and  will  press  at  least 

My  lips  to  thine,  that  they  may  richly  feast 

Until  we  taste  the  life  of  love  again. 

What !  dost  thou  move  ?  dost  kiss  ?  O  bliss  !    O  pain ' 

I  love  thee,  youth,  more  than  I  can  conceive ; 

And  so  long  absence  from  thee  doth  bereave 

My  soul  of  any  rest :  yet  must  I  hence  : 

Yet,  can  I  not  to  starry  eminence 

Uplift  thee;  nor  for  very  shame  can  own 

Myself  to  thee.    Ah,  dearest !  do  not  groan, 

Or  thou  wilt  force  me  from  this  secrecy, 

And  I  must  blush  in  heaven.    O  that  I 

Had  done  it  already!  that  the  dreadful  smiles 

At  my  lost  brightness,  my  impassion'd  wiles. 

Had  waned  from  Olympus'  solemn  height. 

And  from  all  serious  Gods ;  that  our  delight 

Was  quite  forgotten,  save  of  us  alone  ! 

And  wherefore  so  ashained  ?  'T  is  but  to  atone 

For  endless  pleasure,  by  some  coward  blushes: 

Yet  must  I  be  a  coward !   Horror  rushes 

Too  palpable  before  me — the  sad  look 

Of  Jovfe — Minerva's  start — no  bosom  shook 

With  awe  of  purity — no  Cupid  pinion 

In  reverence  veil'd — my  crystalline  dominion 

Half  lost,  and  all  old  hymns  made  nullity! 

But  what  is  this  to  love?  Oh!  I  could  fly 

With  thee  into  the  ken  of  heavenly  powers, 

So  thou  wouldst  thus,  for  many  sequent  hours, 

Press  me  so  sweetly.    Now  I  swear  at  once 

That  I  am  wise,  that  Pallas  is  a  dunce — 

Perhaps  her  love  like  mine  is  but  unknown — 

Oh!  I  do  think  that  I  have  been  alone 

In  chastity  !  yes,  Pallas  has  been  sighing. 

While  every  eve  saw  me  my  hair  uptying 

With  fingers  cool  as  aspen  loaves.    Sweet  love! 

I  was  as  vague  as  solitary  dove. 

Nor  knew  that  nests  were  built.    Now  a  soft  kiss — 

Ay,  by  that  kiss,  I  vow  an  endless  bliss, 

An  immortality  of  passion's  thine: 

Ere  long  I  will  exalt  thee  to  the  shine 

Of  heaven  ambrosial ;  and  we  will  shade 

Ourselves  whole  summers  by  a  river  glade  ; 

And  I  will  tell  thee  stories  of  the  sky. 

And  breathe  thee  whispers  of  its  minstrelsy, 

My  happy  love  will  overvving  all  bounds! 

O  let  me  melt  into  thee !  let  the  souikIs 

Of  our  close  voices  marry  at  their  birth  ; 

Let  us  entwine  hoveringly  I — O  dearth 

Of  human  words!  roughness  of  mortal  speech! 

Lispings  empyrean  will  I  sometimes  teacli 

Thine  honey'd  tongue — lute-brealhings,  which  I  gasp 

To  have  thee  understand,  now  while  I  clasp 

Thee  thus,  and  weep  for  fondness — I  am  pain'd, 

Endymion  :  woe  !  woe  !  is  grief  contain'd 

In  the  very  deeps  of  pleasure,  my  sole  life  ?" — 

Ilereat,  with  many  sobs,  her  gentle  strife 

Melted  into  a  languor.    He  return'd 

Entranced  vows  and  tears. 

547 


16 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Ye  who  have  yearn'd 
With  too  much  passion,  will  here  stay  and  pity, 
For  the  mere  sake  of  truth  ;  as  'tis  a  ditty 
JVot  of  these  days,  but  long  ago  't  was  told 
By  a  cavern  wind  unto  a  forest  old  ,• 
And  then  the  torest  told  it  in  a  dream 
To  a  sleeping  lake,  whose  cool  and  level  gleam 
A  poet  caught  as  he  was  journeying 
To  Phoebus'  shrine ;  and  in  it  he  did  fling 
His  weary  limbs,  bathing  an  hour's  space, 
And  after,  straight  in  that  inspired  place 
He  sang  the  story  up  into  the  air. 
Giving  it  universal  freedom.    There 
Has  it  been  ever  sounding  for  those  ears 
Whose  tips  are  glowing  hot.    The  legend  cheers 
Yon  sentinel  stars ;  and  he  who  listens  to  it 
Must  surely  be  self-doom'd  or  he  will  rue  it : 
For  quenchless  burnings  come  upon  the  heart, 
Made  fiercer  by  a  fear  lest  any  part 
Should  be  ingulfed  in  the  eddying  wind. 
As  much  as  here  is  penn'd  doth  always  find 
A  resting-place,  thus  much  comes  clear  and  plain  ; 
Anon  the  strange  voice  is  upon  the  wane — 
And  'tis  but  echoed  from  departing  sound, 
That  the  fair  visitant  at  last  unwound 
Her  gentle  limbs,  and  left  the  youth  asleep. — 
Thus  the  tradition  of  the  gusty  deep. 

Now  turn  we  to  our  former  chroniclers. — 
Endymion  awoke,  that  grief  of  hers 
Sweet  plaining  on  his  ear:  he  sickly  guess'd 
How  lone  he  was  once  more,  and  sadly  press'd 
His  empty  arms  together,  hung  his  head. 
And  most  forlorn  upon  that  widow'd  bed 
Sat  silently.    Love's  madness  he  had  known  : 
Often  with  more  than  tortured  lion's  groan 
Moanings  had  burst  from  him ;  but  now  that  rage 
Had  pass'd  away :  no  longer  did  he  wage 
A  rough-voiced  war  against  the  dooming  stars. 
No,  he  had  felt  too  much  for  such  harsh  jars : 
The  lyre  of  his  soul  Eolian-tuned 
Forgot  all  violence,  and  but  communed 
With  melancholy  thought :  O  he  had  swoon'd 
Drunken  from  pleasure's  nipple !  and  his  love 
Henceforth  was  dove-like. — Loth  was  he  to  move 
From  the  imprinted  couch,  and  when  he  did, 
'T  was  with  slow,  languid  paces,  and  face  hid 
In  muffling  hands.    So  temper'd,  out  he  stray 'd 
Half  seeing  visions  that  might  have  dismay'd 
Alecto's  serpents ;  ravishments  more  keen 
Than  Hermes'  pipe,  when  anxious  he  did  lean 
Over  eclipsing  eyes :  and  at  the  last 
It  was  a  sounding  grotto,  vaulted,  vast, 
O'er-studded  with  a  thousand,  thousand  pearls. 
And  crimson-mouthed  shells  with  stubborn  curls, 
Of  every  shape  and  size,  even  to  the  bulk 
In  which  whales  arbor  close,  to  brood  and  sulk 
Against  an  endless  storm.    Moreover  too, 
Fish-semblances,  of  green  and  azure  hue, 
Ready  to  snort  their  streams.    In  this  cool  wonder 
Endymion  sat  down,  and  'gan  to  ponder 
On  all  his  life :  his  youth,  up  to  the  day 
When  'mid  acclaim,  and  feasts,  and  garlands  gay, 
He  slept  upon  his  shepherd  throne :  the  look 
•  Of  his  white  palace  in  wild  forest  nook, 


And  all  the  revels  he  had  lorded  there  : 
Each  tender  maiden  whom  he  once  thought  fair, 
With  every  friend  and  fellow-woodlander — 
Pass'd  like  a  dream  belijre  him.    Then  the  spur 
Of  the  old  bards  to  mighty  deeds :  his  plaa-^ 
To  nurse  the  golden  age  'mong  shepherd  clans 
That  wondrous  night :  the  great  Pan-festival : 
His  sister's  sorrow ;  and  his  wanderings  all, 
Until  into  the  earth's  deep  maw  he.  rush'd  : 
Then  all  its  buried  magic,  till  it  flush'd 
High  with  excessive  love.    "  And  now,"  thoun 

How  long  must  I  remain  in  jeopardy 
Of  blank  amazements  that  amaze  no  more  ? 
Now  I  have  tasted  her  sweet  soul  to  the  cors, 
All  other  depths  are  shallow  :  essences. 
Once  spiritual,  are  like  muddy  lees, 
Meant  but  to  fertilize  my  earthly  root. 
And  make  my  branches  lift  a  golden  fruit 
Into  the  bloom  of  heaven :  other  hght. 
Though  it  be  quick  and  sharp  enough  to  bligLl 
The  Olympian  eagle's  vision,  is  dark. 
Dark  as  the  parentage  of  chaos.    Hark ! 
My  silent  thoughts  arc  echoing  from  these  shell 
Or  are  they  but  the  ghosts,  lire  dying  swells 
Of  noises  far  away  ? — list! — Hereupon 
He  kept  an  anxious  ear     The  humming  tone 
Came  louder,  and  behoI\  there  as  he  lay, 
On  either  side  out-gush'd,  \vith  misty  spray, 
A  copious  spring ;  and  bov>i  l,'>gether  dash'd 
Swift,  mad,  fantastic  rounO  t>e  ."ocks,  and  lash't' 
Among  the  conciis  and  slieli.'  o.*"  iLe  lofty  grot, 
Leaving  a  trickling  dew.    At  i.'st  'he.-'  shot 
Down  from  the  ceiling's  heigd*.  p^urng  a  noise 
As  of  some  breathless  racers  whose  hopes  poise 
Upon  the  last  few  steps,  and  wiiLi  s,^ent  force 
Along  the  groinid  they  took  a  winding  course. 
Endymion  fbllow'd — for  it  seem'd  that  one 
Ever  pursued,  the  other  strove  to  shun — 
Follow'd  their  languid  mazes,  till  well-nigh 
He  had  left  thinking  of  the  mystery, — 
And  was  now  rapt  in  lender  hoverings 
Over  the  vanish'd  bliss.    Ah  !  what  is  it  sings 
His  dream  away?  What  melodies  are  these? 
They  sound  as  through  the  whispering  of  trees 
Not  native  in  such  barren  vaults.    Give  ear! 


"O  Arethusa,  peerless  nymph!  why  fear 
Such  tenderness  as  mine  ?  Great  Dian,  why, 
Why  didst  thou  hear  her  prayer  ?  O  that  I 
Were  rippling  round  her  dainty  fairness  now, 
Circling  about  her  waist,  and  striving  how 
To  entice  her  to  a  dive  !  then  stealing  in 
Between  her  luscious  lips  and  eyelids  thin. 
O  that  her  shining  hair  was  in  the  sun. 
And  I  distilling  from  it  thence  to  run 
In  amorous  rillets  down  her  shrinking  form ! 
To  linger  on  her  lily  shoulders,  warm 
Between  her  kissing  breasts,  and  every  charm 
Touch  raptured ! — See  how  painfully  I  flow  : 
Fair  maid,  be  pitiful  to  my  great  woe. 
Slay,  slay  thy  weary  course,  and  let  me  lead, 
A  happy  wooer,  to  ihe  flowery  mead 
Where  all  that  beauty  snared  me." — "  Cruel  God 
Desist !  or  my  offended  mistress'  nod 
Will  stagnate  all  thy  fountains : — tease  me  not 
548 


ENDYMION. 


17 


With  syren  words — Ah,  have  I  really  got 

Such  power  to  madden  thee  ?  And  is  it  true — 

Away  away,  or  I  shall  dearly  rue 

My  very  thoughts :  in  mercy  then  away, 

Kindest  Alpheus,  for  should  I  obey 

My  own  dear  will,  'twould  be  a  deadly  bane." — 

'•  O,  Oread-Queen !  would  that  thou  hadst  a  pain 

Like  lliis  of  mine,  tlien  would  I  fearless  turn 

And  be  a  criminal." — "  Alas,  I  burn, 

I  shudder — gentle  river,  get  thee  hence. 

Alpheus  !  thou  enchanter !  every  sense 

Of  mine  was  once  made  perfect  in  these  woods. 

Fresh  breezes,  bowery  lawns,  and  innocent  floods. 

Ripe  fruits,  and  lonely  couch,  contentment  gave ; 

But  ever  since  I  heedlessly  did  lave 

In  thy  deceitful  stream,  a  panting  glow 

Grew  strong  within  me  :  wherefore  serve  me  so, 

And  call  it  love?  Alas!  'twas  cruelty. 

Not  once  more  did  I  close  my  happy  eyes 

Amid  the  thrush's  song.     Away !  Avaunt ! 

0  'twas  a  cruel  thing." — "Now  thou  dost  taunt 
So  softly,  Arethusa,  that  I  think 

If  thou  wast  playing  on  my  shady  brink. 

Thou  wouldst  bathe  once  again.     Innocent  maid  ! 

Stifle  thine  heart  no  more ; — nor  be  afraid 

Of  angry  powers  :  there  are  deities 

Will  shade  us  with  their  wings.     Those  fitful  sighs 

•T  is  almost  death  to  hear :  O  let  me  pour 

A  dewy  balm  upon  them ! — fear  no  more. 

Sweet  Arethusa  I  Dian's  self  must  feel. 

Sometimes,  these  very  pangs.     Dear  maiden,  steal 

Blushing  into  my  soul,  and  let  us  fly 

Tliese  dreary  caverns  for  the  open  sky. 

1  will  delight  thee  all  my  winding  course. 
From  the  green  sea  up  to  my  hidden  source 
About  Arcadian  forests  ;  and  will  show 
Tlie  channels  where  ray  coolest  waters  flow 
Through  mossy  rocks  ;  where,  'mid  exuberant  green 
I  toam  in  pleasant  darkness,  more  unseen 

Than  Saturn  in  his  exile ;  where  I  brim 

Round  flowery  islands,  and  take  thence  a  skim 

Of  mealy  sweets,  which  myriads  of  bees 

Buzz  from  their  honey'd  wings :  and  thou  shouldst 

please 
Thyself  to  choose  the  richest,  where  we  might 
Be  incense-pillovv'd  every  summer  night. 
Doff  all  sad  fears,  thou  white  deliciousness. 
And  let  us  be  thus  comforted  ;  unless 
Thou  couldst  rejoice  to  see  my  hopeless  stream 
Hurry  distracted  from  Sol's  temperate  beam. 
And  pour  to  death  along  some  hungry  sands."—! 
"  What  can  I  do,  Alpheus  ?  Dian  stands 
Severe  before  me  •  persecuting  fate  ! 
Unhappy  Arethusa !  thou  wast  late 
A  huntress  free  in" — At  this,  sudden  fell 
Those  two  sad  streams  adown  a  fearful  dell. 
The  Latmian  listen'd,  but  he  heard  no  more, 
Save  echo,  faint  repeating  o'er  and  o'er 
The  name  of  Arethusa.     On  the  verge 
Of  that  dark  gulf  he  wept,  and  said .  "  I  urge 
Thee,  gentle  Goddess  of  my  pilgrimage. 
By  our  eternal  hopes,  to  soothe,  to  assuage 
If  thou  art  powerful,  these  lovers'  pains ; 
And  make  them  happy  in  some  happy  plains." 

He  turn'd — there  was  a  whelming  sound — he  slept. 
There  wss  a  cooler  light ;  and  so  he  kept 


Towards  it  by  a  sandy  path,  and  lo ! 
More  suddenly  than  doth  a  moment  go, 
The  visions  of  the  earth  were  gone  and  fled — 
He  saw  the  giant  sea  above  his  head. 


BOOK  III. 


There  are  who  lord  it  o'er  their  fellow-men 
With  most  prevailing  tinsel :  who  unpen 
Their  baaing  vanities,  to  browse  away 
The  comfortable  green  and  juicy  hay 
From  human  pastures  ;  or,  O  torturing  fact ! 
Who,  through  an  idiot  blink,  will  see  unpack'd 
Fire-branded  foxes  to  sear  up  and  singe 
Our  gold  and  ripe-ear'd  hopes.     With  not  one  tinge 
Of  sanctuary  splendor,  nor  a  sight 
Able  to  face  an  owl's,  they  still  are  dight 
By  the  blear-eyed  nations  in  empurpled  vests. 
And  crowns,  and  turbans.     With  unladen  breasts. 
Save  of  blown  self-applause,  they  proudly  mount 
To  their  spirit's  perch,  their  being's  high  account. 
Their  tip-top  nothings,  their  dull  skies,  their  thrones— 
Amid  the  fierce  intoxicating  tones 
Of  trumpets,  shoutings,  and  belabor'd  drums, 
And  sudden  cannon.     Ah  .'  how  all  this  hums. 
In  wakeful  ears,  like  uproar  past  and  gone — 
Like  thunder-clouds  that  spake  to  Babylon, 
And  set  those  old  Chaldeans  to  their  tasks. — 
Are  then  regalities  all  gilded  masks  ? 
No,  there  are  throned  seats  unscalable 
But  by  a  patient  wing,  a  constant  spell, 
Or  by  ethereal  things  that,  unconfined. 
Can  make  a  ladder  of  the  eternal  wind, 
And  poise  about  in  cloudy  thunder-tents 
To  watch  the  abysm-birth  of  elements. 
Aye,  'bove  the  withering  of  old-lipp'd  Fate 
A  thousand  powers  keep  religious  state, 
In  water,  fiery  realm,  and  airy  bourn ; 
And,  silent  as  a  consecrated  um. 
Hold  sphery  sessions  for  a  season  due. 
Yet  few  of  these  far  majesties,  ah,  few ! 
Have  bared  their  operations  to  this  globe — 
Few,  who  with  gorgeous  pageantry  enrobe 
Our  piece  of  heaven — whose  benevolence 
Shakes  hand  with  our  own  Ceres ;  every  sense 
Filling  with  spiritual  sweets  to  plenitude. 
As  bees  gorge  full  their  cells.     And  by  the  feud 
'Tvvixt  Nothing  and  Creation,  I  here  swear, 
Eteme  Apollo  I  that  thy  Sister  fair 
Is  of  all  these  the  gentlier-mightiest. 
When  thy  gold  breath  is  misting  in  the  west, 
She  unobserved  steals  unto  her  throne. 
And  there  she  sits  most  meek  and  most  alone : 
As  if  she  had  not  pomp  subservient ; 
As  if  thine  eye,  high  Poet !  was  not  bent 
Towards  her  with  the  Muses  in  thine  heart ; 
As  if  the  ministering  stars  kept  not  apart. 
Waiting  for  silver-footed  messages. 
O  Moon !  the  oldest  shades  'mong  oldest  trees 
Feel  palpitations  when  thou  lookest  in: 
O  Moon  !  old  boughs  lisp  forth  a  holier  din 
The  while  they  feel  thine  airy  fellowship. 
Thou  dost  bless  everywhere,  with  silver  lip 
71  549 


18 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Kissing  dead  things  to  life.     The  sleeping  kine, 
Coueh'd  in  thy  brightness,  dream  of  fields  divine : 
Innumerable  mountains  rise,  and  rise. 
Ambitious  for  the  hallowing  of  thine  eyes  ; 
And  yet  thy  benediction  passeth  not 
One  obscure  hiding-place,  one  little  spot 
Where  pleasure  may  be  sent :  the  nested  wren 
Has  thy  fair  face  within  its  tranquil  ken. 
And  from  beneath  a  sheltering  ivy  leaf 
Takes  glimpses  of  thee  ;  thou  art  a  relief 
To  the  poor  patient  oyster,  where  it  sleeps 
Within  its  pearly  house  : — The  mighty  deeps, 
The  monstrous  sea  is  thine — the  myriad  sea  I 
O  Moon !  far-spooming  Ocean  bows  to  thee, 
And  Tellus  feels  her  forehead's  cumbrous  load. 


Cynthia  !  where  art  thou  now?  What  far  abode 
Of  green  or  silvery  bower  doth  enshrine 
Such  utmost  beauty  ?  Alas,  thou  dost  pine 
For  one  as  sorrowful :  thy  cheek  is  pale 
For  one  vvhose  cheek  is  pale :  thou  dost  bewail 
His  tears,  who  weeps  for  thee.  Where  dost  thou  sigh  ? 
Ah !  surely  that  light  peeps  from  Vesper's  eye, 
Or  what  a  thing  is  love !  'Tis  She,  but  lo ! 
How  changed,  how  full  of  ache,  how  gone  in  woe ! 
■She  dies  at  the  thinnest  cloud  ;  Iter  loveliness 
Is  v^an  on  Neptune's  blue :  yet  there 's  a  stress 
Of  love-spangles,  just  off  yon  cape  of  trees, 
Dancing  upon  the  waves,  as  if  to  please 
The  curly  foam  with  amorous  influence. 
O,  not  so  idle !  for  down-glancing  thence. 
She  fathoms  eddies,  and  runs  wild  about 
O'erwhelming  water-courses ;  scaring  out 
The  thorny  sharks  from  hiding-holes,  and  fright'ning 
Their  savage  eyes  with  unaccustom'd  lightning. 
Where  will  the  splendor  be  content  to  reach  ? 
O  love !  how  potent  hast  thou  been  to  teach 
Strange  journeyings  I  Wherever  beauty  dwells, 
In  gulf  or  aerie,  mountains  or  deep  dells, 
In  Hght,  in  gloom,  in  star  or  blazing  sun. 
Thou  pointest  out  the  way,  and  straight  'tis  won. 
Amid  his  toil  thou  gavest  Leander  breath ; 
Thou  leddest  Orpheus  through  the  gleams  of  death ; 
Thou  madest  Pluto  bear  thin  element : 
And  now,  O  winged  Chieftain !  thou  hast  sent 
A  moonbeam  to  tlie  deep,  deep  water-world. 
To  find  Endymion. 


On  gold  sand  impearl'd 
With  lily  shells,  and  pebbles  milky  white, 
Poor  Cynthia  greeted  him,  and  soothed  her  light 
Against  his  pallid  face  :  he  felt  the  chariti 
To  breathlessness,  and  suddenly  a  warm 
Of  his  heart's  blood  :  'twas  very  sweet;  he  stay'd 
His  wandering  steps,  and  half-entranced  laid 
His  head  upon  a  tuft  of  straggling  weeds. 
To  taste  the  gentle  moon,  and  freshening  beads, 
Lash'd  from  the  crystal  roof  by  fishes'  tails. 
And  so  he  kept,  until  the  rosy  veils 
Mantling  the  east,  by  Aurora's  peering  hand 
Were  lifted  from  the  water's  breast,  and  fann'd 
Into  sweet  air  ;  and  sober'd  morning  came 
Meekly  through  billows  : — when  like  taper-flame 
Left  sudden  by  a  dallying  breath  of  air. 
He  rose  in  silence,  and  once  more  'gan  fare 


Along  his  fated  way. 

Far  had  he  roam'd, 
With  nothing  save  the  hollow  vast,  that  foam'd 
Above,  around,  and  at  his  feet ;  save  things 
More  dead  than  Morpheus'  imaginings : 
Old  rusted  anchors,  helmets,  breastplates  large 
Of  gone  sea-warriors  ;  brazen  beaks  and  targe ; 
Rudders  that  for  a  hundred  years  had  lost 
The  sway  of  human  hand  ;  gold  vase  emboss'd 
With  long-forgotten  story,  and  wherein 
No  reveller  had  ever  dipp'd  a  chin 
But  those  of  Saturn's  vintage  ;  mouldering  scrolls. 
Writ  in  the  tongue  of  heaven,  by  those  souls 
Who  first  were  on  the  earth ;  and  sculptures  rude 
In  ponderous  stone,  developing  the  mood 
Of  ancient  Nox ; — then  skeletons  of  man. 
Of  beast,  behemoth,  and  leviathan. 
And  elephant,  and  eagle,  and  huge  Jaw 
Of  nameless  monster.     A  cold  leaden  awe 
These  secrets  struck  into  him ;  and  unless 
Dian  had  chased  away  that  heaviness. 
He  might  have  died :  but  now,  with  cheered  feel, 
He  onward  kept ;  wooing  these  thoughts  to  steal 
About  the  labyrinth  in  his  soul  of  love. 


"  What  is  there  in  thee.  Moon !  that  thou  shouldsi 
move 
My  heart  so  potently  ?  When  yet  a  child, 
I  oft  have  dried  my  tears  when  thou  hast  smiled. 
Thou  seem'dst  my  sister :  hand  in  hand  we  went 
From  eve  to  morn  across  the  firmament. 
No  apples  would  I  gather  from  the  tree. 
Till  thou  hadst  cool'd  their  cheeks  deliciously : 
No  tumbling  water  ever  spake  romance. 
But  when  my  eyes  with  thine  thereon  could  dance : 
No  woods  were  green  enough,  no  bower  divine, 
Until  thou  lifted'st  up  thine  eyelids  fine : 
In  sowing-time  ne'er  would  I  dibble  take. 
Or  drop  a  seed,  till  thou  wast  wide  awake  ; 
And,  in  the  summer-tide  of  blossoming. 
No  one  but  thee  hath  heard  me  blithely  sing 
And  mesh  my  dewy  flowers  all  the  night. 
No  melody  was  like  a  passing  spright 
[f  it  went  not  to  solemnize  thy  reign. 
Yes,  in  my  "boyhood,  every  joy  and  pain 
By  thee  were  fashion'd  to  the  self-same  end  ; 
And  as  I  grew  in  years,  still  didst  thou  blend 
With  all  my  ardors  :  thou  wast  the  deep  glen  ; 
Thou  wast  the  mountain-top — the  sage's  pen — 
The  poet's  harp — the  voice  of  friends — the  sun  ; 
Thou  wast  the  river — thou  wast  glory  won  ; 
Thou  wast  my  clarion's  blast — thou  wast  my  steed — 
My  goblet  full  of  wine — my  topmost  deed  : — 
Thou  wast  the  charm  of  women,  lovely  Moon ! 
O  what  a  v\'ild  and  harmonized  tune 
My  spirit  struck  from  all  the  beautiful ! 
On  some  bright  essence  could  I  lean,  and  lull 
Myself  to  immortality  :  I  prest 
Nature's  soft  pillow  in  a  wakeful  rest. 
But,  gentle  Orb !  there  came  a  nearer  bliss — 
My  strange  love  came — Felicity's  abyss  ! 
She  came,  and  thou  didst  fade,  and  fade  away — 
Yet  not  entirely  ;  no,  thy  starry  sway 
Has  been  an  under-passion  to  this  hour. 
Now  I  begin  to  feel  thine  orby  power 
550 


ENDYMION. 


19 


Is  coining  fresh  upon  me :  O  be  kind ! 

Keep  back  thine  influence,  and  do  not  Wind 

My  sovereign  vision. — Dearest  love,  forgive 

That  I  can  tliink  away  from  thee  and  Hvel — 

Pardon  me,  airy  planet,  that  I  prize 

One  thought  beyond  thine  argent  luxuries! 

How  far  beyond  ! "  At  this  a  surprised  start 

Frosted  the  springing  verdure  of  his  heart  ; 

For  as  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  swear 

How  his  own  goddess  was  past  all  things  fair, 

He  saw  far  in  the  concave  green  of  the  sea 

An  old  man  sitting  calm  and  peacefully. 

Upon  a  weeded  rock  ttiis  old  man  sat, 

And  his  white  hair  was  awful,  and  a  mat 

Of  weeds  was  cold  beneath  his  cold  thin  feet ; 

And,  ample  as  the  largest  winding-sheet, 

A  cloak  of  blue  wrapp'd  up  his  aged  bones, 

O'ervvrought  with  symbols  by  the  deepest  groans 

Of  ambitious  magic :  every  ocean-form 

Was  woven  in  with  black  distinctness :  storm, 

And  calm,  and  whispering,  and  hideous  roar 

Were  emblem'd  in  the  woof;  with  every  shape 

That  skims,  or  dives,  or  sleeps,  'twixt  cape  and  cape, 

The  gulfing  whale  was  like  a  dot  in  the  spell. 

Yet  look  upon  it,  and  'twould  size  and  swell 

To  its  huge  self;  and  the  minutest  fish 

Would  pass  the  very  hardest  gazer's  wish. 

And  show  his  little  eye's  anatomy. 

Then  there  was  pictured  the  regality 

Of  Neptune  ;  and  the  sea-nymphs  round  his  state, 

In  beauteous  vassalage,  look  up  and  wait. 

Beside  this  old  man  lay  a  pearly  wand. 

And  in  his  lap  a  book,  the  which  he  conn'd 

So  stedfastly,  that  the  new  denizen 

Had  time  to  keep  him  in  amazed  ken. 

To  mark  these  shadowings,  and  stand  in  awe. 

The  old  man  raised  his  hoary  head  and  saw 
The  wilder'd  stranger — seeming  not  to  see, 
His  features  were  so  lifeless.     Suddenly 
He  woke  as  from  a  trance  ;  his  snow-white  brows 
Went  arching  up,  and  like  two  magic  plows 
Furrow'd  deep  wrinkles  in  his  forehead  large. 
Which  kept  as  fixedly  as  rocky  marge, 
Till  round  his  wither'd  lips  had  gone  a  smile. 
Then  up  he  rose,  like  one  whose  tedious  toil 
Had  watch'd  for  years  in  forlorn  hermitage, 
Who  had  not  from  mid-life  to  utmost  age 
Eased  in  one  accent  his  o'er-burden'd  soul. 
Even  to  the  trees.     He  rose  :  he  grasp'd  his  stole. 
With  convulsed  clenches  waving  it  abroad. 
And  in  a  voice  of  solemn  joy,  that  awed 
Echo  into  oblivion,  he  said  : — 

"  Thou  art  the  man !  Now  shall  I  lay  my  head 
In  peace  upon  my  watery  pillow :  now 
Sleep  will  come  smoothly  to  my  weary  brow. 
O  Jove !  I  shall  be  young  again,  be  young ! 

0  shell-born  Neptune,  I  am  pierced  and  stung 
With  new-born  life  !  What  shall  I  do  ?  Where  go, 
AV'hen  I  have  cast  this  serpent-skin  of  woe  ? — 

1  '11  swim  to  the  syrens,  and  one  moment  listen 
Their  melodies,  and  see  their  long  hair  glisten ; 
Anon  upon  that  giant's  arm  I  '11  be. 

That  writhes  about  the  roots  of  Sicily : 
40*  3K 


To  northern  seas  I  '11  in  a  twinkling  sail. 

And  mount  upon  the  snortings  of  a  wliale 

To  some  black  cloud  ;  thence  down  I  '11  madly  sweep 

On  forked  lightning,  to  the  deepest  deep. 

Where  through  some  sucking  pool  I  will  be  hurl'd 

With  rapture  to  tlie  other  side  of  the  world ! 

O,  I  am  full  of  gladness !    Sisters  three, 

1  bow  full-hearted  to  your  old  decree ! 

Yes,  every  God  be  thank'd,  and  power  benign, 

For  I  no  more  shall  wither,  droop,  and  pine. 

Thou  art  the  man!"  Endymion  started  back 

Dismay'd ;  and,  like  a  wretch  from  whom  the  rack 

Tortures  hot  breath,  and  speech  of  agony, 

Mutter'd :  "  What  lonely  death  am  I  to  die 

In  this  cold  region  ?    Will  he  let  me  freeze, 

And  float  my  brittle  limbs  o'er  polar  seas  ? 

Or  will  he  touch  me  with  his  searing  hand, 

And  leave  a  black  memorial  on  the  sand  ? 

Or  tear  me  piecemeal  with  a  bony  saw. 

And  keep  me  as  a  chosen  food  to  draw 

His  magian  fish  through  hated  fire  and  flame  ? 

O  misery  of  hell !  resistless,  tame. 

Am  I  to  be  burnt  up  ?  No,  I  will  shout, 

Until  the  Gods  through  heaven's  blue  look  out  l-~ 

0  Tartarus !  but  some  few  days  agone 
Her  soft  arms  were  entwining  me,  and  on 

Her  voice  I  hung  like  fruit  among  green  leaves : 
Her  lips  were  all  my  own,  and — ah,  ripe  sheaves 
Of  happiness !  ye  on  the  stubble  droop. 
But  never  may  be  garner'd.     I  must  stoop 
My  head,  and  kiss  death's  foot.  Love  !  love,  farewell  I 
Is  there  no  hope  from  thee  ?   This  horrid  spell 
Would  melt  at  thy  sweet  breath. — By  Dian's  hind 
Feeding  from  her  white  fingers,  on  the  wind 

1  see  thy  streaming  hair !  and  now,  by  Pan, 
I  care  not  for  this  old  mysterious  man ! " 

He  spake,  and  walking  to  that  aged  form, 
Look'd  high  defiance.     Lo!  his  heart  'gan  warm 
With  pity,  for  the  gray-hair'd  creature  wept. 
Had  he  then  wrong'd  a  heart  where  sorrow  kept? 
Had  he,  though  blindly  contumelious,  brought. 
Rheum  to  kind  eyes,  a  sting  to  human  thought. 
Convulsion  to  a  mouth  of  many  years  ? 
He  had  in  truth ;  and  he  was  ripe  for  tears. 
The  penitent  shower  fell,  as  down  he  knelt 
Before  that  care-worn  sage,  who  trembling  felt 
About  his  large  dark  locks,  and  faltering  spake . 

"  Arise,  good  youth,  for  sacred  Phccbus'  sake  ! 
I  know  thine  inmost  bosom,  and  I  feel 
A  very  brother's  yearning  for  thee  steal 
Into  mine  own :  for  why  ?  thou  openest 
The  prison-gates  that  have  so  long  opprcst 
My  weary  watching.    Though  thou  know'st  it  r  Jl, 
Thou  art  commission'd  to  this  fated  spot 
For  great  enfranchisement.     O  weep  no  more  ; 
I  am  a  friend  to  love,  to  loves  of  yore : 
Ay,  hadst  thou  never  loved  an  unknown  power, 
I  had  been  grieving  at  this  joyous  hour. 
But  even  now  most  miserable  old, 
I  saw  thee,  and  my  blood  no  longer  cold 
Gave  mighty  pulses :  in  this  tottering  case 
Grew  a  new  heart,  which  at  this  moment  plays 
As  dancingly  as  thine.     Be  not  afraid, 
For  thou  shalt  hear  this  secret  all  display'd, 
551 


20 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Now  as  we  speed  towards  our  joyous  task." 

So  saying,  this  young  soul  in  age's  mask 
Went  forward  with  the  Carian  side  by  side : 
Resuming  quickly  thus  ;  while  ocean's  tide 
Hung  swollen  at  their  backs,  and  jewell'd  sands 
Took  silently  their  foot-prints. 

"  My  soul  stands 
Now  past  the  midway  from  mortality, 
And  so  I  can  prepare  without  a  sigh 
To  tell  thee  briefly  all  my  joy  and  pain. 
I  was  a  fisher  once,  upon  this  main, 
And  my  boat  danced  in  every  creek  and  bay  ; 
Rough  billows  were  my  home  by  night  and  day, — 
The  sea-gulls  not  more  constant ;  for  I  had 
No  housing  from  the  storm  and  tempests  mad, 
But  hollow  rocks, — and  they  were  palaces 
Of  silent  happiness,  of  slumberous  ease : 
Long  years  of  misery  have  told  me  so. 
Ay,  thus  it  was  one  thousand  years  ago. 
One  thousand  years ! — Is  it  then  possible 
To  look  so  plainly  through  them  ?  to  dispel 
A  thousand  years  with  backward  glance  sublime  ? 
To  breathe  away  as  'twere  all  scummy  slime 
From  off  a  crystal  pool,  to  see  its  deep, 
And  one's  own  image  from  the  bottom  peep? 
Yes :  now  I  am  no  longer  wretched  thrall. 
My  long  captivity  and  moanings  all 
Are  but  a  slime,  a  thin-pervading  scum. 
The  which  I  breathe  away,  and  thronging  come 
Like  things  of  yesterday  my  youthful  pleasures. 

"  I  touch 'd  no  lute,  I  sang  not,  trod  no  measures : 
I  was  a  lonely  youth  on  desert  shores. 
My  sports  were  lonely,  'mid  continuous  roars, 
And  craggy  isles,  and  sea-mews'  plaintive  cry 
Plaining  discrepant  between  sea  and  sky. 
Dolphins  were  still  my  playmates ;  shapes  unseen 
Would  let  me  feel  their  scales  of  gold  and  green, 
Nor  be  my  desolation  ;  and,  full  oft. 
When  a  dread  water-spout  had  rear'd  aloft 
Its  hungry  hugeness,  seeming  ready  ripe 
To  burst  with  hoarsest  thunderings,  and  wipe 
My  life  away  like  a  vast  sponge  of  fate, 
Some  friendly  monster,  pitying  my  sad  state, 
Has  dived  to  its  foundations,  gulf'd  it  down. 
And  left  me  tossing  safely.     But  the  crown 
Of  all  my  life  was  utmost  quietude : 
More  did  I  love  to  lie  in  cavern  rude, 
Keeping  in  wait  whole  days  for  Neptune's  voice, 
And  if  it  came  at  last,  hark,  and  rejoice ! 
There  blush'd  no  summer  eve  but  I  would  steer 
My  skiff  along  green  shelving  coasts,  to  hear 
The  shepherd's  pipe  come  clear  from  aery  steep, 
Mingled  with  ceaseless  bleatings  of  his  sheep : 
And  never  was  a  day  of  summer  shine. 
But  I  beheld  its  birlh  upon  the  brine  ; 
For  I  would  watch  all  night  to  see  unfold 
Heaven's  gates,  and  ^thon  snort  his  morning  gold 
Wide  o'er  the  swelling  streams :  and  constantly 
At  brim  of  day-tide,  on  some  grassy  lea. 
My  nets  would  be  spread  out,  and  I  at  rest. 
The  poor  folk  of  the  sea-country  I  blest 
With  daily  boon  of  fish  most  delicate : 
They  knew  not  whence  this  bounty,  and  elate 


Would  strew  sweet  flowers  on  a  sterile  beach. 

"  Why  was  I  not  contented  ?    Wherefore  reach 
At  things  which,  but  for  thee,  O  Latmian ! 
Had  been  my  dreary  death !  Fool !  I  began 
To  feel  distemper'd  longings  :  to  desire 
The  utmost  privilege  that  ocean's  sire 
Could  grant  in  benediction :  to  be  free 
Of  all  his  kingdom.     Long  in  misery 
I  wasted,  ere  in  one  extremest  fit 
I  plunged  for  life  or  death.     To  interknit 
One's  senses  with  so  dense  a  breathing  stuff 
Might  seem  a  work  of  pain ;  so  not  enough 
Can  I  admire  how  crystal-smooth  it  felt, 
And  buoyant  round  my  limbs.     At  first  I  dwelt 
Whole  days  and  days  in  sheer  astonishment ; 
Forgetful  utterly  of  self-intent ; 
Moving  but  with  the  mighty  ebb  and  flow. 
Then,  like  a  new-fledged  bird  that  first  doth  show 
His  spreaded  feathers  to  the  morrow  chill, 
I  tried  in  fear  the  pinions  of  my  will. 
'T  was  freedom  !  and  at  once  I  visited 
The  ceaseless  wonders  of  this  ocean-bed. 
No  need  to  tell  thee  of  them,  for  I  see 
That  thou  hast  been  a  witness — it  must  be 
For  these  I  know  thou  canst  not  feel  a  drouth, 
By  the  melancholy  corners  of  that  mouth. 
So  I  will  in  my  story  straightway  pa.ss 
To  more  immediate  matter.     Woe,  alas ! 
That  love  should  be  my  bane  !  Ah,  Scylla  fair ! 
Why  did  poor  Glaucus  ever — ever  dare 
To  sue  thee  to  his  heart  ?    Kind  stranger-youth  ! 
I  loved  her  to  the  very  white  of  truth, 
And  she  would  not  conceive  it.     Timid  thing ! 
She  fled  me  swift  as  sea-bird  on  the  wing, 
Round  every  isle,  and  point,  and  promontory. 
From  where  large  Hercules  wound  up  his  story 
Far  as  Egyptian  Nile.     My  passion  grew 
The  more,  the  more  I  saw  her  dainty  hue 
Gleam  delicately  through  the  azure  clear ; 
Until  't  was  too  fierce  agony  to  bear ; 
And  in  that  agony,  across  my  grief 
It  flash 'd,  that  Circe  might  find  some  relief — 
Cruel  enchantress !    So  above  the  water 
I  rear'd  my  head,  and  look'd  for  Phcebus'  daughter. 
.(Esea's  i.sle  was  wondering  at  the  moon : — 
It  seem'd  to  whirl  around  me,  and  a  swoon 
Left  me  dead-drifting  to  that  fatal  power. 

"  When  I  awoke,  't  was  in  a  twilight  bower ; 
Just  when  the  light  of  morn,  with  hum  of  bees. 
Stole  through  its  verdurous  matting  of  fresh  trees. 
How  sweet,  and  sweeter !  for  I  heard  a  lyre. 
And  over  it  a  sighing  voice  expire. 
It  ceased — I  caught  light  footsteps ;  and  anon 
The  fairest  face  that  morn  e'er  look'd  upon 
Push'd  through  a  screen  of  roses.     Starry  Jove  .' 
With  tears,  and  smiles,  and  honey-words  she  wov* 
A  net  whose  thraldom  was  more  bliss  than  all 
The  range  of  flower'd  Elysium.     Thus  did  fall 
The  dew  of  her  rich  speech  :  "  Ah  !  art  awake  ? 

0  let  me  hear  thee  speak,  for  Cupid's  sake ! 

1  am  so  oppress'd  with  joy !    Why,  I  have  shed 
An  urn  of  tears,  as  though  thou  wert  cold  dead ; 
And  now  I  find  thee  living,  I  will  pour 

From  these  devoted  eyes  their  silver  store, 
552 


ENDYMION. 


21 


L'ntil  exhausted  of  the  latest  drop, 
So  it  will  pleasure  thee,  and  force  thee  stop 
Here,  that  I  too  may  live :  but  if  beyond 
Sucli  cool  and  sorrowful  offerings,  thou  art  fond 
Of  soothing  warmth,  of  dalliance  supreme  ; 
If  thou  art  ripe  to  taste  a  long  love-dream  ; 
If  smiles,  if  dimples,  tongues  for  ai"dor  mute, 
Hang  in  thy  vision  like  a  tempting  fruit, 

0  let  me  pluck  it  for  thee."     Thus  she  link'd 
Her  channing  syllables,  till  indistinct 
Their  music  came  to  my  o'er-sweeten'd  soul ; 
And  then  she  hover'd  over  me,  and  stole 

So  near,  that  if  no  nearer  it  had  been 
This  furrow'd  visage  thou  hadst  never  seen. 

"  Young  man  of  Latmos !  thus  particular 
Am  I,  that  thou  mayst  plainly  see  how  far 
This  fierce  temptation  went :  and  thou  mayst  not 
Exclaim,  How  then,  was  Scylla  quite  forgot  ? 

"  Who  could  resist  ?  Who  in  this  universe  ? 
She  did  so  breathe  ambrosia ;  so  immerse 
My  fine  existence  in  a  golden  clime. 
She  took  me  like  a  child  of  suckling  time, 
And  cradled  me  in  roses.     Thus  condemn'd. 
The  current  of  my  former  life  was  stemra'd, 
And  to  this  arbitrary  queen  of  sense 

1  bovv'd  a  tranced  vassal  :  nor  would  thence 

Have  moved,  even  though  Amphion's  heart  had  woo'd 

Me  back  to  Scylla  o'er  the  billows  rude. 

For  as  Apollo  each  eve  doth  devise 

A  new  apparelling  for  western  skies  ; 

So  every  eve,  nay,  every  spendthrift  hour 

Shed  balmy  consciousness  within  that  bower. 

And  I  was  free  of  haunts  umbrageous  ; 

Could  wander  in  the  mazy  forest-house 

Of  squirrels,  foxes  sly,  and  antler'd  deer. 

And  birds  from  coverts  innermost  and  drear 

Warbling  for  very  joy  mellifluous  sorrow — 

To  me  new-bom  delights  I 

"  Now  let  me  borrow, 
For  moments  few,  a  temperament  as  stem 
As  Pluto's  sceptre,  that  my  words  not  bum 
These  uttering  lips,  while  I  in  calm  speech  tell 
How  specious  heaven  was  changed  to  real  hell. 

"  One  morn  she  left  me  sleeping :  half  awake 
I  sought  for  her  smooth  arms  and  hps,  to  slake 
My  greedy  thirst  with  nectarous  camel-draughts ; 
But  she  was  gone.     Whereat  the  barbed  shafts 
Of  disappointment  stuck  in  me  so  sore, 
That  out  I  ran  and  search'd  the  forest  o'er. 
Wandering  about  in  pine  and  cedar  gloom. 
Damp  awe  assail'd  me ;  for  there  'gan  to  boom 
A  sound  of  moan,  an  agony  of  sound, 
Sepulchral  from  the  distance  all  around. 
Then  came  a  conquering  earth-thunder,  and  rumbled 
That  fierce  complain  to  silence :  while  I  stumbled 
Down  a  precipitous  path,  as  if  impyell'd, 
I  came  to  a  dark  valley. — Groanings  swell'd 
Poisonous  about  my  ears,  and  louder  grew. 
The  nearer  I  approach'd  a  flame's  gaunt  blue, 
That  glared  before  me  through  a  thorny  brake. 
This  fire,  like  the  eye  of  gordian  snake, 


Bewitch'd  me  towards ;  and  I  soon  was  near 

A  sight  too  fearful  for  the  feel  of  fear ; 

In  thicket  hid  I  cursed  the  haggard  scene — 

The  banquet  of  my  arms,  my  arbor  queen, 

Seated  upon  an  uptorn  forest  root ; 

And  all  around  her  shapes,  wizard  and  brute. 

Laughing,  and  wailing,  grovelhng,  serpenting. 

Showing  tooth,  tusk,  and  venom-bag,  and  sting ! 

0  such  deformities !  Old  Charon's  self. 
Should  he  give  up  awhile  his  penny  pelf, 
And  take  a  dream  'mong  rushes  Stygian, 
It  could  not  be  so  fantasied.     Fierce,  wan, 
And  tyrannizing  was  the  lady's  look, 

As  over  them  a  gnarled  staff  she  shook. 

Oft-times  upon  the  sudden  she  laugh'd  out. 

And  from  a  basket  emptied  to  the  rout 

Clusters  of  grapes,  the  wliich  they  raven'd  quick 

And  roar'd  for  more ;  with  many  a  hungry  lick 

About  their  shaggy  jaws.     Avenging,  slow, 

Anon  she  took  a  branch  of  mistletoe. 

And  emptied  on't  a  black  dull-gurgling  phial  t 

Groan'd  one  and  all,  as  if  some  piercing  trial 

Was  sharpening  for  their  pitiable  bones. 

She  lifted  up  the  charm :  appealing  groans 

From  their  poor  breasts  went  suing  to  her  ear 

In  vain ;  remorseless  as  an  infant's  bier. 

She  whisk'd  against  their  eyes  the  sooty  oil. 

Whereat  was  heard  a  noise  of  painful  toil. 

Increasing  gradual  to  a  tempest  rage. 

Shrieks,  yells,  and  groans  of  torture-pilgrimago, 

Until  their  grieved  bodies  'gan  to  bloat 

And  puff  from  the  tail's  end  to  stifled  throat . 

Then  was  appalling  silence  :  then  a  sight 

More  wildering  than  all  that  hoarse  affright , 

For  the  whole  herd,  as  by  a  whirlwind  writhen 

Went  through  the  dismal  air  like  one  huge  Python 

Antagonizing  Boreas, — and  so  vanish'd. 

Yet  there  was  not  a  breatli  of  wind  :  she  banish'J 

These  phantoms  with  a  nod.     Lo !  from  the  dark 

Came  waggish  fauns,  and  nymphs,  and  satyrs  stark, 

With  dancing  and  loud  revelry,  and  went 

Swifter  than  centaurs  after  rapine  bent. — 

Sighing  an  elephant  appear'd  and  bow'd 

Before  the  fierce  witch,  speaking  thus  aloud 

In  human  accent :  '  Potent  goddess !  chief 

Of  pains  resistless !  make  my  being  brief, 

Or  let  me  from  this  heavy  prison  fly  : 

Or  give  me  to  the  air,  or  let  me  die ! 

1  sue  not  for  my  happy  crown  again ; 

I  sue  not  for  my  phalanx  on  the  plain ; 

I  sue  not  for  my  lone,  my  widow'd  wife : 

I  sue  not  for  my  ruddy  drops  of  life, 

My  children  fair,  my  lovely  girls  and  boys ! 

I  will  forget  them  ;  I  will  pass  these  joys ; 

Ask  naught  so  heavenward,  so  too — too  highr 

Only  I  pray,  as  fairest  boon,  to  die, 

Or  be  deliver'd  from  this  cumbrous  flesh, 

From  this  gross,  detestable,  filthy  mesh. 

And  merely  given  to  the  cold  bleak  air. 

Have  mercy.  Goddess!  Circe,  feel  my  prayer!' 

"  That  curst  magician's  name  fell  icy  numb 
Upon  my  wild  conjecturing :  truth  had  come 
Naked  and  sabre-liko  against  my  heart 
I  saw  a  fury  whetting  a  death-dart ; 

553 


22 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  my  slain  spirit,  overwrought  with  fright, 

Fainted  away  in  that  dark  lair  of  night. 

Think,  my  deliverer,  how  desolate 

My  waking  must  have  been !  disgust,  and  hate. 

And  terrors  manifold  divided  me 

A  spoil  amongst  them.     I  prepared  to  flee 

Into  the  dungeon  core  of  that  wild  wood  : 

I  fled  three  days — when  lo !  before  me  stood 

Glaring  the  angry  witch,  O  Dis,  even  now, 

A  clammy  dew  is  beading  on  my  brow. 

At  mere  remembering  her  pale  laugh,  and  curse. 

'  Ha !  ha !  Sir  Dainty !  there  must  be  a  nurse 

Made  of  rose-leaves  and  thistle-down,  express, 

To  cradle  thee,  my  sweet,  and  lull  thee  :  j^es, 

I  am  too  flinty-hard  for  thy  nice  touch : 

My  tenderesl  squeeze  is  but  a  giant's  clutch. 

So,  fairy-thing,  it  shall  have  lullaliies 

Unheard  of  yet;  and  it  shall  still  its  cries 

Upon  some  breast  more  lily-feminine. 

Oh,  no, — it  shall  not  pine,  and  pine,  and  pine 

More  than  one  pretty,  trifling  thousand  years  ; 

And  then  'twere  pity,  but  fate's  gentle  shears 

Cut  short  its  immortality.     Sea-flirt! 

Young  dove  of  the  waters  !  truly  I  '11  not  hurt 

One  hair  of  thine  :  see  how  I  weep  and  sigh, 

That  our  heart-broken  parting  is  so  nigh. 

And  must  we  part  ?  Ah,  yes,  it  must  be  so. 

Yet  ere  thou  leavest  me  in  utter  woe, 

Let  me  sob  over  thee  my  last  adieus, 

And  speak  a  blessing  :  Mark  me !  Thou  hast  thews 

Immortal,  for  thou  art  of  heavenly  race : 

But  such  a  love  is  mine,  that  here  I  chase 

Eternally  away  from  thee  all  bloom 

Of  youth,  and  destine  thee  towards  a  tomb. 

Hence  shalt  thou  quickly  to  the  watery  vast ; 

And  there,  ere  many  days  be  overpast, 

Disabled  age  shall  seize  thee  ;  and  even  then 

Thou  shalt  not  go  the  way  of  aged  men ; 

But  live  and  wither,  cripple  and  still  breathe 

Ten  hundred  years :  which  gone,  I  then  bequeath 

Thy  fragile  bones  to  tmknown  burial. 

Adieu,  sweet  love,  adieu ! ' — As  shot  stars  fall, 

She  fled  ere  I  could  groan  for  mercy.     Stung 

And  poison'd  was  my  spirit :  despair  sung 

A  war-song  of  defiance  'gainst  all  hell. 

A  hand  was  at  my  shoulder  to  compel 

My  sullen  steps ;  another  'fore  my  eyes 

Moved  on  with  pointed  finger.     In  this  guise 

Enforced,  at  the  last  by  ocean's  foam 

I  found  me ;  by  my  fresh,  my  native  home. 

Its  tempering  coolness,  lo  my  life  aldn, 

Came  salutary  as  I  waded  in  ; 

And,  with  a  blind  voluptuous  rage,  I  gave 

Battle  to  the  swollen  billow-ridge,  and  drave 

Large  froth  before  me,  while  there  yet  remain'd 

Hale  strength,  nor  I'rom  my  bones  all  marrow  drain'd. 


"  Young  lover,  I  must  weep — such  hellish  spite 
With  dry  cheek  who  can  tell  ?  While  thus  my  might 
Proving  upon  this  element,  dismay'd, 
Upon  a  dead  thing's  face  my  hand  I  laid  ; 
I  look'd — 'twas  Scylla  !  Cursed,  cursed  Circe  ! 
O  vulture-witch,  hast  never  heard  of  mercy  ! 
Could  not  thy  harshest  vengeance  be  content. 
But  thou  must  nip  this  tender  innocent 


Because  I  loved  her  ? — Cold,  O  cold  indeed 
Were  her  fair  limbs,  and  like  a  common  weed 
The  sea-swell  took  her  hair.     Dead  as  she  wa& 
I  clung  about  her  waist,  nor  ceased  to  pass 
Fleet  as  an  arrow  through  unfathom'd  brine, 
Until  there  shone  a  fabric  crj'stalline, 
Ribb'd  and  inlaid  with  coral,  pebble,  and  pearl. 
Headlong  I  darted  ;  at  one  eager  swirl 
Gain'd  its  bright  portal,  enter'd,  and  behold .' 
'Twas  vast,  and  desolate,  and  icy-cold  ; 
And  all  around — But  wherefore  this  to  thee 
Who  in  few  minutes  more  thyself  shalt  see  ? — ■ 
I  left  poor  Scylla  in  a  niche  and  fled. 
My  fever'd  parchings  up,  my  scathing  dread 
Met  palsy  half-way  :  soon  these  limbs  became 
Gaunt,  wither'd,  sapless,  feeble,  cramp'd,  and  lame 

Now  let  me  pass  a  -cruel,  cruel  space, 
Without  one  hope,  without  one  faintest  trace 
Of  mitigation,  or  redeeming  bubble 
Of  color'd  fantasy  ;  for  I  fear  'twould  trouble 
Thy  brain  to  loss  of  reason  ;  and  next  tell 
How  a  restoring  chance  came  down  to  quell 
One  half  of  the  witch  in  me. 

"  On  a  day, 
Sitting  upon  a  rock  above  the  spray, 
I  saw  grow  np  from  the  horizon's  brink 
A  gallant  vessel :  soon  she  seem'd  to  sink 
Away  from  me  again,  as  though  her  course 
Had  been  resumed  in  spite  of  hindering  force — 
So  vanish'd  :  and  not  long,  before  arose 
Dark  clouds,  and  muttering  of  winds  morose. 
Old  Eolus  would  stifle  his  mad  spleen, 
But  could  not :  therefore  all  the  billows  green 
Toss'd  up  the  silver  spume  against  the  clouds. 
The  tempest  came:  I  saw  that  vessel's  shrouds 
In  perilous  bustle;  while  upon  the  deck 
Stood  trembling  creatures.     I  beheld  the-  wreck , 
The  final  gulfing ;  the  poor  struggling  souls  : 
I  heard  their  cries  amid  loud  thunder-rolls. 

0  they  had  all  been  saved  but  crazed  eld 
Annull'd  my  vigorous  cravings :  and  thus  quell'd 
And  curb'd,  think  on 't,  O  Latmian !  did  I  sit 
Writhing  with  pity,  and  a  cursing  fit 

Against  that  hell-born  Circe.     The  crew  had  gone, 

By  one  and  one,  to  pale  oblivion ; 

And  1  was  gazing  on  the  surges  prone. 

With  many  a  scalding  tear  and  many  a  groan. 

When  at  my  feet  emerged  an  old  man's  hand. 

Grasping  this  scroll,  and  this  same  slender  wand. 

1  knelt  with  pain — reach'd  out  my  hand — had  grasp'd 
These    treasures — touch'd   the   luiuckles — they  un- 

clasp'd — 
I  caught  a  finger :  but  the  downward  weight 
O'erpower'd  me — it  sank.     Then  'gan  abate 
The  storm,  and  through  chill  anguish,  gloom  outburst 
The  comfortable  sun.     I  was  athirst 
To  search  the  book,  and  in  the  warming  air 
Parted  its  dripping  leaves  with  eager  care. 
Strange  matters  did  it  treat  of,  and  drew  on 
My  soul  page  after  page,  till  well-nigh  won 
Into  forgetfulness  ;  when,  stupefied, 
I  read  these  words,  and  read  again,  and  tried 
My  eyes  against  the  heavens,  and  read  again 
0  what  a  load  of  misery  and  pain 

554 


ENDYMIOIS 


23 


Each  Alias-line  bore  offl — a  shine  of  hope 
Came  gold  around  me,  cheering  me  to  cope 
Strenuous  vvilh  hellish  tj-ranny.     Attend! 
For  th(^u  hast  brought  their  promise  to  an  end. 

" '  In  the  wide  sea  there  lives  a  forlorn  wretch, 
Doom'd  vvilh  cnleebled  carcass  to  outstretch 
His  lothed  existence  through  ten  centuries, 
And  then  to  die  alone,     who  can  devise 
A  total  opposition  ?   No  one.    So 
One  million  times  ocean  must  ebb  and  flow, 
And  he  oppress'd.     Yet  he  shall  not  die, 
These  things  accomplish'd  : — If  he  utterly 
Scans  all  the  depths  of  magic,  and  expounds 
The  meanings  of  all  motions,  shapes,  and  sounds; 
If  he  explores  all  forms  and  substances 
Straight  homeward  to  their  symbol-essences ; 
He  shall  not  die.     Moreover,  and  in  chief. 
He  must  pursue  this  task  of  joy  and  grief. 
Most  piously  ; — all  lovers  tempest-tost. 
And  in  the  savage  overwhelming  lost, 
He  shall  deposit  side  by  side,  until 
Time's  creeping  shall  the  dreary  space  fulfil : 
Wliich  done,  and  all  these  labors  ripened, 
A  youth,  by  heavenly  power  beloved  and  led, 
Shall  stand  before  him  ;  whom  he  shall  direct 
How  to  consummate  all.     The  youth  elect 
Must  do  the  thing,  or  both  will  be  destroy'd.' " — 


"  Then,"  cried  the  young  Endj'mion,  overjoy 'd, 
"  We  are  twin  brothers  in  this  destiny  ! 
Say,  I  entreat  thee,  what  achievement  high 
Is,  in  this  restless  world,  for  me  reserved. 
What !  if  from  thee  my  wandering  feet  had  swerved, 
Had  we  both  perish'd  !" — "  Look  !"  the  sage  replied, 
"  Dost  thou  not  mark  a  gleaming  through  the  tide, 
Of  divers  brilliances?  'tis  the  edifice 
I  told  thee  of,  where  lovely  Scylla  lies  ; 
And  where  I  have  enshrined  piously 
All  lovers,  whom  fell  storms  have'Moom'd  to  die 
Throughout  my  bondage."    Thus  discoursing,  on 
They  went  till  unobscured  tlie  jKDrches  shone; 
Which  hurryingly  they  gain'd,  and  enter'd  straight. 
Sure  never  since  king  Neptune  held  his  state 
Was  seen  such  wonder  underneath  the  stars. 
Turn  to  some  level  plain  where  haughty  Mars 
Has  legion'd  all  his  battle  ;  and  behold 
How  every  soldier,  with  firm  foot,  doth  hold 
His  even  breast :  see,  many  steeled  squares. 
And  rigid  ranks  of  iron — whence  who  dares 
One  step  ?  Imagine  further,  line  by  line, 
These  warrior  thousands  on  the  field  supine : — 
So  in  that  crj'stal  place,  in  silent  rows. 
Poor  lovers  lay  at  rest  from  joys  and  woes. — 
The  stranger  from  the  mountains,  breathless,  traced 
Such  thousands  of  shut  eyes  in  order  placed ; 
Such  ranges  of  white  feet,  and  patient  lips 
All  ruddy, — for  here  death  no  blossom  nips. 
He  mark'd  their  brows  and  foreheads  ;  saw  their  hair 
Put  sleekly  on  one  side  with  nicest  care  ; 
And  each  one's  gentle  wrists,  with  reverence, 
Put  crosswise  to  its  heart. 


"  Let  us  commence 
fAVhisper'd  the  guide,  stuttering  with  joy)  even  now." 
He  spake,  and,  trembling  like  an  aspen-bough, 


Began  to  tear  his  scroll  ui  pieces  small, 
Uttering  the  while  some  mumblings  funeral. 
He  tore  it  into  pieces  small  as  snow- 
That  drifts  unfeaiher'd  when  bleak  northerns  blow; 
And  having  done  it,  took  his  dark-blue  cloak 
And  bound  it  round  Endyniioii :  then  struck 
His  wand  against  the  empty  air  tiui6s  nine. — 
"  What  more  there  is  to  do,  young  man,  is  thine : 
But  first  a  little  patience  ;  lirst  undo 
This  tangled  thread,  and  wind  it  to  a  clue. 
Ah,  gentle !  'tis  as  weak  as  spider's  skein  ; 
And  shouldst  thou  break  it — What,  is  it  done  so  clean  ? 
A  power  oversliadows  thee  !  Oh,  brave  I 
The  spite  of  hell  is  tumbling  to  its  grave. 
Here  is  a  shell ;  't  is  pearly  blank  to  me. 
Nor  mark'd  with  any  sign  or  charactery — 
Canst  thou  read  aught  ?  O  read  for  pity's  sake ! 
Olympus  !  we  are  safe  I  Now,  Carian,  break 
This  wand  against  yon  lyre  on  the  pedestal." 

'T  was  done :  and  straight  with  sudden  swell  and 
fall 
Sweet  music  breathed  her  soul  away,  and  sigh'd 
A  lullaby  to  silence. — "  Youth  !  now  strew 
These  minced  leaves  on  me,  and  passing  through 
Those  files  of  dead,  scatter  the  same  around, 
And  thou  wilt  see  the  issue."— 'Mid  the  sound. 
Of  flutes  and  viols,  ravishing  his  heart, 
Endymion  from  Glaucus  stood  apart. 
And  scatter'd  in  his  face  some  fragments  light. 
How  lightning-swift  the  change  I  a  youthful  wight 
Smiling  beneath  a  coral  diadem. 
Out-sparkling  sudden  like  an  upturn'd  gem, 
Appear'd,  and,  stepping  to  a  beauteous  corse, 
Kneel'd  down  beside  it,  and  with  tenderest  force 
Press'd  its  cold  hand,  and  wept, — and  Scylla  sigh'd ' 
Endymion,  with  quick  hand,  the  charm  applied — 
The  nymph  arose  :  he  left  them  to  their  joy, 
.\nd  onward  went  upon  his  high  employ, 
Showering  those  powerful  fragments  on  the  dead 
And,  as  he  pass'd,  each  lifted  up  its  head. 
As  doth  a  flower  at  Apollo's  touch. 
Death  felt  it  to  his  inwards  ;  'twas  loo  nu.ch  : 
Death  fell  a-weeping  in  his  charnel-house. 
The  Latmian  persevered  along,  and  thus 
All  were  reanimated.     There  arose 
A  noise  of  harmony,  pulses  and  throes 
Of  gladness  in  the  air — while  many,  who 
Had  died  in  mutual  arms  devout  and  true 
Sprang  to  each  other  madly ;  and  the  rest 
Felt  a  high  certainty  of  being  blest. 
They  gazed  upon  Endymion.     Enchantment 
Grew  drunken,  and  would  have  its  head  and  benu 
Delicious  symphonies,  like  airy  flowers. 
Budded,  and  swell'd,  and,  full-blown,  shed  full  show- 
ers 
Of  light,  soft,  unseen  leaves  of  sounds  divine 
The  two  deliverers  lasted  a  pure  wine 
Of  happiness,  from  fairy-press  oozed  out. 
Speechless  they  eyed  each  other,  and  aliout 
The  fair  assembly  wander'd  to  and  fro. 
Distracted  with  the  richest  overflow 
Of  joy  that  ever  pour'd  from  heaA^en. 

"  Awav ' 

Shouted  the  new-bom  god  ;  "  Follow,  and  pay 
Our  piety  to  Neptunus  supreme!" — 
Then  Scylla,  blushing  sweetly  from  her  dream, 
555 


24 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


They  led  on  first,  bent  to  her  meek  surprise, 
Through  portal  columns  of  a  giant  size 
Into  the  vaulted,  boundless  emerald. 
Joyous  all  ibllow'd,  as  the  leader  call'd, 
Down  marble  steps ;  pouring  as  easily 
As  hour-glass  sand, — and  fast,  as  you  might  see 
Swallows  obeying  the  south  summer's  call, 
Or  swans  upon  a  gentle  waterfall. 

Thus  went  that  beautiful  multitude,  not  far. 
Ere  from  among  some  rocks  of  glittering  spar, 
Just  within  ken,  they  saw  descending  thick 
Another  multitude.    Whereat  more  quick 
Moved  either  host.     On  a  wide  sand  they  met. 
And  of  those  numbers  every  eye  was  wet ; 
For  each  their  old  love  found.    A  murmuring  rose. 
Like  what  was  never  heard  in  all  the  throes 
Of  wind  and  waters:  'tis  past  human  wit 
To  tell  ,•  'tis  dizziness  to  think  of  it. 

This  mighty  consummation  made,  the  host 
Moved  on  for  many  a  leagtie  ;  and  gain'd,  and  lost 
Huge  sea-marks ;  vanward  swelling  in  array, 
And  from  the  rear  diminishing  away, — 
Till  a  faint  dawn  surprised  them.     Glaucus  cried, 
"  Behold  !  behold,  the  palace  of  his  pride  ! 
God  Neptune's  palace  ! "  With  noise  increased, 
They  shoukler'd  on  towards  that  brightening  east. 
At  every  onward  step  proud  domes  arose 
In  prospect, — diamond  gleams  and  golden  glows 
Of  amber  'gainst  their  faces  levelling. 
Joyous,  and  many  as  the  leaves  in  spring, 
Still  onward  ;  still  the  splendor  gradual  swell'd. 
Rich  opal  domes  were  seen,  on  high  upheld 
By  jasper  pillars,  letting  through  their  shafts 
A  blush  of  coral.     Copious  wonder-draughts 
Each  gazer  drank ;  and  deeper  drank  more  near  : 
For  what  poor  mortals  fragment  up,  as  mere 
As  marble  was  there  lavish,  to  the  vast 
Of  one  fair  palace,  that  far  far  surpass'd. 
Even  for  common  bulk,  those  olden  three, 
Memphis,  and  Babylon,  and  INineveh. 

As  large,  as  bright,  as  color'd  as  the  bow 
Of  Iris,  when  unfading  it  doth  show 
Beyond  a  silvery  shower,  was  the  arch 
Through  which  this  Paphian  army  took  its  march, 
Into  the  outer  courts  of  Neptune's  state  : 
Whence  could  be  seen,  direct,  a  golden  gate, 
To  which  the  leaders  sped  ;  but  not  half  raught 
Ere  it  burst  open  swift  as  fairy  thought. 
And  made  those  dazzled  thousands  veil  their  eyes 
Like  callow  eagles  at  the  first  sunrise. 
Soon  with  an  eagle  nativeness  their  gaze 
Ripe  from  hue-golden  swoons  took  all  the  blaze, 
And  then,  behold  !  largo  Neptune  on  his  throne 
Of  emerald  deep:  yet  not  exalt  alone; 
At  his  right  hand  stood  winged  Love,  and  on 
His  left  sat  smihng  Beauty's  paragon. 

Far  as  the  mariner  on  highest  mast 
Can  see  all  roimd  upon  the  calmed  vast, 
So  wide  was  Neptune's  hall ;  and  as  the  blue 
Doth  vault  the  waters,  so  the  waters  drew 
Their  doming  curtains,  high,  magnificent, 
.Awed  from  the  throne  aloof; — and  when  storm-rent 


Disclosed  the  thunder-gloomings  in  Jove's  air , 
But  soothed  as  now,  flash'd  sudden  everywhere 
Noiseless,  submarine  cloudlets,  glittering 
Death  to  a  human  eye :  for  there  did  spring 
From  natural  west,  and  east,  and  south,  and  north, 
A  light  as  of  four  sunsets,  blazing  forlh 
A  gold-green  zenith  'bove  the  Sea-God's  head. 
Of  lucid  depth  the  floor,  and  far  outspread 
As  breezeless  lake,  on  which  the  slim  canoe 
Of  feather'd  Indian  darts  about,  as  through 
The  delicatest  air :  air  verily. 
But  for  the  portraiture  of  clouds  and  sky : 
This  palace  floor  breath-air, — but  for  the  amaze 
Of  deep-seen  wonders  motionless, — and  blaze 
Of  the  dome  pomp,  reflected  in  extremes. 
Globing  a  golden  sphere. 

They  stood  in  dreams 
Till  Triton  blew  his  horn.     The  palace  rang ; 
The  Nereids  danced  ;  the  Syrens  faintly  sang ; 
And  the  great  Sea-King  bovv'd  his  dripping  head. 
Then  Love  took  wing,  and  from  his  pinions  shed 
On  all  the  multitude  a  nectarous  dew. 
The  ooze-born  Goddess  beckoned  and  drew 
Fair  Scylla  and  her  guides  to  conference ; 
And  when  they  reach'd  the  throned  eminence 
She  kist  the  sea-nymph's  cheek, — who  sat  her  down 
A  toying  with  the  doves.     Then, — "Mighty  crown 
And  sceptre  of  this  kingdom  ! "   Venus  said, 
"  Thy  vows  were  on  a  time  to  Nais  paid  : 
Behold!" — Two  copious  tear-drops  instant  fell 
From  the  God's  large  eyes ;  he  smiled  delectable, 
And  over  Glaucus  held  his  blessing  hands. — 
"  Endymion!  Ah!  still  wandering  in  the  bands 
Of  love  ?   Now  this  is  cruel.     Since  the  hour 
I  met  thee  in  earth's  bosom,  all  my  power 
Have  I  put  forlh  to  serve  thee.     What,  not  yet 
Escaped  from  dull  mortality's  harsh  net? 
A  little  patience,  youth!  'twill  not  be  long, 
Or  I  am  skilless  quite  :  an  idle  tongue, 
A  humid  eye,  an<f  steps  luxurious, 
Where  these  are  new  and  strange,  are  ominous. 
Ay,  I  have  seen  these  signs  in  one  of  heaven. 
When  others  were  all  blind ;  and  were  I  given 
To  utter  secrets,  haply  I  might  say 
Some  pleasant  words ;  but  Love  will  have  his  day. 
So  wait  awhile  expectant.    Pr'ythee  soon. 
Even  in  the  passing  of  thine  honey-moon, 
Visit  my  Cytherea  :  thou  wilt  find 
Cupid  well-natured,  my  Adonis  kind  ; 
And  pray  persuade  with  thee — Ah,  I  have  done, 
All  blisses  be  upon  Ihee,  my  sweet  son!" — 
Thus  the  fair  goddess :  while  Endymion 
Knelt  to  receive  those  accents  halcyon. 

Meantime  a  glorious  revelry  began 
Before  the  Water-Monarch.     Nectar  ran 
In  courteous  fountains  lo  all  cups  out-reach'd  , 
And  plunder'd  vines,  teeming  exhauslle.ss,  bleach'd 
New  growth  about  each  shell  and  pendent  lyre; 
The  which,  in  entangling  for  their  fire, 
Pull'd  down  fresh  foliage  and  coverture 
For  dainty  toy.     Cupid,  empire-sure, 
Flutter'd  and  laiigh'd,  and  ofi-Iimes  through  the  throng 
Made  a  delighted  way.     Then  dance,  and  song. 
And  garlanding  grew  wild ;  and  pleasure  reign'd. 
In  harmless  tendril  they  each  other  chain'd, 
556 


ENDYMION. 


25 


And  strove  who  should  be  smother'd  deepest  in 
Fresh  crush  of  leaves. 

O  'tis  a  very  sin 
For  one  so  weak  to  venture  his  poor  verso 
In  such  a  place  as  this.    O  do  not  curse, 
High  Muses  !  let  hira  hurry  to  the  ending. 

All  suddenly  were  silent.    A  soft  blending 
Of  dulcet  instruments  came  charmingly  ; 
And  then  a  hymn. 

"  King  of  the  stormy  sea ! 
Brother  of  Jove,  and  co-inheritor 
Of  elements!  Eternally  before 
Thee  the  waves  awful  bow.    Fast,  stubborn  rock, 
At  thy  fear'd  trident  shrinking,  doth  unlock 
Its  deep  foundations,  hissing  into  foam. 
All  mountain-rivers  lost,  in  the  wide  home 
Of  thy  capacious  bosom  ever  flow. 
Thou  frownest,  and  old  Eolus  thy  foe 
Skulks  to  his  cavern,  'mid  the  gruff  complaint 
Of  all  his  rebel  tempests.    Dark  clouds  faint 
When,  from  thy  diadem,  a  silver  gleam 
Slants  over  blue  dominion.    Thy  bright  team 
Gulfs  in  the  morning  light,  and  scuds  along 
To  bring  thee  nearer  to  that  golden  song 
Apollo  singeth,  while  his  chariot 
Waits  at  the  doors  of  Heaven.    Thou  art  not 
For  scenes  like  this  :  an  empire  stern  hast  thou  ; 
And  it  hath  furrow'd  that  large  front :  yet  now, 
As  newly  come  of  heaven,  dost  thou  sit 
To  blend  and  interknit 
Subdued  majesty  with  this  glad  time. 
O  shell-borne  King  sublime  .' 
We  lay  our  hearts  before  thee  evermore — 
We  sing,  and  we  adore  I 

"  Breathe  softly,  flutes  ; 
Be  tender  of  your  strings,  ye  soothing  lutes  ; 
Nor  be  the  trumpet  heard !  O  vain,  O  vain ! 
Not  flowers  budding  in  an  April  rain. 
Nor  breath  of  sleeping  dove,  nor  river's  flow, — 
No,  nor  thcjEolian  twang  of  Love's  ovm  bow, 
Can  mingle  music  fit  for  the  soft  ear 
Of  goddess  Cytherea ! 

Yet  deign,  white  Queen  of  Beauty,  thy  fair  eyes 
On  our  soul's  sacrifice. 


"  Bright-wing'd  Child ! 
Who  has  another  care  when  thou  hast  smiled  ? 
Unfortunates  on  earth,  we  see  at  last 
All  deatli  shadows,  and  glooms  that  overcast 
Our  spirits,  fann'd  away  by  thy  light  pinions. 
O  sweetest  essence!  sweetest  of  all  minions! 
God  of  warm  pulses,  and  dishevell'd  hair, 
And  panting  bosoms  bare  ! 
Dear  unseen  light  in  darkness !  eclipser 
Of  hght  in  light !  delicious  poisoner ! 
Thy  venom'd  goblet  will  "ve  quaff  until 
We  fdl— we  fill ! 
And  by  thy  Mother's  lips " 

Was  heard  no  more 
For  clamor,  when  the  golden  palace-door 


Open'd  again,  and  from  without,  in  shone 
A  new  magnificence.    On  oozy  throne 
Smooth-moving  came  Oceanus  the  old, 
To  take  a  latest  glimpse  at  his  sheep-fold. 
Before  he  went  into  his  quiet  cave 
To  muse  for  ever — Then  a  lucid  wave, 
Scoop'd  from  its  trembling  sisters  of  mid-sea, 
Afloat,  and  pillowing  up  the  majesty 
Of  Doris,  and  the  Egean  seer,  her  spouse — 
Next,  on  a  dolphin,  clad  in  laurel  boughs, 
Theban  Amphion  leaning  on  his  lute  : 
His  fingers  went  across  it — All  were  mute 
To  gaze  on  Amphritite,  queen  of  pearls, 
And  Thetis  pearly  too. — 

The  palace  whirls 
Around  giddy  Endymion ;  seeing  he 
Was  there  far  strayed  from  mortality. 
He  could  not  bear  it — shut  his  eyes  in  vain ; 
Imagination  gave  a  dizzier  pain. 
"  O  I  shall  die  !  sweet  Venus,  be  my  stay  ! 
Where  is  my  lovely  mistress  ?  Well-away  ! 
I  die — I  hear  her  voice — I  feel  my  wing — " 
At  Neptune's  feet  he  sank.    A  sudden  ring 
Of  Nereids  were  about  him,  in  Idnd  strife 
To  usher  back  his  spirit  into  life : 
But  still  he  slept.    At  last  they  interwove 
Their  cradling  arms,  and  purposed  to  convey 
Towards  a  crystal  bovver  far  away. 

Lo  !  while  slow  carried  through  the  pitying  crowd 
To  his  inward  senses  these  words  spake  aloud ; 
Written  in  starlight  on  the  dark  above : 
"  Dearest  Endymion !  my  entire  love ! 
How  have  I  dwelt  in  fear  of  fate  :  'tis  done — 
Immortal  bliss  for  me  too  hast  thou  won. 
Arise  then!  for  the  hen-dove  shall  not  hatch 
Her  ready  eggs,  before  I  '11  kissing  snatch 
Thee  into  endless  heaven.    Awake!  awake!" 

The  youth  at  once  arose :  a  placid  lake 
Came  quiet  to  his  eyes ;  and  forest  green, 
Cooler  than  all  the  wonder  he  had  seen, 
LuU'd  with  its  simple  song  his  fluttering  breast. 
How  happy  once  again  in  grassy  nest ! 


BOOK  IV. 


Muse  of  my  native  land  !  loftiest  Muse ! 
O  first-born  on  the  mountains !  by  the  hues 
Of  heaven  on  the  spiritual  air  begot : 
Long  didst  thou  sit  alone  in  northern  grot, 
WhUe  yet  our  England  was  a  wolfish  den ; 
Before  our  forests  heard  tlie  talk  of  men ; 
Before  the  first  of  Druids  was  a  child; — 
Long  didst  thou  sit  amid  our  regions  wild, 
Rapt  in  a  deep  prophetic  solitude. 
There  came  an  eastern  voice  of  solemn  mood  : — 
Yet  wast  thou  patient.    Then  .sang  forth  the  Nine, 
Apollo's  garland  : — yet  didst  thou  divine 
Such  home-bred  glory,  that  they  cried  in  vain, 
"  Come  hither.  Sister  of  the  Island ! "  Plain 
Spake  fair  Ausonia  ;  and  once  more  she  spake 
A  higher  summons : — still  didst  thou  betake 
72  557 


26 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Tliee  to  thy  native  hopes.    O  thou  hast  won 

A  full  accomplishment !    The  thing  is  done, 

Which  undone,  these  our  latter  days  had  risen 

On  barren  souls.  Great  Muse,  thou  know'st  what  prison, 

Of  flesh  and  bone,  curbs,  and  confines,  and  frets 

Our  spirit's  wings  :  despondency  besets 

Our  pillows ;  and  the  fresh  to-morrow  morn 

Seems  to  give  forth  its  light  in  very  scorn 

Of  our  dull,  uninspired,  snail-paced  lives. 

Long  have  I  said,  How  happy  he  who  shrives 

To  thee !  But  then  I  thought  on  poets  gone. 

And  could  not  pray : — nor  can  I  now — so  on 

I  move  to  the  end  in  lowliness  of  heart. 

"  Ah,  woe  is  me !  that  I  should  fondly  part 
From  my  dear  native  land !  Ah,  foolish  maid  ! 
Glad  was  the  hour,  when,  with  thee,  myriads  bade 
Adieu  to  Ganges  and  their  pleasant  fields ! 
To  one  so  friendless  the  clear  freshet  yields 
A  bitter  coolness ;  the  ripe  grape  is  sour : 
Yet  I  would  have,  great  gods !  but  one  short  hour 
Of  native  air — let  me  but  die  at  home." 

Endymion  to  heaven's  airy  dome 
Was  offering  up  a  hecatomb  of  vows, 
When  these  words  reach'd  him.  Whereupon  he  bows 
His  head  through  thorny-green  entanglement 
Of  underwood,  and  to  the  sound  is  bent, 
Anxious  as  hind  towards  her  hidden  fawn. 

"  Is  no  one  near  to  help  me  ?  No  fair  dawn 
Of  life  from  charitable  voice  ?  No  sweet  saying 
To  set  my  dull  and  sadden'd  spirit  playing  ? 
No  hand  to  toy  with  mine  ?   No  lips  so  sweet 
That  I  may  worship  them  ?  No  eyelids  meet 
To  twinkle  on  my  bosom  ?  No  one  dies 
Before  me,  till  from  these  enslaving  eyes 
Redemption  sparkles ! — I  am  sad  and  lost." 

Thou,  Carian  lord,  hadst  better  have  been  tost 
Into  a  whirlpool.    Vanish  into  air, 
Warm  mountaineer !  for  canst  thou  only  bear 
A  woman's  sigh  alone  and  in  distress  ? 
See  not  her  charms !  Is  PhcDbe  passionless  ? 
Phoebe  is  fairer  far — O  gaze  no  more  : — 
Yet  if  thou  wilt  behold  all  beauty's  store, 
Behold  her  panting  in  the  forest  grass ! 
Do  not  those  curls  of  glossy  jet  surpass 
For  tenderness  the  arms  so  idly  lain 
Amongst  them?  Feelest  not  a  kindred  pain. 
To  see  such  lovely  eyes  in  swimming  search 
After  some  warm  delight,  that  seems  to  perch 
Dove-like  in  the  dim  cell  lying  beyond 
Their  upper  lids  ? — Hist ! 

"  O  for  Hermes'  wand, 
To  touch  this  flov^'er  into  human  shape  I 
That  woodland  Hyacinthus  could  escape 
From  his  green  prison,  and  here  kneeling  down 
Call  me  his  queen,  his  second  life's  fair  crown ! 
Ah  me,  how  I  could  love  ! — My  soul  doth  melt 
For  the  unhappy  youth — Love!  I  have  felt 
So  faint  a  kindness,  such  a  meek  surrender 
To  what  my  own  full  thoughts  had  made  too  tender, 
That  but  for  tears  my  life  had  fled  away  ! — 
Ve  deaf  and  senseless  minutes  of  the  day, 


And  thou,  old  forest,  hold  ye  this  for  true, 
There  is  no  lightning,  no  authentic  dew 
But  in  the  eye  of  love  :  there 's  not  a  sound, 
Melodious  howsoever,  can  confound 
The  heavens  and  earth  in  one  to  such  a  death 
As  doth  the  voice  of  love  :  there  's  not  a  breath 
Will  mingle  kindly  with  the  meadow  air, 
Till  it  has  panted  round,  and  stolen  a  share 
Of  passion  from  the  heart!" — 

Upon  a  bough 
He  leant,  wretched.    He  surely  cannot  now 
Thirst  lor  another  love  :  O  impious. 
That  he  can  even  dream  upon  it  thus  I — 
Thought  he,  "  Why  am  I  not  as  are  the  dead. 
Since  to  a  woe  like  this  I  have  been  led 
Through  the  dark  earth,  and  through  the  wondrous  sea 
Goddess !  I  love  thee  not  the  less :  from  thee 
By  Juno's  smile  I  turn  not — no,  no,  no — 
\Vhile  the  great  waters  are  at  ebb  and  flow. — 
I  have  a  triple  soul !    O  fond  pretence — 
For  both,  for  both  my  love  is  so  immense, 
I  feel  my  heart  is  cut  in  tvs'ain  for  them." 

And  so  he  groan'd,  as  one  by  beauty  slain. 
The  lady's  heart  beat  quick,  and  he  could  see 
Her  gentle  bosom  heave  tumultuously. 
He  sprang  from  his  green  covert :  there  she  lay. 
Sweet  as  a  musk-rose  upon  new-made  hay; 
With  all  her  limbs  on  tremble,  and  her  eyes 
Shut  softly  up  alive.    To  speak  he  tries : 
"  Fair  damsel,  pity  me!  forgive  me  that  I 
Thus  violate  thy  bower's  sanctity ! 

0  pardon  me,  lor  I  am  full  of  grief — 

Grief  born  of  thee,  young  angel !  fairest  thief! 
Who  stolen  hast  away  the  wings  wherewith 

1  was  to  top  the  heavens.    Dear  maid,  sidi 
Thou  art  my  executioner,  and  I  feel 
Loving  and  hatred,  misery  and  weal, 

Will  in  a  few  short  hours  be  nothing  to  me, 
And  all  my  story  that  much  passion  slew  me: 
Do  smile  upon  the  evening  of  my  days  : 
And,  for  my  tortured  brain  begins  to  craze, 
Be  thou  my  nurse;  and  let  me  understand 
How  dying  I  shall  kiss  thy  lily  hand. —  ^ 
Dost  weep  for  me  ?    Then  should  I  be  content. 
Scowl  on,  ye  fates !  until  the  firmament 
Out-blackens  Erebus,  and  the  full-cavern'd  earth 
Crumbles  into  itself    By  the  cloud  girth 
Of  Jove,  those  tears  have  given  me  a  thirst 
To  meet  oblivion." — As  her  heart  would  burst 
The  maiden  sobb'd  awhile,  alid  then  replied : 
"  Why  must  such  desolation  betide 
As  that  thou  speakest  of?  Are  not  these  green  nooks 
Empty  of  all  misfortune  ?  Do  the  brooks 
Utter  a  gorgon  voice  ?  Does  yonder  thrush. 
Schooling  its  half-fledged  little  ones  to  brush 
About  the  dewy  forest,  whisper  tales  ? — 
Speak  not  of  grief,  young  stranger,  or  cold  snails 
Will  slime  the  rose  to-night.    Thougii  if  thou  wilt, 
Methinks  't  would  be  a  guilt — a  very  guilt — 
Not  to  companion  thee,  and  sigh  away 
The  light — the  dusk — the  dark — till  break  of  day.' 
"  Dear  lady,"  said  Endymion,  "  'tis  past 
I  love  thee !  and  my  days  can  never  last. 
That  I  may  pass  in  patience,  still  speak : 
Let  me  have  music  dying,  and  I  seek 
558 


ENDYMION. 


27 


No  more  delight — I  bid  adieu  to  all. 

Didst  thou  not  after  other  climates  call, 

And  murmur  about  Indian  streams?" — Then  she, 

Sitting  beneath  tlie  midmost  forest  tree, 

For  pity  sang  this  roundelay 

"  O  Sorrow ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  natural  hue  of  health  from  vermeil  lips  ? — 

To  give  maiden  bluslies 

To  the  white  rose  bushes  ? 
Or  is  it  thy  dewy  hand  the  daisy  tips  ? 

"  O  Sorrow ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  lustrous  passion  from  a  falcon-eye  ? — 

To  give  the  glow-womi  light  ? 

Or,  on  a  moonless  night. 
To  tinge,  on  syren  shores,  the  salt  sea-spry  ? 

"  O  Sorrow  ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  mellow  ditties  from  a  mourning  tongue  ? — 

To  give  at  evening  pale 

Unto  the  nightingale. 
That  thou  mayst  listen  the  cold  dews  among  ? 

"  O  Sorrow  I 

Why  dost  borrow 
Heart's  liglitness  from  the  merriment  of  May  ? — 

A  lover  would  not  tread 

A  cowslip  on  the  head, 
Though  he  should  dance  from  eve  till  peep  of  day— 

Nor  any  drooping  flower 

Held  sacred  for  thy  bower, 
Wherever  he  may  sport  himself  and  play. 

"  To  Sorrow 

I  bade  good  morrow. 
And  thought  to  leave  her  far  away  behind  ; 

But  cheerly,  cheerly, 

She  loves  me  dearly  ; 
She  is  so  constant  to  me,  and  so  kind  : 

I  would  deceive  her. 

And  so  leave  her. 
But  ah  !  she  is  so  constant  and  so  kind. 


"  Beneath  my  palm-trees,  by  the  river-side, 
i  sat  a-weeping :  in  the  whole  world  wide 
There  was  no  one  to  ask  me  why  I  wept, — 

And  so  I  kept 
Brimming  the  water-lily  cups  with  tears 

Cold  as  my  fears. 

'•  Beneath  my  palm-trees,  by  the  river-side, 
I  sat  a-weeping  :  what  enamor'd  bride. 
Cheated  by  shadowy  wooer  from  the  clouds, 

But  hides  and  shrouds 
Beneath  dark  palm-trees  by  a  river-side  ? 

"  And  as  I  sat,  over  the  light-blue  hills 
There  came  a  noise  of  revellers ;  the  rills 
Into  the  wide  stream  came  of  purple  hue — 

'T  was  Bacchus  and  his  crew  ! 
The  earnest  trumpet  spake,  and  silver  thrilb 
41  3L 


From  kissing  cymbals  made  a  merry  din — 

'T  was  Bacchus  and  his  kin  ! 
Like  to  a  moving  vintage  down  they  came, 
Crown'd  with  green  leaves,  and  faces  all  on  flame ; 
All  madly  dancing  through  the  pleasant  valley, 

To  scare  thee.  Melancholy  ! 
O  then,  O  then,  thou  wast  a  simple  name  I 
And  1  forgot  thee,  as  the  berried  holly 
By  shepherds  is  forgotten,  when  in  June, 
Tall  chestnuts  keep  away  the  sun  and  moon : — 

I  rush'd  into  the  folly ! 

"  Within  his  car,  aloft,  young  Bacchus  stood, 
Trifling  his  ivy-dart,  in  dancing  mood. 

With  sidelong  laughing ; 
And  little  rills  of  crimson  wine  imbrued 
His  plump  white  arms,  and  shoulders,  enough  white 

For  Venus'  pearly  bite  ; 
And  near  him  rode  Silenus  on  his  ass, 
Pelted  with  flowers  as  he  on  did  pass 

Tipsily  quaffing. 

"  Whence  came  ye,  merry  Damsels!  whence  came  ye, 
So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  i 
Why  have  ye  left  your  bowers  desolate. 

Your  lutes,  and  gentler  fate  ? 
'  We  follow  Bacchus !  Bacchus  on  the  wing, 

A  conquering! 
Bacchus,  young  Bacchus !  good  or  ill  betide. 
We  dance  before  him  thorough  kingdoms  wide : — 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 

To  our  wild  minstrelsy  ! ' 

"  Whence  came  ye,  jolly  Satyrs  !  whence  came  ye. 

So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 

Why  have  ye  left  your  forest  haunts,  why  left 

Your  nuts  in  oak-tree  cleft  ? — 
'  For  wine,  for  wine  we  left  our  kernel  tree : 
For  wine  we  left  our  heath,  and  yellow  brooms, 

And  cold  mushrooms ; 
For  wine  we  follow  Bacchus  through  the  earth  ; 
Great  god  of  breathless  cups  and  chirping  mirth ! — 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 
To  our  mad  minstrelsy  ! ' 

"Over  wide  streams  and  mountains  great  wt  went, 
And,  save  when  Bacchus  kept  his  ivy  tent, 
Onward  the  tiger  and  the  leopard  pants. 

With  Asian  elephants : 
Onward  these  myriads — with  song  and  dance. 
With  zebras  striped,  and  sleek  Arabians'  prance, 
Web-footed  alligators,  crocodiles, 
Bearing  upon  their  scaly  backs,  in  fdes. 
Plump  infant  laughters  mimicking  the  coil 
Of  seamen,  and  stout  galley-rowers'  toil : 
With  toying  oars  and  silken  sails  they  glide 

JXor  care  for  wind  and  tide. 

"  Mounted  on  panthers'  furs  and  lions'  manes. 
From  rear  to  van  they  scour  about  the  plains , 
A  three  days'  journey  in  a  moment  done ; 
And  always,  at  the  rising  of  the  sun. 
About  the  wilds  they  hunt  with  spear  and  honi 
On  spleenful  unicorn. 

"  I  saw  Osirian  Egypt  kneel  adown 

Before  the  vine-wreath  crown. 
559 


38 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I  saw  parch'd  Abyssinia  rouse  and  sing 

To  the  silver  cymbals'  ring ! 
I  saw  the  whelming  vintage  hotly  pierce 

Old  Tartary  the  fierce  ! 
The  kings  of  Ind  their  jewel-sceptres  vail, 
And  from  their  treasures  scatter  pearled  hail ; 
Great  Brahma  from  his  mystic  heaven  groans, 

And  all  his  priesthood  moans, 
Before  young  Bacchus'  eye-wink  turning  pale. 
Into  these  regions  came  I,  following  him, 
Sick-hearted,  weary — so  I  took  a  whim 
To  stray  away  into  these  forests  drear. 

Alone,  without  a  peer : 
And  I  have  told  thee  all  thou  mayest  hear. 

"  Young  stranger ! 

I  've  been  a  ranger 
In  search  of  pleasure  throughout  every  clime  ; 

Alas!  'tis  not  for  me  : 

Bewitch'd  I  sure  must  be, 
To  lose  in  grieving  all  my  maiden  prime. 

"  Come  then,  Sorrow, 

Sweetest  Sorrow ! 
Like  an  own  babe  I  nurse  thee  on  my  breast : 

I  thought  to  leave  thee, 

And  deceive  thee. 
But  now  of  all  the  world  I  love  thee  best. 

"  There  is  not  one. 

No,  no,  not  one 
But  thee  to  comfort  a  poor  lonely  maid  ; 

Thou  art  her  mother, 

And  her  brother, 
Her  playmate,  and  her  wooer  in  the  shade." 

O  what  a  sight  she  gave  in  finishing, 
And  look,  quite  dead  to  every  worldly  thing ! 
Endymion  could  not  speak,  but  gazed  on  her : 
And  listen'd  to  the  wind  that  now  did  stir 
About  the  crisped  oaks  full  drearily. 
Yet  with  as  sweet  a  softness  as  might  be 
Rernember'd  from  its  velvet  summer  song. 
At  last  he  said  :  "  Poor  lady,  how  thus  long 
Have  I  been  able  to  endure  that  voice  ? 
Fair  Melody!  kind  Syren!  I've  no  choice; 
I  must  be  thy  sad  servant  evermore  : 
I  cannot  choose  but  kneel  here  and  adore. 
Alas,  I  must  not  think — by  Phoebe,  no ! 
Let  me  not  think,  soft  Angel !  shall  it  be  so  ? 
Say,  beautifullest,  shall  I  never  think  ? 

0  thou  couldst  foster  me  beyond  the  brink 
Of  recollection !  make  my  watchful  care 
Close  up  its  bloodshot  eyes,  nor  see  despair  ! 
Do  gently  murder  half  my  soul,  and  I 
Shall  feel  the  other  half  so  utterly ! — 

1  'm  giddy  at  that  cheek  so  fair  and  smooth ; 
O  let  it  blush  so  ever :  let  it  soothe 

My  madness !  let  it  mantle  rosy-warm 

With  the  tinge  of  love,  panting  in  safe  alarm. 

This  cannot  be  thy  hand,  and  yet  it  is  ; 

And  this  is  sure  thine  other  softling — this 

Thine  own  fair  bosom,  and  I  am  so  near ! 

Wilt  fall  asleep  ?  O  let  me  sip  that  tear ! 

And  whisper  one  sweet  word  that  I  may  know 

This  is  the  world — sweet  dewy  blossom!" — Woe! 


Woe!  woe  to  that  Exdymion!  Where  is  he? 
Even  these  words  went  echoing  dismally 
Through  the  wide  forest — a  most  fearful  tone, 
Like  one  repenting  in  his  latest  moan ; 
And  while  it  died  away  a  shade  pass'd  by. 
As  of  a  thunder-cloud.     When  arrows  fly 
Through  the  thick  branches,  poor  ring-doves  sleek 

forth 
Their  timid  necks  and  tremble ;  so  these  both 
Leant  to  each  other  trembling,  and  sat  so 
Waiting  for  some  destruction — when  lo ! 
Foot-feather'd  Mercury  appear'd  sublime 
Beyond  the  tall  tree-tops ;  and  in  less  time 
Than  shoots  the  slanted  hail-storm,  down  he  dropt 
Towards  the  ground  ;  but  rested  not,  nor  stopt 
One  moment  from  his  home  :  only  the  sward 
He  with  his  wand  light  touch'd,  and  heavenward 
Swifter  than  sight  was  gone — even  before 
The  teeming  earth  a  sudden  witness  bore 
Of  his  swift  magic.     Diving  swans  appear 
Above  the  crystal  circlings  white  and  clear ; 
And  catch  the  cheated  eye  in  wild  surprise, 
How  they  can  dive  in  sight  and  unseen  rise — 
So  from  the  turf  outsprang  two  steeds  jet-black, 
Each  with  large  dark-blue  wings  upon  his  back. 
The  youth  of  Caria  placed  the  lovely  dame 
On  one,  and  felt  himself  in  spleen  to  tame 
The  other's  fierceness.     Through  the  air  they  flew, 
High  as  the  eagles.     Like  two  drops  of  dew 
Exhaled  to  Phoebus'  lips,  away  they  are  gone, 
Far  from  the  earth  away — unseen,  alone, 
Among  cool  clouds  and  winds,  but  that  the  fr<8e, 
The  buoyant  life  of  song  can  floating  be 
Above  their  heads,  and  follow  them  untired. 
Muse  of  my  native  land !  am  I  inspired  ? 
This  is  the  giddy  air,  and  1  must  spread 
Wide  pinions  to  keep  here ;  nor  do  I  dread 
Or  height,  or  depth,  or  width,  or  any  chance 
Precipitous :  I  have  beneath  my  glance 
Those  towering  horses  and  their  mournful  freight. 
Could  I  thus  sail,  and  see,  and  thus  await 
Fearless  for  power  of  thought,  without  thine  aid?^ 
There  is  a  sleepy  dusk,  an  odorous  shade 
From  some  approaching  wonder,  and  behold 
Those  winged  steeds,  with  snorting  nostrils  bold 
Snuff  at  its  faint  extreme,  and  seem  to  tire, 
Dying  to  embers  from  their  native  fire ! 


There  curl'd  a  purple  mist  around  them ;  soon. 
It  seem'd  as  when  around  the  pale  new  moon 
Sad  Zephyr  droops  the  clouds  like  weeping  willow 
'Twas  Sleep  slow  journeying  with  head  on  pillow 
For  the  first  time,  since  he  came  nigh  dead-born 
From  the  old  womb  of  night,  his  cave  forlorn 
Had  he  left  more  forlorn ;  for  the  first  time. 
He  felt  aloof  the  day  and  morning's  prime — 
Because  into  his  depth  Cimmerian 
There  came  a  dream,  showing  how  a  young  man. 
Ere  a  lean  bat  could  plump  its  wintery  skin. 
Would  at  high  Jove's  empyreal  footstool  win 
An  immortality,  and  how  espouse 
Jove's  daughter,  and  be  reckon'd  of  his  house. 
Now  was  he  slumbering  towards  heaven's  gate. 
That  he  might  at  the  threshold  one  hour  wait 
To  hear  the  marriage  melodies,  and  then 
Sink  downward  to  his  dusky  cave  again. 
560 


ENDYMON. 


29 


His  litter  of  smooth  semilucent  mist, 
Diversely  tinged  with  rose  aiid  amethyst, 
Puzzled  those  eves  tliat  for  the  centre  sought ; 
And  scarcely  for  one  moment  could  be  caught 
His  sluggish  form  reposing  motionless. 
Those  two  on  winged  steeds,  with  all  the  stress 
Of  vision  search'd  for  him,  as  one  would  look 
Athwart  the  sallows  of  a  river  nook 
To  catch  a  glance  at  silver-throated  eels, — 
Or  from  old  Skiddaw's  top,  when  fog  conceals 
His  rugged  forehead  in  a  mantle  pale, 
With  an  eye-guess  towards  some  pleasant  vale. 
Descry  a  favorite  hamlet  faint  and  far. 

These  raven  horses,  though  they  foster'd  are 
Of  earth's  splenetic  fire,  dully  drop 
Their  full-vein"d  ears,  nostrils  blood  wide,  and  stop ; 
Upon  the  spiritless  mist  have  they  outspread 
Their  ample  feathers,  are  in  slumber  dead, — 
And  on  those  pinions,  level  in  mid-air, 
Endymion  sleepeth  and  the  lady  fair. 
Slowly  they  sail,  slowly  as  icy  isle 
Upon  a  calm  sea  drifting:  and  meanwhile 
The  mournful  wanderer  dreams.    Behold  !  he  walks 
On  heaven's  pavement ;  brotherly  he  talks 
To  divine  powers :  I'rom  his  hand  full  fain 
Juno's  proud  birds  are  pecking  pearly  grain : 
He  tries  the  nerve  of  Phoebus'  golden  bow. 
And  asketh  where  the  golden  apples  grow : 
Upon  his  arm  he  braces  Pallas'  shield, 
And  strives  in  vain  to  unsettle  and  wield 
A  Jovian  thunderbolt :  arch  Hebe  brings 
A  fuU-brimm'd  goblet,  dances  lightly,  sings 
And  tantalizes  long ;  at  last  he  drinks, 
And  lost  in  pleasure  at  lier  feet  he  sinks. 
Touching  with  dazzled  lips  her  starlight  hand, 
He  blows  a  bugle, — an  ethereal  band 
Are  visible  above  :  the  Seasons  four, — 
Green-kirtled  Spring,  flush  Summer,  golden  store 
In  Autumn's  sickle,  Winter  frosty  hoar. 
Join  dance  with  shadowy  Hours;  while  still  the  blast, 
In  swells  unmitigated,  still  doth  last 
To  sway  their  floating  morris.    "  Whose  is  this  ? 
Whose  bugle  ?"  he  inquires:  they  smile — "0  Dis! 
Why  is  this  mortal  here  ?    Dost  thou  not  know 
Its  mistress'  hps  ?  Not  thou  ? — 'T  is  Dian's  :  lo  ! 
She  rises  crescented ! "  He  looks,  't  is  she. 
His  very  goddess :  good-bye  earth,  and  sea. 
And  air,  and  pains,  and  care,  and  suffering ; 
Good-bye  to  all  but  love  I    Then  doth  he  spring 
Towards  her,  and  awakes — and,  strange,  o'erhead, 
Of  those  same  fragrant  exiialations  bred, 
Beheld  awake  his  very  dream :  the  Gods 
Stood  smiling  ;  merry  Hebe  laughs  and  nods ; 
And  Phcebe  bends  towards  him  crescented. 
O  stale  perplexing !  On  the  pinion  bed. 
Too  well  awake,  he  feels  the  panting  side 
Of  his  delicious  lady.    He  who  died 
For  soaring  too  audacious  in  the  sun. 
Where  that  same  treacherous  wax  began  to  run, 
Felt  not  more  tongue-tied  than  Endymion. 
His  heart  leapt  up  as  to  its  rightful  throne, 
To  that  fair-shadow'd  passion  pulsed  its  way— 
Ah,  what  perplexity!  Ah,  well-a-day  ! 
So  fond,  so  beauteous  was  his  bed-fellow, 
He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her :  then  he  grew 


Awliile  forgetful  of  all  beauty  save 

Young  Phffibe's,  golden-hair'd  ;  and  so  'gan  crave 

Forgiveness :  yet  he  turn'd  once  more  to  look 

At  the  sweet  sleeper, — all  his  soul  was  shook,-'- 

She  press'd  his  hand  in  slumber;  so  once  more 

He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her  and  adore. 

At  this  the  shadow  wept,  melting  away. 

The  Latmian  started  up :  "  Bright  goddess,  st«y  I 

Search  my  most  hidden  breast !  By  truth's  own  tongue, 

I  have  no  daedal  heart :  why  is  it  wrung 

To  desperation  ?  Is  there  naught  for  me, 

Upon  the  bourn  of  bliss,  but  misery  ? " 


These  words  awoke  the  stranger  oi  dark  tresses : 
Her  dawning  love-look  rapt  Endymion  blesses 
With  'havior  soft.    Sleep  yawn'd  from  underneath. 
"  Thou  swan  of  Ganges,  let  us  no  inore  breathe 
This  murky  phantasm !  thou  contented  seem'st 
Pillow'd  in  lovely  idleness,  nor  dream'st 
What  horrors  may  discomfort  thee  and  me. 
Ah,  shouldst  thou  die  from  ray  heart-treachery ! — 
Yet  did  she  merely  weep — her  gentle  soul 
Hath  no  revenge  in  it ;  as  it  is  whole 
In  tenderness,  would  I  were  whole  in  love ! 
Can  I  prize  thee,  fair  maid,  all  price  above, 
Even  when  I  feel  as  true  as  innocence  ? 
I  do,  I  do. — What  is  this  soul  then  ?  Whence 
Came  it  ?  It  does  not  seem  my  own,  and  I 
Have  no  self-passion  or  identity. 
Some  fearful  end  must  be  ;  where,  where  is  it  ? 
By  Nemesis !  I  see  my  spirit  flit 
Alone  about  the  dark — Forgive  me,  sweet ! 
Shall  we  away  ? "    He  roused  the  steeds ;  they  beat 
Their  wings  chivalrous  into  the  clear  air. 
Leaving  old  Sleep  within  his  vapory  lair. 

The  good-night  blush  of  eve  was  waning  slow, 
And  Vesper,  risen  star,  began  to  throe 
In  tlie  dusk  heavens  silvery,  when  they 
Thus  sprang  direct  towards  the  Galaxy. 
Nor  did  speed  hinder  converse  soft  and  strange — 
Eternal  oaths  and  vows  they  interchange. 
In  such  wise,  in  such  temper,  so  aloof 
Up  in  the  winds,  beneath  a  starry  roof, 
So  witless  of  their  doom,  that  verily 
'Tis  well-nigh  past  man's  search  their  hearts  to  see, 
Whether  they  wept,  or  laugh 'd,  or  grieved,  or  toy'd — 
Most  like  with  joy  gone  mad,  with  sorrow  cloy'd. 


Full  facing  their  swift  flight,  from  elwn  streak 
The  moon  put  forth  a  little  diamond  peak. 
No  bigger  than  an  unobserved  star. 
Or  tiny  point  of  fairy  scimitar  ; 
Bright  signal  that  she  only  stoop'd  to  tie 
Her  silver  sandals,  ere  deliciously 
She  bow'd  into  the  heavens  her  timid  head. 
Slowly  she  rose,  as  though  she  would  have  fled 
While  to  his  lady  meek  the  Carian  turn'd. 
To  mark  if  her  dark  eyes  liad  yet  discern'd 
This  beauty  in  its  birth — Despair!  desixiirl 
He  saw  her  body  fading  gaunt  and  spare 
In  the  cold  moonshine.  Straight  he  seized  herwnst; 
It  melted  from  his  grasp ;  her  hand  he  kiss'd, 
And,  horror !  kiss'd  his  own — he  was  alone. 
561 


30 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Her  steed  a  little  higher  soar'd,  and  then 
Dropt  hawkwise  to  the  earth 

There  lies  a  den, 
Beyond  the  seeming  confines  of  the  space 
Made  for  the  soul  to  wander  in  and  trace 
Its  own  existence,  of  remotest  glooms. 
Dark  regions  are  around  it,  where  the  tombs 
Of  buried  griefs  the  spirit  sees,  but  scarce 
One  hour  doth  linger  weeping,  for  the  pierce 
Of  new-born  woe  it  feels  more  inly  smart : 
And  in  these  regions  many  a  venom'd  dart 
At  random  flies  ;  they  are  the  proper  home 
Of  every  ill :  the  man  is  yet  to  come 
Who  hath  not  journey'd  in  this  native  hell. 
But  few  have  ever  felt  how  calm  and  well 
Sleep  may  be  had  in  that  deep  den  of  all. 
There  anguish  does  not  sting,  nor  pleasure  pall ; 
Woe-hurricanes  beat  ever  at  the  gate, 
Yet  all  is  still  within  and  desolate. 
Beset  with  plainful  gusts,  within  ye  hear 
No  sound  so  loud  as  when  on  curtain'd  bier 
The  death-watch  tick  is  stifled.    Enter  none 
Who  strive  therefor :  on  the  sudden  it  is  won. 
Just  when  the  sufferer  begins  to  burn. 
Then  it  is  free  to  him;  and  from  an  urn, 
Still  fed  by  melting  ice,  he  takes  a  draught — 
Young  Semele  such  richness  never  quaft 
In  her  maternal  longing.    Happy  gloom  ! 
Dark  Paradise !  where  pale  becomes  the  bloom 
Of  health  by  due  ;  where  silence  dreariest 
Is  most  articulate;  where  hopes  infest; 
Wliere  those  eyes  are  the  brightest  far  that  keep 
Thoir  lids  shut  longest  in  a  dreamless  sleep. 
O  happy  spirit-home  !  O  wondrous  soul ! 
Pregnant  with  such  a  den  to  save  the  whole 
In  thine  own  depth.    Hail,  gentle  Carian! 
For,  never  since  thy  griefs  and  woes  began. 
Hast  thou  felt  so  content :  a  grievous  feud 
Hath  led  thee  to  this  Cave  of  Quietude. 
Aye,  his  lull'd  soul  was  there,  although  upborne 
With  dangerous  speed  :  and  so  he  did  not  mourn 
Because  he  knew  not  whither  he  was  going. 
So  happy  was  he,  not  the  aerial  blowing 
Of  trumpets  at  clear  parley'  from  the  east 
Could  rouse  from  that  fine  relish,  that  high  feast. 
They  stung  the  fealher'd  iiorse ;  with  fierce  alarm 
He  flapp'd  towards  the  sound.    Alas !  no  charm 
Could  lift  Endymion's  head,  or  he  had  view'd 
A  skyey  mask,  a  pinion'd  multitude, — 
And  silvery  was  its  passing:  voices  sweet 
Warbling  the  while  as  if  to  lull  and  greet 
The  wanderer  in  his  path.    Thus  warbled  they, 
While  past  the  vision  went  in  bright  array. 

"  Who,  who  from  Dian's  feast  would  be  away  ? 
For  all  the,  golden  bowers  of  the  day 
Are  empty  left?  Who,  who  away  would  be 
From  Cynthia's  wedding  and  festivity  ? 
Not  Hesperus:  lo  !  upon  his  silver  wings 
He  leans  away  for  highest  heaven  and  sings, 
Snapping  his  lucid  fingers  merrily  ! — 
Ah,  Zephyrus !  art  here,  and  Flora  too  ! 
Ye  tender  bibbers  of  the  rain  and  dew. 
Young  playmates  of  the  rose  and  daffodil, 
Re  careful,  ere  ye  enter  in,  to  fill 


Your  baskets  high 
With  fennel  green,  and  balm,  and  golden  pines. 
Savory,  latter-mint,  and  columbines. 
Cool  parsley,  basil  sweet,  and  sunny  thyme ; 
Yea,  every  flower  and  leaf  of  every  clime, 
All  gather'd  in  the  dewy  morning  ;  hie 

A  way  !  fly,  fly ! — 
Crystalline  brother  of  the  belt  of  heaven, 
Aquarius !  to  whom  king  Jove  has  given 
Two  liquid  pulse  streams  'stead  of  feather'd  wings, 
Two  fan-hke  fountains, — thine  illuminings 

For  Dian  play : 
Dissolve  the  frozen  purity  of  air ; 
Let  thy  white  shoulders  silvery  and  bare 
Show  cold  through  watery  pinions ;  make  more  brigh 
The  Star-Queen's  crescent  on  her  marriage  night  : 

Haste,  haste  away ! 
Castor  has  tamed  the  planet  Lion,  see ! 
And  of  the  Bear  has  Pollux  mastery : 
A  third  is  in  the  race !  who  is  the  third. 
Speeding  away  swift  as  the  eagle  bird  ? 

The  ramping  Centaur! 
The  Lion's  mane 's  on  end  :  the  Bear  how  fierce ! 
The  Centaur's  arrow  ready  seems  to  pierce 
Some  enemy :  far  forth  his  bow  is  bent 
Into  the  blue  of  heaven.    He  '11  be  shent. 

Pale  unrelentor. 
When  he  shall  hear  the  wedding  lutes  a-playing.— 
Andromeda !  sweet  woman !  why  delaying 
So  timidly  among  the  stars  ?  come  hither ! 
Join  this  bright  throng,  and  nimbly  follow  whither 

They  all  are  going. 
Danse's  Son,  before  Jove  newly  bow'd. 
Has  wept  for  thee,  calling  to  Jove  aloud. 
Thee,  gentle  lady,  did  he  disenthral : 
Ye  shall  for  ever  live  and  love,  for  all 

Thy  tears  are  flowing. — 
By  Daphne's  fright,  behold  Apollo ! — " 

More 
Endymion  heard  not:  down  his  steed  him  bore, 
Prone  to  die  green  head  of  a  misty  hill. 

His  first  touch  of  the  earth  went  nigh  to  kill. 
"  Alas ! "  said  he,  "  were  I  but  always  borne 
Through  dangerous  winds,  had  but  my  footsteps  worn 
A  path  in  hell,  for  ever  would  I  bless 
Horrors  which  nourish  an  uneasiness 
For  my  own  sullen  conquering ;  to  him 
Who  lives  beyond  earth's  boundary,  grief  is  dim, 
Sorrow  is  but  a  shadow:  now  I  see 
The  grass  ;  I  feel  the  solid  ground — Ah,  me ! 
It  is  thy  voice — divinest!  Where? — who?  who 
Left  thee  so  quiet  on  this  bed  of  dew  ? 
Behold  upon  this  happy  earth  we  are ; 
Let  us  aye  love  each  other ;  let  us  fare 
On  forest-fruits,  and  never,  never  go 
Among  the  abodes  of  mortals  here  below, 
Or  be  by  phantoms  duped.    O  destiny! 
Into  a  labyrinth  now  my  soul  would  fly, 
But  with  thy  beauty  will  I  deaden  it. 
Where  didst  thou  melt  too  ?   By  thee  will  I  sit 
For  ever :  let  our  fate  stop  here — a  kid 
I  on  this  spot  will  offer ;  Pan  vriW  bid 
Us  live  in  peace,  in  love  and  peace  among 
His  forest  wildernesses.    I  have  clung 
662 


ENDYMION. 


31 


To  nothing,  loved  a  notliing,  nothing  seen 

Or  felt  but  a  great  dream  !  Oh,  I  have  been 

Presumptuous  against  love,  against  the  sky, 

Against  all  elen'ents,  against  the  tie 

Of  mortals  each  to  each,  against  the  blooms 

Of  flowers,  rush  of  rivers,  and  llie  tombs 

Of  heroes  gone !  Against  his  proper  glory 

Has  my  own  soul  conspired :  so  my  story 

Will  I  to  children  utter,  and  repent. 

There  never  lived  a  mortal  man,  who  bent 

His  appetite  beyond  his  natural  sphere. 

But  starved  and  died.     My  sweetest  Indian,  here, 

Here  will  I  kneel,  for  thou  redeemed  hast 

My  life  from  too  thin  breathing :  gone  and  past 

Are  cloudy  phantasms.     Caverns  lone,  farewell ! 

And  air  of  visions,  and  the  monstrous  swell 

Of  \isionary  seas !  No,  never  more 

Shall  airy  voices  cheat  me  to  the  shore 

Of  tangled  wonder,  breathless  and  aghast. 

Adieu,  my  daintiest  Dream  !  although  so  vast 

Mf  love  is  still  for  thee.     The  hour  may  come 

When  we  shall  meet  in  pure  elysium. 

On  earth  I  may  not  love  thee ;  and  therefore 

Doves  will  I  offer  up,  and  sweetest  store 

All  through  the  teeming  year :  so  thou  wilt  shine, 

On  me,  and  on  this  damsel  fair  of  mine. 

And  bless  our  simple  lives.     My  Indian  bliss ! 

Aly  river-lily  bud  !  one  human  Idss  ! 

One  sigh  of  real  breath — one  gentle  squeeze, 

Warm  as  a  dove's  nest  among  summer  trees. 

And  warm  with  dews  that  ooze  from  living  blood! 

Whither  didst  melt  ?  Ah,  what  of  that  ? — all  good 

We  '11  talk  about — no  more  of  dreaming. — Now, 

Where  shall  our  dwelling  be  !  Under  the  brow 

Of  some  steep  mossy  hill,  where  ivy  dun 

Would  hide  us  up,  although  spring  leaves  were  none  ; 

And  where  dark  yew-trees,  as  we  rustle  through. 

Will  drop  their  scarlet-berry  cups  of  dew  ? 

0  thou  wouldst  joy  to  live  in  such  a  place ! 
Dusk  for  our  loves,  yet  light  enough  to  grace 
Those  gentle  limbs  on  mossy  bed  reclined : 
For  by  one  step  the  blue  sky  shouldst  thou  find. 
And  by  another,  in  deep  dell  below. 

See,  through  the  trees,  a  little  river  go 

All  in  its  mid-day  gold  and  glimmering. 

Honey  from  out  the  gnarled  hive  I'll  bring, 

And  apples,  wan  with  sweetness,  gather  thee, — 

Cresses  that  grow  where  no  man  may  them  see, 

And  sorrel  untom  by  the  dew-claw'd  stag : 

Pipes  vvill  I  fashion  of  the  syrinx  flag. 

That  thou  mayst  always  know  whither  I  roam, 

When  it  shall  plea.se  thee  in  our  quiet  home 

To  listen  and  think  of  love.     Still  let  me  speak; 

Still  let  me  dive  into  the  joy  I  seek, — 

For  yet  the  past  doth  prison  me.     The  rill. 

Thou  haply  mayst  delight  in,  will  I  fdl 

With  fairy  fishes  from  the  mountain  tarn, 

And  thou  shalt  feed  them  from  the  squirrel's  bam. 

Its  bottom  will  I  strew  with  amber  shells. 

And  pebbles  blue  from  deep  enchanted  wells. 

Its  sides  I  '11  plant  with  dew-sweet  eglantine, 

And  honeysuckles  full  of  clear  bee-wine. 

1  will  entice  this  cn,'stal  rill  to  trace 
Love's  silver  name  upon  the  meadow's  face. 
I  '11  kneel  to  Vesta,  for  a  flame  of  fire ; 
And  to  god  Phoebus,  for  a  golden  lyre , 

To  Empress  Dian,  for  a  hunting-spear ; 
To  Vesper,  for  a  taper  silver-clear, 
41* 


That  I  may  see  thy  beauty  through  the  night; 
To  Flora,  and  a  nightingale  shall  light 
Tame  on  thy  finger ;  to  the  River-gods, 
And  they  shall  bring  thee  taper  fishing-rods 
Of  gold,  and  lines  of  Naiad's  long  bright  tress. 
Heaven  shield  thee  for  thine  utter  loveliness ! 
Thy  mossy  footstool  shall  the  altar  be 
'Fore  which  I  '11  bend,  bending,  dear  love,  to  thee . 
Those  lips  shall  be  my  Dclphos,  and  shall  speak 
Laws  to  my  footsteps,  color  to  my  cheek. 
Trembling  or  stedfastness  to  ;h/s  same  voice. 
And  of  three  sweetest  pleasurings  the  choice : 
And  that  affectionate  light,  those  diamond  things, 
Those  eyes,   those    passions,   those    supreme   pearl 

springs. 
Shall  be  my  grief,  or  twinkle  me  to  pleasure. 
Say,  is  not  bliss  within  our  perfect  seizure  ? 
O  that  I  could  not  doubt  ? " 


The  mountaineer 
Thus  strove  by  fancies  vain  and  crude  to  clear 
His  brier'd  patli  to  some  tranquillity. 
It  gave  bright  gladness  to  his  lady's  eye, 
And  yet  the  tears  she  wept  were  tears  of  sorrow ; 
Answering  thus,  just  as  the  golden  morrow 
Beam'd  upward  from  the  valleys  of  the  east  : 
"  O  that  the  flutter  of  this  heart  had  ceased. 
Or  the  sweet  name  of  love  had  pass'd  away ! 
Young  feather'd  tyrant !  by  a  swift  decay 
Wilt  thou  devote  this  body  to  the  earth : 
And  I  do  think  that  at  my  very  birth 
I  lisp'd  thy  blooming  titles  inwardly ; 
For  at  the  first,  first  dawn  and  thought  of  thee, 
With  uplift  hands  I  blest  the  stars  of  heaven. 
Art  thou  not  cruel  ?  Ever  have  I  striven 
To  think  thee  kind,  but  ah,  it  will  not  do ! 
When  yet  a  child,  I  heard  that  kisses  drew 
Favor  from  thee,  and  so  I  kisses  gave 
To  the  void  air,  bidding  them  find  out  love  : 
But  when  I  came  to  feel  how  far  above 
All  fancy,  pride,  and  fickle  maidenhood- 
All  earthly  pleasure,  all  imagined  good. 
Was  the  warm  tremble  of  a  devout  kiss,    - 
Even  then,  that  moment,  at  the  thought  of  this. 
Fainting  I  fell  into  a  bed  of  flowers. 
And  languish'd  there  three  days.  Yc  milder  powers 
Am  I  not  cruelly  wrong'd  ?  Believe,  believe 
Me,  dear  Endymion,  were  I  to  weave 
With  my  own  fancies  garlands  of  sweet  liie. 
Thou  shouldst  be  one  of  all.     Ah,  bitter  strife ! 
I  may  not  be  thy  love :  I  am  forbidden — 
Indeed  I  am — tliwarted,  affrighted,  cliidden 
By  things  I  trembled  at,  and  gorgon  wrath. 
Twice  hast  thou  ask'd  whither  I  went :  hencefii'-th 
Ask  me  no  more !  I  may  not  utter  it. 
Nor  may  I  be  thy  love.     We  might  commit 
Ourselves  at  once  to  vengeance;  we  might  die, 
We  might  embrace  and  die  :  voluptuous  though' 
Enlarge  not  to  my  hunger,  or  I  'm  caught 
In  trammels  of  perverse  deliciousness. 
No.  no,  that  shall  not  be :  thee  will  I  bless. 
And  bid  a  long  adieu." 


The  Carian 
No  word  retum'd .  both  lovelorn,  silent,  wan, 
563 


32 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Into  the  valleys  green  together  went. 
Far  wandering  they  were  perforce  content 
To  sit  beneath  a  fair,  lone  beechen  tree ; 
Nor  at  each  other  gazed,  but  heavily 
Pored  on  its  hazel  cirque  of  shedded  leaves. 

Endymion !  imhappy !  it  nigh  grieves 
Me  to  behold  thee  thus  in  last  extreme : 
Enskied  ere  this,  but  truly  that  I  deem 
Truth  the  best  music  in  a  first-bom  song. 
Thy  lute-voiced  brother  v^dll  I  sing  ere  long, 
And  thou  shall  aid — hast  thou  not  aided  me  ? 
Yes,  moonlight  Empetor !  felicity 
Has  been  thy  meed  for  many  thousand  years ; 
Yet  often  have  I,  on  the  brink  of  teai-s, 
Mourn'd  as  if  yet  thou  wert  a  forester ; — 
Forgetting  the  old  tale. 

He  did  not  stir 
His  eyes  from  the  dead  leaves,  or  one  small  pulse 
Of  joy  he  might  have  felt.     The  spirit  culls 
Unfaded  amaranth,  when  wild  it  strays 
Through  the  old  garden-ground  of  boyish  days. 
A  little  onward  ran  the  very  stream 
By  which  he  took  his  first  soft  poppy  dream  ; 
And  on  the  very  bark  'gainst  which  he  leant 
A  crescent  he  had  carved,  and  round  it  spent 
His  skill  in  hltle  stars.     The  teeming  tree 
Had  swoU'n  and  green'd  the  pious  charactery, 
But  not  ta'en  out.     Why,  there  was  not  a  slope 
Up  which  he  had  not  fear'd  the  antelope ; 
And  not  a  tree,  beneath  whose  rooty  shade 
He  had  not  with  his  tamed  leopards  play'd  , 
Nor  could  an  arrow  light,  or  javelin, 
Fly  in  the  air  where  his  had  never  been — 
And  yet  he  knew  it  not. 

O  treachery ! 
Why  does  his  lady  smile,  pleasing  her  eye 
With  all  his  sorrowing  ?  He  sees  her  not. 
But  who  so  stares  on  him  ?  His  sister,  sure  ! 
Feona  of  the  woods !  Can  she  endure — 
Impossible — how  dearly  they  embrace  ! 
His  lady  smiles;  delight  is  in  her  face; 
It  is  no  treachery. 

"  Dear  brother  mine  .' 
Endymion,  weep  not  so !  Why  shouldst  thou  pine 
When  all  great  Latmos  so  exalt  will  be  ? 
Thank  the  great  gods,  and  look  not  bitterly ; 
And  speak  not  one  pale  word,  and  sigh  no  more 
Sure  I  will  not  believe  thou  hast  such  store 
Of  grief,  to  last  tiiee  to  my  kiss  again. 
Thou  surely  canst  not  bear  a  mind  in  pain, 
Come  hand  in  hand  with  one  so  beautiful. 
Be  happy  both  of  you !  for  I  will  pull 
The  flowers  of  autumn  for  your  coronals. 
Pan's  holy  priest  for  young  Endymion  calls ; 
And  when  he  is  restored,  thou,  fairest  dame, 
Shalt  be  our  queen.     Now,  is  it  not  a  shame 
To  see  ye  thus, — not  very,  very  sad  ? 
Perhaps  ye  are  too  happy  to  be  glad  : 
O  feel  as  if  it  were  a  common  day ; 
Free-voiced  as  one  who  never  was  away. 


No  tongue  shall  ask,  whence  come  ye  ?  but  ye  shaii 
Be  gods  of  your  own  rest  imperial. 
Not  even  I,  for  one  whole  month,  will  pry 
Into  the  hours  that  have  pass'd  us  by, 
Since  in  my  arbor  I  did  sing  to  thee. 
O  Hermes !  on  this  very  night  will  be 
A  hymning  up  to  Cynthia,  queen  of  light; 
For  the  soothsayers  old  saw  yesternight 
Good  visions  in  the  air, — whence  will  befall, 
As  say  these  sages,  health  perpetual 
To  shepherds  and  their  floclis ;  and  furthermore. 
In  Dian's  face  they  read  the  gentle  lore : 
Therefore  for  her  these  vesper-carols  are. 
Our  friends  will  all  be  there  from  nigh  and  far. 
Many  upon  thy  death  have  ditties  made  ; 
And  many,  even  now,  their  foreheads  shade 
With  cypress,  on  a  day  of  sacrifice. 
New  singing  for  our  maids  shalt  thou  devise, 
And  pluck  the  sorrow  from  our  huntsmen's  brows. 
Tell  me,  my  lady-queen,  how  to  espouse 
This  wayward  brother  to  his  rightful  joys ! 
His  eyes  are  on  thee  bent,  as  thou  didst  poise 
His  fate  most  goddess-like.     Help  me,  I  pray. 
To  lure — EndjTnion,  dear  brother,  say 
What  ails  thee  ? "  He  could  bear  no  more,  and  so 
Bent  his  .soul  fiercely  like  a  spiritual  bow. 
And  twang'd  it  inwardly,  and  calmly  said  : 
"  I  would  have  thee  my  only  friend,  sweet  maid ! 
My  only  visitor  !  not  ignorant  though. 
That  those  deceptions  which  for  pleasure  go 
'Mong  men,  are  pleasures  real  as  real  may  be : 
But  there  are  higher  ones  I  may  not  see. 
If  impiously  an  earthly  realm  I  take. 
Since  I  saw  thee,  I  have  been  wide  awake 
Night  after  night,  and  day  by  day,  until 
Of  the  empyrean  I  have  drunk  my  fill. 
Let  it  content  thee.  Sister,  seeing  me 
More  happy  than  betides  mortality. 
A  hermit  young,  I  '11  live  in  mossy  cave, 
Where  thou  alone  shalt  come  to  me,  and  lave 
Thy  spirit  in  the  wonders  I  shall  tell. 
Through  me  the  shepherd  realm  shall  prosper  well 
For  to  thy  tongue  will  I  all  health  confide. 
And,  for  my  sake,  let  this  young  maid  abide 
With  thee  as  a  dear  sister.     Thou  alone, 
Peona,  mayst  return  to  me.     I  own 
This  may  sound  strangely :  but  when,  dearest  girl 
Thou  seesl  it  for  my  happiness,  no  pearl 
Will  trespass  down  those  cheeks.     Companion  fair 
Wilt  be  content  to  dwell  with  her,  to  share 
This  sister's  love  with  me  ? "  Like  one  resign'd 
And  bent  by  circumstances,  and  thereby  blind 
In  self-commitment,  thus  that  meek  unknown : 
"  Ay,  but  a  buzzing  by  my  ears  has  flown. 
Of  jubilee  to  Dian  :— truth  I  heard  ! 
Well  then,  I  see  there  is  no  little  bird. 
Tender  soever,  but  is  Jove's  own  care. 
Long  have  I  sought  for  rest,  and,  unaware, 
Behold  I  find  it !  so  exalted  too ! 
So  after  my  own  heart !  I  knew,  I  knew 
There  was  a  place  untenanted  in  it ; 
In  that  same  void  white  Chastity  shall  sit. 
And  monitor  me  nightly  to  lone  slumber. 
With  sanest  lips  I  vow  me  to  the  number 
Of  Dian's  sisterhood  ;  and,  kind  lady. 
With  thy  good  help,  this  very  night  shall  see 
564 


ENDYMION. 


33 


My  future  days  to  her  fane  consecrate." 

As  feels  a  dreamer  what  doih  most  create 
His  own  particular  fright,  so  these  three  felt : 
Or  like  one,  who,  in  afler  ages,  knelt 
To  Lucifer  or  Baal,  when  he  'd  pine 
After  a  little  sleep;  or  when  in  mine 
Far  under-ground,  a  sleeper  meets  his  friends 
Who  know  him  not.     Each  diligently  bends 
Tovv'rds  common  thoughts  and  things  for  very  fear ; 
Striving  their  ghastly  malady  to  cheer. 
By  thinking  it  a  thing  of  yes  and  no. 
That  housewives  talk  of     But  the  spirit-blow 
Was  struck,  and  all  were  dreamers.     At  the  last 
Endymion  said  :  "  Are  not  our  fates  all  cast  ? 
Why  stand  we  here  !  Adieu,  ye  tender  pair' 
Adieu  I"  Whereat  those  maidens,  with  wild  stare, 
Walk'd  dizzily  away.     Pained  and  hot 
His  eyes  went  after  them,  until  they  got 
Near  to  a  cypress  grove,  whose  deadly  maw, 
In  one  swift  moment,  would  what  then  he  saw 
Ingulf  for  ever.     "  Stay  !"  he  cried,  "ah,  slay  ! 
Turn,  damsels !  hist !  one  word  I  have  to  say  : 
Sweet  Indian,  I  would  see  thee  once  again. 
It  is  a  thing  I  dote  on :  so  I  'd  fain, 
Peona,  ye  should  hand  in  hand  repair, 
Into  those  holy  groves  that  silent  are 
Behind  great  Dian's  temple.     I  '11  be  yon. 
At  vesper's  earliest  twinkle — they  are  gone — 
But  once,  once,  once  again — "  At  this  he  press'd 
His  hands  against  his  face,  and  then  did  rest 
His  head  upon  a  mossy  hillock  green, 
And  so  remain'd  as  he  a  corpse  had  been 
All  the  long  day ;  save  when  he  scantly  lifted 
Ilis  eyes  abroad,  to  see  how  shadows  shifted 
With  the  slow  move  of  time, — sluggish  and  weary 
Until  the  poplar  tops,  in  journey  dreary, 
Had  reach'd  the  river's  brim.     Then  up  he  rose, 
And,  slowly  as  that  very  river  flows, 
Walk'd  tow'rds  the  temple-grove  with  this  lament : 
"  Why  such  a  golden  eve  ?    The  breeze  is  sent 
Carefid  and  soft,  that  not  a  leaf  may  fall 
Before  the  serene  father  of  them  all 
Bows  down  his  summer  head  below  the  west. 
IS'ow  am  I  of  breath,  speech,  and  speed  possest, 
But  at  the  setting  I  must  bid  adieu 
To  her  for  the  last  time.     Night  will  strew 
On  the  damp  grass  myriads  of  lingering  leaves. 
And  with  them  shall  I  die;  nor  much  it  grieves 
To  die,  when  summer  dies  on  the  cold  sward. 
Why,  I  have  been  a  butterfly,  a  lord 
Of  flowers,  garlands,  love-knots,  silly  posies. 
Groves,  meadows,  melodies,  and  arbor-roses ; 
My  kingdom's  at  its  death,  and  just  it  is 
That  I  should  die  with  it:  so  in  all  this 
We  miscall  grief  bale,  sorrow,  heart-break,  woe, 
What  is  there  to  plain  of?    By  Titan's  foe 
I  am  but  rightly  served."     So  saying,  he 
Tripp'd  lightly  on,  in  sort  of  deathful  glee  ; 


Laughing  at  the  clear  stream  and  setting  sun. 
As  though  they  jests  had  been :  nor  had  he  done 
His  laugh  at  Nature's  holy  countenance, 
Until  that  grove  appear'd,  as  if  perchance, 
And  then  his  tongue  with  sober  seemlihed 
Gave  utterance  as  he  enter'd  :  "  Ila  !"  I  said, 
"  King  of  the  butterflies;  but  by  this  gloom, 
And  by  old  Rhadamanthus'  tongue  of  doom, 
This  dusk  religion,  pomp  of  solitude, 
And  the  Promethean  clay  by  thief  endued, 
By  old  Saturnus'  forelock,  by  his  head 
Shook  with  eternal  palsy,  I  did  wed 
Myself  to  things  of  light  from  infancy ; 
And  thus  to  be  cast  out,  thus  lorn  to  die, 
Is  sure  enough  to  make  a  mortal  man 
Grow  impious."     So  he  inwardly  began 
On  things  for  which  no  wording  can  be  found ; 
Deeper  and  deeper  sinking,  until  drown'd 
Beyond  the  reach  of  music :  for  the  choir 
Of  Cynthia  he  heard  not,  though  rough  brier 
Nor  muffling  thicket  interposed  to  dull 
The  vesper  hymn,  far  swollen,  soft  and  full. 
Through  the  dark  pillars  of  those  sylvan  aisles. 
He  saw  not  the  two  maidens,  nor  their  smiles, 
Wan  as  primroses  gather'd  at  midnight 
By  chilly-finger'd  spring.    "  Unhappy  wight ! 
Endymion!"  said  Peona,  "  we  are  here! 
What  wouldst  thou  ere  we  all  are  laid  on  bier?" 
Then  he  embraced  her,  and  his  lady's  hand 
Press'd,  saying  :  "  Sister,  I  would  have  command, 
If  it  were  heaven's  will,  on  our  sad  fate." 
At  which  that  dark-eyed  stranger  stood  elate, 
And  said,  in  a  new  voice,  but  sweet  as  love, 
To  Endymion's  amaze  :  "  By  Cupid's  dove. 
And  so  thou  shalt !  and  by  the  lily  truth 
Of  my  own  breast  thou  shalt,  beloved  youth!" 
And  as  she  spake,  into  her  face  there  cam 
Light,  as  reflected  from  a  silver  flame  : 
Her  long  black  hair  swell'd  ampler,  in  display 
Full  golden  ;  in  her  eyes  a  brighter  day 
Davvn'd  blue  and  full  of  love.    Ay,  he  beheld 
Phoebe,  his  passion !  joyous  she  upheld 
Her  lucid  bow,  continuing  thus:  "  Drear,  drear 
Has  our  delaying  been ;  but  foolish  fear 
Withlield  me  first ;  and  then  decrees  of  fate  ; 
And  then  'twas  fit  that  from  this  mortal  state 
Thou  shouldst,  my  love,  by  some  unlook'd-for  change 
Be  spiritualized.     Peona,  we  shall  range 
These  forests,  and  to  thee  they  safe  shall  be 
As  was  thy  cradle  ;  hither  shalt  thou  flee 
To  meet  us  many  a  time."     Next  Cynthia  bright 
Peona  kiss'd,  and  bless'd  with  fair  good-night : 
Her  brother  kiss'd  her  too,  and  knelt  adown 
Before  his  goddess,  in  a  blissful  swoon. 
She  gave  her  fair  hands  to  him,  and  behold, 
Before  three  swifiest  kisses  he  had  told. 
They  vanish'd  far  away  I — Peona  went 
Home  through  the  gloomy  wood  in  wonderment 
73  565 


34 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS, 


Hamia* 


PART  I. 


Upon  a  time,  before  the  faery  broods 

Drove  Nymph  and  Satyr  from  the  prosperous  woods, 

Before  King  Oberon's  bright  diadem. 

Sceptre,  and  mantle,  clasp'd  with  dewy  gem. 

Frighted  away  the  Dryads  and  the  Fauns 

From  rushes  green,  and  brakes,  and  cowslip'd  lawns, 

The  ever-smitten  Hermes  empty  left 

His  golden  throne,  bent  warm  on  amorous  theft : 

From  high  Olympus  had  he  stolen  light, 

On  this  side  of  Jove's  clouds,  to  escape  the  sight 

Of  his  great  summoner,  and  made  retreat 

Into  a  forest  on  the  shores  of  Crete. 

For  somewhere  in  that  sacred  island  dwelt 

A  nymph,  to  whom  all  hoofed  Satyrs  knelt  ; 

At  whose  white  feet  the  languid  Tritons  pour'd 

Pearls,  while  on  land  they  wither'd  and  adored. 

Fast  by  the  springs  where  she  to  bathe  was  wont. 

And  in  those  meads  where  sometimes  she  might  haunt. 

Were  strewn  rich  gifts,  unknown  to  any  Muse, 

Though  Fancy's  casket  were  unlock'd  to  choose. 

Ah,  what  a  world  of  love  was  at  her  feet ! 

So  Hermes  thought,  and  a  celestial  heat 

Burnt  from  his  winged  heels  to  either  ear. 

That  from  a  whiteness,  as  the  lily  clear, 

Blush'd  into  roses  'mid  his  golden  hair, 

Fallen  in  jealous  curls  about  his  shoulders  bare. 

From  vale  to  vale,  from  wood  to  wood,  he  flew, 

Breathing  upon  the  flowers  his  passion  new, 

And  wound  with  many  a  river  to  its  head. 

To  find  where  this  sweet  nymph  prepared  her  secret 

bed: 
In  vain  ;  the  sweet  nymph  might  nowhere  be  found, 
And  so  he  rested,  on  the  lonely  ground, 
Pensive,  and  full  of  painful  jealousies 
Of  the  Wood-Gods,  and  even  the  very  trees. 
There  as  he  stood,  he  heard  a  mournful  voice, 
Such  as  once  heard,  in  gentle  heart,  destroys 
All  pain  but  pity  :  thus  the  lone  voice  spake : 
"  When  from  this  wreathed  tomb  shall  I  awake  ? 
When  move  in  a  sweet  body  fit  for  life. 
And  love,  and  pleasure,  and  the  ruddy  strife 
Of  hearts  and  lips?  Ah,  miserable  me!" 
The  God,  dove-footed,  glided  silently 
Round  bush  and  tree,  soft-brushing,  in  his  speed. 
The  taller  grasses  and  full-flowering  weed, 
Until  he  found  a  palpitating  snake, 
Bright,  and  cirque-couchant  in  a  dusky  brake. 


She  was  a  gordian  shape  of  dazzling  hue. 
Vermilion-spotted,  golden,  green,  and  blue  ; 
Striped  like  a  zebra,  freckled  like  a  pard. 
Eyed  like  a  peacock,  and  all  crimson-barr'd  ; 
And  full  of  silver  moons,  that,  as  she  breathed. 
Dissolved,  or  brighter  shone,  or  interwreathed 
Their  lustres  with  the  gloomier  tapestries — 
So  rainbow-sided,  touch'd  with  miseries. 
She  seem'd,  at  once,  some  penanced  lady  elf. 
Some  demon's  mistress,  or  the  demon's  self. 


Upon  her  crest  she  wore  a  wannish  fire 
Sprinkled  with  stars,  like  Ariadne's  tiar : 
Her  head  was  serpent,  but  ah,  bitter-sweet ! 
She  had  a  woman's  mouth  with  all  its  pearls  complete 
And  for  her  eyes — what  could  such  eyes  do  there 
But  weep,  and  weep,  that  they  were  born  so  fair  ? 
As  Proserpine  still  weeps  for  her  Sicilian  air. 
Her  throat  was  serpent,  but  the  words  she  spake 
Came,  as  through  bubbling  honey,  for  Love's  sake, 
And  thus ;  while  Hermes  on  his  pinions  lay. 
Like  a  stoop'd  falcon  ere  he  takes  his  prey : 

"Fair  Hermes,  crown'd  with  feathers,  fluttering 

light, 
I  had  a  splendid  dream  of  thee  last  night  • 
I  saw  thee  sitting,  on  a  throne  of  gold, 
Among  the  Gods,  upon  Olympus  old. 
The  only  sad  one  ;  for  thou  didst  not  hear 
The  soft,  lute-finger'd  Muses  chanting  clear, 
Nor  even  Apollo  when  he  sang  alone. 
Deaf  to  his  throbbing  throat's  long,  long  melodioui 

moan. 
I  dreamt  I  saw  thee,  robed  in  purple  flakes. 
Break  amorous  through  the  clouds,  as  morning  breaks, 
And,  swiftly  as  a  bright  Phcebean  dart, 
Strike  for  the  Cretan  isle ;  and  here  thou  art ! 
Too  gentle  Hermes,  hast  thou  found  the  maid?" 
Whereat  tiie  star  of  Lethe  not  delay'd 
His  rosy  eloquence,  and  thus  inquired  : 
"Thou  smoolh-lipp'd  serpent,  surely  high  inspired!. 
Thou  beauteous  wreatli  with  melancholy  eyes, 
Possess  whatever  bliss  thou  canst  devise 
Telling  me  only  where  my  nymph  is  fled, — 
Where  she  doth  breathe ! "  "  Bright  planet,  thou  hast 

said," 
Return'd  the  snake,  "  but  seal  with  oaths,  fair  God  ! " 
"  I  swear,"  said  Hermes,  "  by  my  serpent  rod. 
And  by  thine  eyes,  and  by  thy  starry  crown ! " 
Light  flew  his  earnest  words,  among  the  blossoms 

blown. . 
Then  thus  again  the  brilliance  feminine  : 
"  Too  frail  of  heart !  ftr  this  lost  nymph  of  thine, 
Free  as  the  air,  invisibly,  she  strays 
About  these  thornless  wilds ;  her  pleasant  days 
She  tastes  unseen  ;  unseen  her  nimble  feet 
Leave  traces  in  the  grass  and  flowers  sweet : 
From  weary  tendrils,  and  bow'd  branches  green. 
She  plucks  the  fruit  unseen,  she  bathes  unseen. 
And  by  my  power  is  her  beauty  veil'd 
To  keep  it  unaflronted,  unassail'd 
By  the  love-glances  of  unlovely  eyes, 
Of  Satyrs,  Fauns,  and  blear'd  Silenus'  sighs. 
Pale  grew  her  immortality,  for  woe 
Of  all  these  lovers,  and  she  grieved  so 
I  took  compassion  on  her,  bade  her  steep 
Her  hair  in  weird  syrops,  that  would  keep 
Her  loveliness  invisible,  yet  free 
To  wander  as  she  loves,  in  liberty. 
Thou  shalt  behold  her,  Hermes,  thou  alone. 
If  thou  wilt,  as  thou  swearest,  grant  my  boon!" 
Then,  once  again,  the  charmed  God  began 
All  oath,  and  through  the  serpent's  ears  it  ran 
Warm,  tremulous,  devout,  psalterian. 
566 


LAMIA. 


Ravish'd  she  lifted  her  Crrcean  head, 

Bhish'd  a  live  damask,  and  swift-lisping  said, 

"  I  was  a  woman,  let  me  have  once  more 

A  woman's  shape,  and  charming  as  before. 

I  love  a  youth  of  Corinth — O  the  bliss  ! 

Give  me  my  woman's  form,  and  place  me  where  he  is. 

Stoop,  Hermes,  let  me  breath  upon  thy  brow, 

And  thou  shall  see  thy  sweet  nymph  even  now." 

The  (iod  on  half-shut  feathers  sank  serene, 

She  breathed  upon  his  eyes,  and  swift  was  seen 

Of  both  the  guarded  nymph  near-smiling  on  the  green. 

It  was  no  dream;  or  say  a  dream  it  was, 

Real  are  the  dreams  of  Gods,  and  smoothly  pass 

Tlieir  pleasures  in  a  long  immortal  dream. 

One  warm,  flush'd  moment,  hovering,  it  might  seem 

Dash'd  by  the  wood-nymph's  beauty,  so  he  burn'd ; 

Then,  lighting  on  the  printless  verdure,  turn'd 

To  the  swoon'd  serpent,  and  with  languid  arm, 

Delicate,  put  to  proof  the  lithe  Caducean  charm. 

So  done,  upon  the  nymph  his  eyes  he  bent 

Full  of  adoring  tears  and  blandishment. 

And  towards  her  stept :  she,  like  a  moon  in  wane, 

Faded  before  him,  cower'd,  nor  could  restrain 

Her  fearful  sobs,  self-folding  like  a  flower 

That  faints  into  itself  at  evening  hour : 

But  the  God  fostering  her  chilled  hand, 

She  felt  the  warmth,  her  eyelids  open'd  bland 

And,  like  new  flowers  at  morning  song  of  bees, 

Bloom'd,  and  gave  up  her  honey  to  the  lees. 

Into  the  green-recessed  woods  they  flew ; 

IVor  grew  they  pale,  as  mortal  lovers  do. 


Left  to  herself,  the  serpent  now  began 
To  change ;  her  elfin  blood  in  madness  ran. 
Her  mouth  foam'd,  and  the  grass,  therewith  besprent, 
Wither'd  at  dew  so  sweet  and  virulent ; 
Her  eyes  in  torture  fix'd,  and  anguish  drear, 
Hot,  glazed,  and  wide,  with  lid-lashes  all  sear, 
Flash'd  phosphor  and  sharp  sparks,  without  one  cool- 
ing tear. 
The  colors  all  inflamed  throughout  her  train, 
She  writhed  about,  convulsed  with  scarlet  pain : 
A  deep  volcanian  yellow  took  the  place 
Of  all  her  milder-mooned  body's  grace  ; 
And,  as  the  lava  ravishes  the  mead, 
S[ioilt  all  her  silver  mail,  and  golden  brede : 
Made  gloom  of  all  her  frecklings,  streaks  and  bars. 
Eclipsed  her  crescents,  and  lick'd  up  her  stars: 
So  that,  in  moments  few,  she  was  undrcst 
Of  all  her  sapphires,  greens,  and  amethyst. 
And  rubious-argent ;  of  all  these  bereft, 
Koihing  but  pain  and  ugliness  vi-ere  left. 
Still  shone  her  crown  ;  that  vanish'd,  also  she 
Welted  and  disai)pear'd  as  suddenly  ; 
And  in  the  air,  her  new  voice  luting  soft, 
Cried,  "  Lycius  !  gentle  Lycius  ! " — Borne  aloft 
With  the  bright  misis  about  the  mountains  hoar. 
These  words  dissolved  :  Crete's  forests  heard  no  more. 


Whither  fled  Lamia,  now  a  lady  bright, 
A  full-horn  beauty  new  and  exquisite  ? 
She  fled  into  that  valley  they  pass  o'er 
Who  go  to  Corinth  from  Chenrhreas'  shore; 
And  rested  at  the  foot  of  those  wild  hills. 
The  rugged  founts  of  the  Peraean  rills, 
3M 


And  of  that  other  ridge  whose  barren  back 
Stretches,  with  all  its  mist  and  cloudy  rack, 
South-westward  to  Cleone.     There  she  stood 
About  a  young  bird's  flutter  from  a  wood, 
Fair,  on  a  sloping  green  of  mossy  tread. 
By  a  clear  pool,  wherein  she  passioned 
To  see  herself  escaped  from  so  sore  ills. 
While  her  robes  flaunted  with  the  daffodils. 

Ah,  happy  Lycius ! — for  she  was  a  maid 
More  beautiful  than  ever  twisted  braid, 
Or  sigh'd,  or  blush'd,  or  on  spring-flower'd  lea 
Spread  a  green  kirtle  to  the  minstrelsy  : 
A  virgin  purest  lipp'd,  yet  in  the  lore 
Of  love  deep  learn'd  to  the  red  heart's  core : 
Not  one  hour  old,  yet  of  sciential  brain 
To  unperplex  bliss  from  its  neighbor  pain ; 
Define  their  pettish  limits,  and  estrange 
Their  points  of  contact,  and  swift  counterchange ; 
Intrigue  with  the  specious  chaos,  and  dispart 
Its  most  ambiguous  atoms  with  sure  art ; 
As  though  in  Cupid's  college  she  had  spent 
Sweet  days  a  lovely  graduate,  still  unshent. 
And  kept  his  rosy  terms  in  idle  languishment 

Why  this  fair  creature  chose  so  fairily 
By  the  wayside  to  linger,  we  shall  see ; 
But  first  'tis  fit  to  tell  how  she  could  muse 
And  dream,  when  in  the  serpent  prison-house, 
Of  all  she  list,  strange  or  magnificent , 
How,  ever,  where  she  will'd,  her  spirit  went ; 
Whether  to  faint  Elysium,  or  where 
Down  through  tress-lifting  waves  the  Nereids  fair 
Wind  into  Thetis'  bower  by  many  a  pearly  stair ; 
Or  where  God  Bacchus  drains  his  cups  divine, 
Stretch'd  out,  at  ease,  beneath  a  glutinous  pine  ; 
Or  where  in  Pluto's  gardens  palatine 
Mulciber's  columns  gleam  in  far  piazzian  line. 
And  sometimes  into  cities  she  would  send 
Her  dream,  with  feast  and  rioting  to  blend; 
And  once,  while  among  mortals  dreaming  thus, 
She  saw  the  young  Corinthian  Lycius 
Charioting  foremost  in  ihe  envious  race, 
Like  a  young  Jove  with  calm  uneager  face. 
And  fell  into  a  swooning  love  of  him. 
Now  on  the  moth-time  of  that  evening  dim 
He  would  return  that  way,  as  well  she  knew. 
To  Corinth  from  the  shore  ;  for  freshly  blew 
The  eastern  soft  wind,  and  his  galley  now 
Grated  the  quay-stones  with  her  brazen  prow 
In  port  Cenchreas,  from  Kgina  isle 
Fresh  anchor'd  ;  whither  he  had  been  awhile 
To  sacrifice  to  Jove,  whose  temple  there 
Waits  with  high  marble  doors  for  blood  and  incense 

rare. 
Jove  heard  his  vows,  and  bettor'd  his  desire ; 
For  by  some  freakful  chance  he  made  retire 
F^rom  his  companions,  and  set  forth  to  walk. 
Perhaps  grown  wearied  of  their  Corinth  talk: 
Over  the  solitary  hills  he  fared. 
Thoughtless  at  first,  but  ere  eve's  star  appear'd 
His  phantasy  was  lost,  where  reason  fades. 
In  the  calm'd  twilight  of  Platonic  shades. 
Lamia  beheld  him  coming,  near,  more  near- 
Close  to  her  passing,  in  indifference  drear. 
His  silent  sandals  swept  the  mossy  green ; 
So  neighbor'd  to  him,  and  yet  so  unseen 
567 


36 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


She  stood  :  he  pass'd,  shut  up  in  mysteries, 
His  mind  wrapp'd  like  his  mantle,  while  her  eyes 
Foilow'd  his  steps,  and  her  neck  regal  white 
Turn'd — syllaWing  thus,"  Ah,  Lycius  bright.' 
And  will  you  leave  me  on  the  hills  alone  ? 
Lycius,  look  back !  and  be  some  pity  shown." 
He  did ;  not  with  cold  wonder  fearingly. 
But  Orpheus-like  at  an  Eurydice  ; 
For  so  delicious  were  the  words  she  sung 
It  seem'd  he  had  loved  them  a  whole  summer  long: 
And  soon  his  eyes  had  drunk  her  beauty  up, 
Leaving  no  drop  in  the  bewildering  cup. 
And  still  the  cup  was  full, — while  he,  afraid 
Lest  she  should  vanish  ere  his  lip  had  paid 
Due  adoration,  thus  began  to  adore  ; 
Her  soft  look  growing  coy,  she  saw  his  chain  so  sure  : 
"  Leave  thee  alone  !  Look  back  !  Ah,  Goddess,  see 
Whether  my  eyes  can  ever  turn  from  thee ! 
For  pity  do  not  this  sad  heart  belie — 
Even  as  thou  vanishest  so  I  shall  die. 
Stay  !  though  a  Naiad  of  the  rivers,  stay! 
To  thy  far  wishes  will  thy  streams  obey : 
Stay  I  though  the  greenest  woods  be  thy  domain, 
Alone  they  can  drink  up  the  morning  rairi: 
Though  a  descended  Pleiad,  will  not  one 
Of  thine  harmonious  sisters  keep  in  tune 
Thy  spheres,  and  as  thy  silver  proxy  shine  ? 
So  sweetly  to  these  ravish'd  ears  of  mine 
Came  thy  sweet  greeting,  that  if  thou  shouldst  fade 
Thy  memory  will  waste  me  to  a  shade  : — 
For  pity  do  not  melt  !" — "  If  I  should  stay," 
Said  Lamia,  "  here,  upon  tliis  floor  of  clay. 
And  pain  my  steps  upon  these  flowers  too  rough, 
What  canst  thou  say  or  do  of  charm  enough 
To  dull  the  nice  remembrance  of  my  home  ? 
Thou  canst  not  ask  me  with  thee  here  to  roam 
Over  these  hills  and  vales,  where  no  joy  is, — 
Empty  of  immortality  and  bliss  ! 
Thou  art  a  scholar,  Lycius,  and  must  know 
That  finer  spirits  cannot  breathe  below 
In  human  climes,  and  live:  Alas!  poor  youth, 
What  taste  of  purer  air  bast  ihou  to  soothe 
My  essence  ?    What  serener  palaces, 
Where  I  may  all  my  many  senses  please. 
And  by  mysterious  sleights  a  hundred  thirsts  appease  ? 
It  cannot  be — Adieu  !"  So  said,  she  rose 
Tiptoe  with  while  arms  spread.     He,  sick  to  lose 
The  amorous  promise  of  her  lone  complain, 
Swoon'd  murmuring  of  love,  and  pale  with  pain. 
The  cruel  lady,  wiihout  any  show 
Of  sorrow  for  her  lender  favorite's  woe. 
But  rather,  if  her  eyes  could  brighter  be, 
With  brighter  eyes  and  slow  amenily, 
Put  her  new  lips  to  his,  and  gave  afresh 
The  life  she  had  so  tangled  in  her  mesh  : 
And  as  he  from  one  trance  was  wakening 
Into  another,  she  began  to  sing, 
Happy  in  beauty,  life,  and  love,  and  every  thing, 
A  song  of  love,  loo  sweet  lor  earthly  lyres. 
While,  like  held  breath,  the  stars  drew  in  their  pant- 
ing fires. 
And  then  she  vvhisper'd  in  such  trembling  lone, 
As  those  who,  safe  together  met  alone 
For  the  first  tirr.e  through  many  anguish'd  days, 
Use  other  speech  than  looks;  bidding  him  raise 
His  drooping  head,  and  clear  his  soul  of  doubt, 
For  that  she  was  a  woman,  and  without 


Any  more  subtle  fluid  in  her  veins 

Than  throbbing  blood,  and  that  the  self-same  paina 

Inhabited  her  frail-strung  heart  as  his. 

And  next  she  wonder'd  how  his  eyes  could  miss 

Her  face  so  long  in  Corinth,  where,  she  said. 

She  dwelt  but  half  retired,  and  there  had  led 

Days  happy  as  the  gold  coin  could  invent 

Without  the  aid  of  love ;  yet  in  content 

Till  she  saw  hira,  as  once  she  pass'd  him  by, 

Where  'gainst  a  column  he  leant  thoughtfully 

At  Venus'  temple  porch,  'mid  baskets  heap'd 

Of  amorous  herbs  and  flowers,  newly  reap'd 

Late  on  that  eve,  as  'twas  the  night  before 

The  Adonian  feast ;  whereof  she  saw  no  more, 

But  wept  alone  those  days,  for  why  should  she  adore  *. 

Lycius  from  death  awoke  into  amaze, 

To  see  her  still,  and  singing  so  sweet  lays ; 

Then  from  amaze  into  delight  he  fell 

To  hear  her  whisper  woman's  lore  so  well ; 

And  every  word  she  spake  enticed  him  on 

To  unperplex'd  dehght  and  pleasure  known. 

Let  the  mad  poets  say  whate'er  they  please 

Of  the  sweets  of  Fairies,  Peris,  Goddesses, 

There  is  not  such  a  treat  among  them  all. 

Haunters  of  cavern,  lake,  and  waterfall. 

As  a  real  woman,  lineal  indeed 

From  Pyrrha's  pebbles  or  old  Adam's  seed. 

Thus  gentle  Lamia  jndged,  and  judged  aright. 

That  Lycius  could  not  love  in  half  a  fright. 

So  threw  the  goddess  off,  and  won  his  heart 

More  pleasantly  by  playing  woman's  part, 

With  no  more  awe  than  what  her  beauty  gave 

That,  while  it  smote,  still  guarantied  to  save. 

Lycius  to  all  made  eloquent  reply, 

Marrying  to  every  word  a  twin-born  sigh ; 

And  last,  pointing  to  Corinth,  ask'd  her  sweet, 

If  'twas  too  far  that  night  for  her  soft  feet. 

The  way  was  short,  for  Lamia's  eagerness 

Made,  by  a  spell,  the  triple  league  decrease 

To  a  few  paces ;  not  at  all  surmised 

By  blinded  Lycius,  so  in  her  comprised 

They  pass'd  the  city  gates,  he  knew  not  how. 

So  noiseless,  and  he  never  thought  to  know. 


As  men  talk  in  a  dream,  so  Corinth  all. 
Throughout  her  palaces  imperial. 
And  all  her  populous  streets  and  temples  lewd, 
Mutter'd,  like  tempest  in  the  distance  brevv'd. 
To  the  wide-spreaded  night  above  her  towers. 
Men,  women,  rich  and  poor,  in  ihe  cool  hours. 
Shuffled  their  sandals  o'er  the  pavement  white, 
Companion'd  or  alone ;  while  many  a  light 
Flared,  here  and  there,  from  wealthy  festivals, 
And  threw  their  moving  shadows  on  the  walls. 
Or  found  ihem  cluster'd  in  the  corniced  shade 
Of  some  arch'd  temple  door,  or  dusky  colonnade 


Muffling  his  face,  of  greeting  friends  in  fear. 
Her  fingers  he  press'd  hard,  as  one  came  near 
With  curl'd  gray  beard,  sharp  eyes,  and  smooth  t)al(J 

crown, 
Slow-stepp'd,  and  robed  in  philosophic  gown : 
Lycius  shrank  closer,  as  they  met  and  past, 
Into  his  mantle,  adding  wings  to  haste, 
568 


LAMIA. 


37 


While  hurried  Lamia  trembled  ;  "  Ah,"  said  he, 

"  Why  do  yon  shudder,  love,  so  ruefully? 

Why  does  your  tender  palm  dissolve  in  dew?" — 

"  I  'm  wearied,"  said  fair  Lamia  :  "  leil  me  who 

Is  that  old  man  ?  I  caiuiot  bring  to  mind 

His  features :  Lycius!  wherefore  did  you  blind 

Yourself  from  his  quick  eyes  ?"  Lycius  replied, 

"  'Tis  ApoUoiiius  sage,  my  trusty  guide 

And  good  instructor ;  but  to-night  he  seems 

The  ghost  of  folly  haunting  my  sweet  dreams." 

While  yet  he  spake  they  had  arrived  before 
A  pillar'd  porch,  with  lofiy  porial  door, 
Where  hung  a  silver  lamp,  whose  phosphor  glow 
Rellected  in  the  slabbed  steps  below, 
^lild  as  a  star  in  water ;  for  so  new, 
And  so  i;nsullied  was  the  marble  hue. 
So  through  the  crystal  polish,  liquid  fine, 
Ran  the  dark  veins,  that  none  but  feet  divine 
Could  e'er  have  touched  there.     Sounds  yEolian 
Breathed  from  the  hinges,  as  the  ample  span 
Of  the  wide  doors  disclosed  a  place  unknown 
Some  time  to  any,  but  those  two  alone. 
And  a  few  Persian  mutes,  who  that  same  year 
Were  seen  about  the  markets :  none  knew  where 
They  could  inhabit ;  the  most  curious 
Were  foil'd,  who  watch'd  to  trace  them  to  their  house 
And  but  the  flitter-winged  verse  must  tell, 
For  truth's  sake,  what  woe  afterwards  befell, 
'T  would  humor  many  a  heart  to  leave  them  thus. 
Shut  from  the  busy  world  of  more  incredulous. 


PART  II. 

Love  in  a  hut,  with  water  and  a  crust, 

Is — Love,  forgive  us! — cinders,  ashes,  dust; 

Love  in  a  palace  is  perhaps  at  last 

More  grievous  torment  than  a  hermit's  fast : — 

That  is  a  doubtful  tale  from  fairy-land, 

Hard  for  the  non-elect  to  understand. 

Had  Lycius  lived  to  hand  his  story  down, 

He  might  have  given  the  moral  a  fresh  frown. 

Or  clench'd  it  quite :  but  too  short  was  their  bliss 

To  breed  distrust  and  hate,  that  make  the  soft  voice 

hiss. 
Besides,  there,  nightly,  with  terrific  glare. 
Love,  jealous  grown  of  so  complete  a  pair, 
Hover'd  and  buzz'd  his  wings,  with  fearful  roar. 
Above  the  lintel  of  their  chamber-door, 
And  down  the  passage  cast  a  glow  upon  the  floor. 

For  all  this  came  a  ruin :  side  by  side 
They  were  enthroned,  in  the  eventide, 
llpon  a  couch,  near  to  a  curtaining 
Whose  airy  texture,  from  a  golden  string, 
Floated  into  the  room,  and  let  apfiear 
Unveil'd  the  summer  heaven,  blue  and  clear. 
Betwixt  two  marble  shafts : — there  they  reposed. 
Where  use  had  made  it  sweet,  with  eyelids  closed, 
Saving  a  tyrhe  which  love  still  open  kept. 
That  they  might  see  each  other  while  they  almost 

slept ; 
\Mien  from  the  slope  side  of  a  suburb  hill. 
Deafening  the  swallow's  twitter,  came  a  thrill 
Of  trumpets — Lycius  started — the  sounds  fled, 
But  left  a  thought,  a  buzzing  in  his  head. 


For  the  first  time,  since  first  he  harbor'd  in 

That  purple-lined  palace  of  sweet  sin. 

His  spirit  pass'd  beyond  its  golden  bourn 

Into  the  noisy  world  almost  ibrsworn. 

The  lady,  ever  watchful,  penetrant. 

Saw  this  with  pain,  so  arguing  a  want 

Of  something  more,  more  than  her  empery 

Of  joys;  and  she  began  to  moan  and  sigh 

Because  he  mused  beyond  her,  knowing  well 

That  but  a  moment's  thought  is  passion's  passing-bell 

"  Why  do  you  sigh,  fair  creature  ?"  whisper'd  he  : 

"  Why  do  you  think  ?"  return'd  she  tenderly . 

"  You  have  deserted  me  ;  where  am  I  now  ? 

Not  in  your  heart  while  care  weighs  on  your  brow: 

No,  no,  you  have  dismissed  me ;  and  1  go 

From  your  breast  hou.seless :  ay,  it  must  be  so  " 

He  answer'd,  bending  to  her  open  eyes, 

Where  he  was  mirror'd  small  in  paradise, 

"  My  silver  planet,  both  of  eve  and  morn ! 

Why  will  you  plead  yourself  so  sad  forlorn, 

While  I  am  striving  how  to  fill  my  heart 

With  deeper  crimson,  and  a  double  smart  ? 

How  to  entangle,  trammel  up  and  snare 

Your  soul  in  mine,  and  labyrinth  you  there, 

Like  the  hid  scent  in  an  unbudded  rose  ? 

Ay,  a  sweet  kiss — you  see  your  mighty  woes. 

My  thoughts!  shall  I  unveil  them?  Listen  then! 

What  mortal  hath  a  prize,  that  other  men 

May  be  confounded  and  abash'd  withal. 

But  lets  it  sometimes  pace  abroad  majestical, 

And  triumph,  as  in  thee  I  should  rejoice 

Amid  the  hoarse  alarm  of  Corinth's  voice. 

Let  my  foes  choke,  and  my  friends  shout  afar, 

While  through  the  thronged  streets  your  bridal  cai 

Wheels  round  its  dazzling  spokes." — The  lady's  cheek 

Trembled  ;  she  nothing  said,  but,  pale  and  meek. 

Arose  and  knelt  before  him,  wept  a  rain 

Of  sorrows  at  his  words ;  at  last  with  pain 

Beseeching  him,  the  while  his  hand  she  wrung. 

To  change  his  purpose.     He  thereat  was  stung. 

Perverse,  with  stronger  fancy  to  reclaim 

Her  wild  and  timid  nature  to  his  aim ; 

Besides,  for  all  his  love,  in  selfdespite, 

Against  his  better  self,  he  took  delight 

Luxurious  in  her  sorrows,  soft  and  new 

His  passion,  cruel  grown,  took  on  a  hue 

Fierce  and  sanguineous  as  'twas  possible 

In  one  whose  brow  had  no  dark  veins  to  sw'ell 

Fine  was  the  mitigated  fury,  like 

Apollo's  presence  when  in  act  to  strike 

The  serpent — Ha,  the  serpent !  certes,  she 

Was  none.     She  burnt,  she  loved  the  tyranny. 

And,  all-subdued,  consented  to  the  hour 

When  to  the  bridal  he  should  lead  his  paramour. 

Whispering  in  midnight  silence,  said  the  youth, 

"  Sure  some  sweet  name  thou  hast,  though,  by  my 

truth, 
I  have  not  ask'd  it,  ever  thinking  thee 
Not  mortal,  but  of  heavenly  progeny. 
As  still  I  do.     Hast  any  mortal  name. 
Fit  appellation  for  this  dazzling  frame? 
Or  friends  or  kinsfolk  on  the  citied  earth. 
To  share  our  marriage-feast  and  nuptial  mirth?" 
"  I  have  no  friends,"  said  Lamia,  "  no,  not  one; 
My  presence  in  wide  Corinth  hardly  known  • 
My  parents'  bones  are  in  their  dusty  urns 
Sepulchred,  where  no  kindled  incense  bums, 
569 


38 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Seeing  all  their  luckless  race  are  dead,  save  me, 
And  I  neglect  the  holy  rite  for  thee. 
Even  as  you  list  invite  your  many  guests: 
But  if,  as  now  it  seems,  j'our  vision  rests 
With  any  pleasure  on  me,  do  not  bid 
Old  Apollonius — from  him  keep  me  hid." 
Lycius,  perplex'd  at  words  so  blind  and  blank, 
Made  close  inquiry ;  from  whose  touch  she  shrank, 
Feigning  a  sleep ;  and  he  to  the  dull  shade 
Of  deep  sleep  in  a  moment  was  betray'd. 

It  was  the  custom  then  to  bring  away 
The  bride  from  home  at  blushing  shut  of  day, 
Veil'd,  in  a  chariot,  heralded  along 
By  strewTi  flowers,  torches,  and  a  marriage  song, 
With  other  pageants  ;  but  this  fair  unknown 
Had  not  a  friend.     So  being  left  alone 
(Lycius  was  gone  to  summon  all  his  kin). 
And  knowing  surely  she  could  never  win 
His  foolish  heart  from  its  mad  pompousness, 
She  set  herself,  high-thoughted,  how  to  dress 
The  misery  in  fit  magnificence. 
She  did  so,  but  'tis  doubtful  how  and  whence 
Came,  and  who  were  her  subtle  servitors. 
About  the  halls,  and  to  and  from  the  doors. 
There  was  a  noise  of  wings,  till  in  short  space 
The  glowing  banquet-room  shone  with  wide-arched 

grace. 
A  haunting  music,  sole  perhaps  and  lone 
Supportress  of  the  fairy-roof,  made  moan 
Throughout,  as  fearful  the  whole  charm  might  fade. 
Fresh  carved  cedar,  mimicking  a  glade 
Of  palm  and  plantain,  met  from  either  side. 
High  in  the  midst,  in  honor  of  the  bride : 
Two  palms  and  then  two  plantains,  and  so  on, 
From  either  side  their  stems  branch'd  one  to  one 
All  down  the  aisled  palace ;  and  beneath  all 
There  ran  a  stream  of  lamps  straight  on  from  wall 

to  wall. 
So  canopied,  lay  an  untasted  feast 
Teeming  with  odors.     Lamia,  regal  drest, 
Silently  paced  about,  and  as  she  went, 
In  pale  contented  sort  of  discontent, 
Mission'd  her  viewless  servants  to  enrich 
The  fretted  splendor  of  each  nook  and  niche. 
Between  the  tree-stems,  marbled  plain  at  first, 
Came  jasper  panels ;  then,  anon,  there  burst 
Forth  creeping  imagery  of  slighter  trees. 
And  with  the  larger  wove  in  small  intricacies. 
Approving  all,  she  faded  at  self-will. 
And  shut  the  chamber  up,  close,  hush'd  and  still. 
Complete  and  ready  for  the  revels  rude, 
When  dreaded  guests  would  come  to  spoil  her  solitude. 

The  day  appear'd,  and  all  the  gossip  rout. 
O  senseless  Lycius  !  Madman!  wherefore  flout 
The  silent-blessing  fate,  warm  cloister'd  hours. 
And  show  to  common  eyes  the.se  secret  bowers  ? 
The  herd  approach'd ;  each  guest,  with  busy  brain, 
Arriving  at  the  portal,  gazed  amain. 
And  enter'd  marvelling :  for  they  knew  the  street, 
Remember'd  it  from  childhood  all  complete 
Without  a  gap,  yet  ne'er  before  had  seen 
That  royal  jjorch,  that  high-built  fair  demesne ; 
So  in  they  hurried  all,  mazed,  curious  and  keen: 
Save  one,  who  look'd  thereon  with  eye  severe. 
And  with  calm-planted  steps  walk'd  in  austere ; 


'Twas  Apwllonius  :  something  too  he  laugh'd. 
As  though  some  knotty  problem,  that  had  daft 
His  patient  thought,  had  now  begun  to  thaw. 
And  solve  and  melt:  'twas  just  as  he  foresaw. 

He  met  within  the  murmurous  vestibule 
His  young  disciple.     "  'Tis  no  common  rule, 
Lycius,"  said  he,  "  for  uninvited  guest 
To  force  himself  upon  you,  and  infest 
With  an  unbidden  presence  the  bright  throng 
Of  younger  friends ;  yet  must  I  do  this  wrong, 
And  you  forgive  me."     Lycius  blush'd,  and  led 
The  old  man  through  the  inner  doors  broad  spreaiJ , 
With  reconciling  words  and  courteous  mien 
Turning  into  sweet  milk  the  sophist's  spleen. 

Of  wealthy  lustre  was  the  banquet-room, 
Fill'd  with  pervading  brilliance  and  perfume : 
Before  each  lucid  panel  fuming  stood 
A  censer  fed  with  myrrh  and  spiced  wood, 
Each  by  a  sacred  tripod  held  aloft. 
Whose  slender  feet  wide-swerved  upon  the  soft 
Wool-woofed  carpets  :  fifty  wreaths  of  smoke 
From  fifty  censers  their  light  voyage  took 
To  the  high  roof,  still  mimick'd  as  they  rose 
Along  the  mirror'd  walls  by  twin-clouds  odorous. 
Twelve  sphered  tables,  by  silk  seats  insphered, 
High  as  the  level  of  a  man's  breast  rear'd 
On  libbard's  paws,  upheld  the  hea\"y  gold 
Of  cups  and  goblets,  and  the  store  thrice  told 
Of  Ceres'  horn,  and,  in  huge  vessels,  wine 
Came  from  the  gloomy  tun  with  merry  shine. 
Thus  loaded  with  a  feast,  the  tables  stood, 
Each  shrining  in  the  midst  the  image  of  a  God. 

When  in  an  antechamber  every  guest 
Had  felt  the  cold  full  sponge  to  pleasure  press'd, 
By  minist'ring  slaves,  upon  his  hands  and  feet. 
And  fragrant  oils  with  ceremony  meet 
Pour'd  on  his  hair,  they  all  moved  to  the  feast 
In  white  robes,  and  themselves  in  order  placed 
Around  the  silken  couches,  wondering 
Whence  all  this  miglity  cost  and  blaze  of  wealth 
could  spring. 

Soft  went  the  music  that  soft  air  along, 
While  fluent  Greek  a  vowell'd  under-song 
Kept  up  among  the  guests  discoursing  low 
At  first,  for  scarcely  was  the  wine  at  flow  ; 
But  when  the  happy  vintage  touch'd  their  brains. 
Louder  they  talk,  and  louder  come  the  strains 
Of  powerful  instruments : — the  gorgeous  dyes, 
The  space,  the  splendor  of  the  draperies. 
The  roof  of  awful  richness,  nectarous  cheer. 
Beautiful  slaves,  and  Lamia's  self,  appear. 
Now,  when  the  wine  has  done  its  rosy  deed. 
And  every  soul  from  human  trammels  freed, 
No  more  so  strange  :  for  merry  wine,  sweet  wine 
Will  make  Elysian  shades  not  too  fair,  too  divine. 
Soon  was  God  Bacchus  at  meridian  height  ; 
Flush'd  were  their  cheeks,  and  bright  eyes  doubl 

bright : 
Garlands  of  every  green,  and  every  scent 
From  vales  deflower'd,  or  forest  trees,  branch-rent. 
In  baskets  of  bright  osier'd  gold  were  brought 
High  as  the  handles  heap'd,  to  suit  the  thought 
570 


LAMIA. 


39 


Of  every  guest ;  that  each,  as  he  did  please, 
Might  fanry-lit  liis  brows,  silk-pillow'd  at  his  ease. 


Whal  wreath  for  Lamia  ?  What  for  Lycius  ? 
What  for  the  sago,  old  Apolloriius  ? 
I'pon  her  aching  forehead  be  there  hung 
The  leaves  of  willow  and  of  adder's  tongue; 
And  for  the  youth,  quick,  let  us  strip  for  him 
The  thyrsus,  that  his  watching  eyes  may  swim 
Into  forgetfulness  ;  and,  for  the  sage. 
Let  spear-grass  and  the  spiteful  thistle  wage 
War  on  his  temples.    Do  not  all  charms  fly 
At  the  mere  touch  of  cold  philosophy? 
There  was  an  awful  rainbow  once  in  heaven  : 
We  know-  her  woof,  her  texture ;  she  is  given 
In  the  dull  catalogue  of  common  things. 
Philosophy  will  clip  an  Angel's  wings, 
Conquer  all  mysteries  by  rule  and  line. 
Empty  the  haunted  air,  and  gnomed  mine — 
Unweave  a  rainbow,  as  it  erewhile  made 
The  tender-person'd  Lamia  melt  into  a  shade. 


By  her  glad  Lycius  sitting,  in  chief  place, 
Scarce  saw  in  all  ihe  room  another  face. 
Till   checking  his  love  trance,  a  cup  he  took 
FuU-brimm'd,  and  opposite  sent  forth  a  look 
'Cross  the  broad  table,  to  beseech  a  glance 
From  his  old  teacher's  wrinkled  countenance, 
And  pledge  him.    The  bald-head  philosopher 
Had  fix'd  his  eye,  without  a  twinkle  or  stir 
Full  on  the  alarmed  beauty  of  the  bride, 
Browbeating  her  fair  Ibrm,  and  troubling  her  sweet 

pride. 
Lycius  then  press'd  her  hand,  vviih  devout  touch, 
As  pale  it  lay  upon  the  rosy  couch : 
'Twas  icy,  and  the  cold  ran  through  his  veins ; 
Then  sudden  it  grew  hot,  and  all  the  pains 
Of  an  unnatural  heat  shot  to  his  heart. 
"Lamia,  what  means  this?  Wherefore  dost  thou  start  ? 
Know'st  thou  that  man?"   Poor  Lamia  answer'd  not. 
He  gazed  into  her  eyes,  and  not  a  jot 
Own'd  they  the  lovelorn  piteous  appeal : 
More,  more  he  gazed  :  his  human  senses  reel : 
Some  angry  spell  that  loveliness  absorbs; 
There  was  no  recognition  in  those  orbs. 
"  Lamia!"  he  cried — and  no  soft-toned  reply. 
The  many  heard,  and  the  loud  revelry 
Grew  hush  ;  the  slately  music  no  more  breathes; 
The  myrtle  sieken'd  in  a  thousand  wreaths. 
By  faint  degrees,  voice,  lute,  and  pleasure  ceased ; 
A  deadly  silence  step  by  step  increased. 
Until  it  seeni'd  a  horrid  presence  there, 
And  not  a  jnan  but  felt  the  terror  in  his  hair. 

Lamia  !"  he  shriek'd  :  and  nothing  but  the  shriek 
With  its  sad  echo  did  the  silence  break. 
"Begone,  Ibul  dream  !"  he  cried,  gazing  again 
111  the  bride's  face,  where  now  no  azure  vein 
42 


Wander'd  on  fair-spaced  temples ;  no  soft  bloom 

Misted  the  cheek;  no  passion  to  illume 

The  deep-recessed  vision  : — all  was  blight ; 

Lamia,  no  longer  fair,  there  sat  a  deadly  white. 

"  Shut,  shut  those  juggling  eyes,  thou  ruthless  man ! 

Turn  them  aside,  wrelch !  or  llie  righteous  ban 

Of  all  the  Gods,  who.se  drcvidful  images 

Here  represent  their  shadowy  presences, 

May  pierce  them  on  the  sudden  with  tlie  thorn 

Of  painful  blindness ;  leaving  thee  forlorn, 

In  trembling  dolage  to  the  feeblest  fright 

Of  conscience,  for  their  long-offended  might, 

For  all  thine  impious  proud-heart  sopliistries, 

Unlawful  magic,  and  enticing  lies. 

Corinthians !  look  upon  that  gray-beard  wretch  ! 

Mark  how,  possess'd,  his  lashless  eyelids  stretch 

Around  his  demon  eyes  !  Corinthians,  see ! 

My  sweet  bride  withers  at  their  potency." 

"  Fool !"  said  the  sophist,  in  an  under-tone 

Gruff  with  contempt ;  which  a  death-nighing  moan 

From  Lycius  answer'd,  as  heart-struck  and  lost. 

He  sank  supine  beside  the  aching  ghost. 

"  Fool !  Fool  I  "  repeated  he,  while  his  eyes  still 

Relented  not,  nor  moved  ;  "  from  every  ill 

Of  life  have  I  preserved  thee  lo  this  day. 

And  shall  I  see  thee  made  a  serpent's  prey?" 

Then  Lamia  breathed  death-breath  ;  the  sophist's  eye. 

Like  a  sharp  spear,  went  through  her  utterly, 

Keen,  cruel,  perceanf,  stinging :  she,  as  well 

As  her  weak  hand  could  any  meaning  tell, 

Motion'd  him  lo  be  silent ;  vainly  so. 

He  look'd  and  look'd  again  a  level — No ! 

"  A  Serpent !  "  echoed  he  ;  no  sooner  said. 

Than  with  a  fi-ightful  scream  she  vanished  : 

And  Lycius'  arms  were  empty  of  delight. 

As  were  his  limbs  of  life,  from  that  same  night. 

On  the  high  couch  he  lay  I — his  friends  came  round — 

Supported  him — no  pulse,  or  breath  they  found. 

And,  in  its  marriage  robe,  the  heavy  body  wound.* 


*  "  Pliilostratus,  in  his  fourth  book  de  Vita  j3pollonii, 
hath  a  memorable  instance  in  this  kind,  which  I  may  not 
omit,  of  one  Meiiippus  Lycius,  a  young  man  twenty-five 
years  of  age.  that  going  betwixt  Cenchreas  and  Coriiitli, 
met  such  a  phantasm  in  the  haliit  of  a  fair  gentlewoman, 
v/hich  taking  him  by  the  liand,  carried  him  home  to  her 
house,  in  the  suburbs  of  Corinth,  anil  told  him  she  was  a 
Phoenician  by  birth,  and  if  hi;  would  tarry  with  her,  he 
should  hear  her  sing  and  play,  and  drink  such  wine  as 
never  any  drank,  and  no  nnui  should  molest  hirn  ;  but  she, 
being  fair  and  lovely,  would  die  with  him,  that  was  fair 
and  lovely  to  behold.  The  young  man,  a  philosopher, 
otherwise  staid  and  discreet,  able  to  moderate  his  passions, 
though  not  this  of  love,  tarried  with  her  a  while  to  his 
great  content,  and  at  last  married  her,  to  whose  wedding, 
amongst  other  guests,  came  Apollonius;  who,  by  some 
probable  conjectures,  found  her  out  to  be  a  serpent,  a 
lamia  ;  and  that  all  her  furniture  was,  like  Tantalus'  gold, 
described  by  Homer,  no  substance  but  intire  illusions. 
When  she  saw  herself  descri(;d,  she  wept,  and  desired 
Apollonius  to  be  silent,  but  he  would  not  be  moved,  and, 
thereupon  she,  plate,  house,  and  all  that  was  in  it,  van- 
ished in  an  instant :  many  thousands  look  notice  of  this 
fact,  for  it  uas  done  in  the  midst  of  Greece." — lit-RTON'a 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  fart  3,  Sect.  2,  Mcmb.  I,  Subs.  I. 

571 


40 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  STORY  FROM  BOCCACCIO. 


I. 

Fair  Isabel,  poor  simple  Isabel ! 

Lorenzo,  a  young  palmer  in  Love's  eye ! 
They  could  not  in  the  self-same  mansion  dwell 

Without  some  stir  of  heart,  some  malady; 
They  could  not  sit  at  meals  but  feel  how  well 

It  soothed  each  to  be  the  other  by ; 
They  could  not,  sure,  beneath  the  same  roof  sleep 
But  to  each  other  dream,  and  nightly  weep. 

II. 

With  every  morn  their  love  grew  tenderer. 
With  every  eve  deeper  and  tenderer  still  ; 

lie  might  not  in  house,  field,  or  garden  stir. 
But  her  full  shape  would  all  his  seeing  fill  ; 

And  his  continual  voice  was  pleasanter 
To  her,  than  noise  of  trees  or  hidden  rill ; 

Her  lute-string  gave  an  echo  of  his  name, 

She  spoilt  her  half-done  broidery  with  the  same. 

HI. 

He  knew  whose  gentle  hand  was  at  the  latch, 
Before  the  door  had  given  her  to  his  eyes; 

And  from  her  chamber-window  he  would  catch 
Her  beauty  farther  than  the  falcon  spies ; 

And  constant  as  her  vespers  would  he  watch, 
Because  her  face  was  turn'd  to  the  same  skies ; 

And  with  sick  longing  all  the  night  outwear, 

To  hear  her  morning-step  upon  the  stair. 

IV. 

A  whole  long  month  of  May  in  this  sad  plight 
Made  their  cheeks  paler  by  the  break  of  June  : 

•To-morrow  will  I  bow  to  my  delight. 
To-morrow  will  I  ask  my  lady's  boon." — 

"  O  may  I  never  see  another  night, 

Lorenzo,  if  thy  lips  breathe  not  love's  tune." — 

So  spake  they  to  their  pillows ;  but,  alas, 

Honeyless  days  and  days  did  he  let  pass ; 


Until  sweet  Isabella's  untouch'd  cheek 
Fell  sick  within  the  rose's  just  domain. 

Fell  thin  as  a  young  mother's,  who  doth  seek 
By  every  lull  to  coo]  her  infant's  pain : 

"  How  ill  she  is,"  said  he,  "  I  may  not  speak, 
And  yet  I  will,  and  tell  my  love  all  plain: 

If  looks  speak  love-laws,  I  will  drink  her  tears, 

And  at  the  least  will  startle  off  her  cares." 

VI. 

.  So  said  he  one  fair  morning,  and  all  day 
His  heart  beat  awl^illy  against  his  side; 
And  to  his  heart  he  inwardly  did  pray 

For  power  to  speak ;  but  still  the  ruddy  tide 
Stifled  his  voice,  and  pulsed  resolve  away — 
Fever'd  his  high  conceit  of  such  a  bride. 
Yet  brought  him  lo  the  meekness  of  a  child  : 
.Alas!  when  passion  is  both  meek  and  wild  I 


VII. 
So  once  more  he  had  waked  and  anguished 

A  dreary  night  of  love  and  misery. 
If  Isabel's  quick  eye  had  not  been  wed 

To  every  symbol  on  his  forehead  high ; 
She  saw  it  waxing  very  pale  and  dead. 

And  straight  all  flush'd  ;  so,  lisped  tenderly, 
"  Lorenzo  I " — here  she  ceased  her  timid  quest, 
But  in  her  tone  and  look  he  read  the  rest. 

VIIL 

"  O  Isabella  !  I  can  half  perceive 

That  I  may  speak  my  grief  into  thine  ear ; 

If  thou  didst  ever  any  thing  believe. 

Believe  how  I  love  thee,  believe  how  near 

My  soul  is  to  its  doom :  I  would  not  grieve 

Thy  hand  by  tuiwelcome  pressing,  would  not  fear 

Thine  eyes  by  gazing;  but  I  cannot  live 

Another  night,  and  not  my  passion  shrive. 

IX. 

"  Love !  thou  art  leading  me  from  wintry  cold, 
Lady!  thou  leadest  me  to  summer  clime. 

And  1  must  taste  the  blossoms  that  unfold 

In  its  ripe  warmth  this  gracious  morning  time.' 

So  said,  his  erewhile  timid  lips  grew  bold, 
And  poesied  with  hers  in  dewy  rhyme  : 

Great  bliss  was  with  them,  and  great  happiness 

Grew,  like  a  lusty  flower  in  June's  caress. 


Parting  they  seem'd  to  tread  upon  the  air, 
Twin  roses  by  the  zephyr  blown  apart 

Only  to  meet  again  more  close,  and  share 
The  inviard  fragrance  of  each  other's  heart 

She,  to  her  chamber  gone,  a  ditty  fair 

Sang,  of  delit:ious  love  and  honey'd  dart ; 

He  with  light  steps  went  up  a  western  hill. 

And  bade  the  sun  farewell,  and  joy'd  his  fill. 

XI. 
All  close  they  met  again,  before  the  dusk 

Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant  veil. 
All  close  they  met,  all  eves,  before  the  dusk 

Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant  veil, 
Close  in  a  bower  of  hyacinth  and  musk, 

Unknown  of  any,  free  from  whispering  tale 
Ah!  better  had  it  been  for  ever  so. 
Than  idle  ears  should  pleasure  in  their  woe 

XII. 

Were  they  unhappy  then  ? — It  cannot  be — 
Too  many  tears  tor  lovers  have  been  shed, 

Too  many  sighs  give  we  to  them  in  fee. 
Too  much  of  pity  after  they  are  dead. 

Too  many  doleful  stories  do  we  see, 

Wliose  matter  in  bright  gold  were  best  be  read ' 

Except  in  such  a  page  where  Theseus'  spouse 

Over  the  pathless  waves  towards  him  bows. 
572 


ISABELLA. 


41 


XIII. 
But,  for  the  general  award  of  love, 

The  liti/.e  sweet  doth  kill  much  bitterness ; 
Though  Dido  silent  is  in  under-grove. 

And  Isabella's  was  a  great  distress. 
Though  young  Lorenzo  in  warm  Indian  clove 

Was  not  embalm'd,  this  truth  is  not  the  less — 
Even  bees,  the  little  almsmen  of  spring-bowers, 
Know  there  is  richest  juice  in  poison-Hovvers. 

XIV. 
With  her  two  brothers  this  fair  lady  dwelt, 

Enriched  from  ancestral  mereliandise. 
And  for  them  many  a  weary  hand  did  swelt 

In  torched  mines  and  noisy  factories, 
And  many  once  proud-quiver'd  loins  did  melt 

In  blood  from  stinging  whip; — with  hollow  eyes 
Many  all  day  in  dazzling  river  stood, 
To  take  the  rich-ored  driftings  of  the  flood. 

XV. 
For  them  the  Ceylon  diver  held  his  breath. 

And  went  all  naked  to  the  hungry  shark ; 
For  them  his  ears  gush'd  blood  ;  for  them  in  death 

The  seal  on  the  cold  ice  with  piteous  bark 
Lay  full  of  darts ;  for  them  alone  did  seethe 

A  thousand  men  in  troubles  wide  and  dark  ■ 
Half-ignorant,  they  turn'd  an  easy  wheel. 
That  set  sharp  raclis  at  work,  to  pinch  and  peel. 

XVI. 

Why  were  they  proud  ?  Because  their  marble  founts 
Gush'd  with  more  pride  than  do  a  wretch's  tears  ?- 

Why  were  they  proud  ?  Because  fair  orange-mounts 
Were  of  more  soft  ascent  than  lazar-stairs  ? 

Why  were  they  proud  ?  Because  red-lined  accounts 
Were  richer  than  the  songs  of  Grecian  years  ? 

Why  were  they  proud  ?  again  we  ask  aloud, 

Why  in  the  name  of  Glory  were  they  proud  ? 

XVII. 

Yet  were  these  Florentines  as  self-retired 
In  hungry  pride  and  gainful  cowardice. 

As  two  close  Hebrews  in  that  land  inspired, 
Paled  in  and  vineyarded  from  beggar-spies ; 

The  hawks  of  ship-mast  forests — the  unlired 
And  pannier'd  mules  for  ducats  and  old  lies — 

Quick  cat's-paws  on  the  generous  stray-away, — 

Great  wits  in  Spanish,  Tuscan,  and  Malay. 

XVIII. 
How  was  it  these  same  leger-men  could  spy 

Fair  Isabella  in  her  downy  nest? 
How  could  they  find  out  in  Lorenzo's  eye 

A  straying  from  his  toil  >.    Hot  Egypt's  pest 
Into  their  vision  covetous  and  sly  ! 

How  could  these  money-bags  see  east  and  west  ?— 
Yet  so  they  did — and  every  dealer  fair 
Must  see  behind,  as  doth  the  hunted  hare. 

XIX. 

O  eloquent  and  famed  Boccaccio ! 

Of  thee  we  now  should  ask  forgiving  boon. 
And  of  thy  spicy  myrtles  as  they  blow, 

And  of  thy  roses  amorous  of  the  moon. 
And  of  thy  lilies,  that  do  paler  grow 

Now  they  can  no  more  hear  thy  ghittern's  tune, 
For  venturing  syllables  that  ill  beseem 
The  quiet  glooms  of  such  a  piteous  theme. 


XX. 

Grant  thou  a  pardon  here,  and  then  the  tale 

Shall  move  on  soberly,  as  it  is  meet ; 
There  is  no  other  crime,  no  mad  assail 

To  make  old  prose  in  modern  rhyme  more  sweet : 
But  it  is  done — succeed  the  verse  or  fail — 

To  honor  thee,  and  thy  gone  spirit  greet; 
To  stead  thee  as  a  verso  in  English  tongue, 
An  echo  of  thee  in  the  north-wind  sung. 

XXI. 

These  brethren  having  found  by  many  signs 
What  love  Lorenzo  for  their  sister  had. 

And  how  she  loved  him  too,  each  unconfines 
His  bitter  thoughts  to  other,  well-nigh  mad 

That  he,  the  servant  of  their  trade  designs. 

Should  in  their  sister's  love  be  blithe  and  glad, 

When  't  was  their  plan  to  coax  her  by  degrees 

To  some  high  noble  and  his  olive-trees. 

XXII. 

And  many  a  jealous  conference  had  they. 
And  many  times  they  bit  their  lips  alone. 

Before  they  fix'd  upon  a  surest  way 

To  make  the  youngster  for  his  crime  atone ; 

And  at  the  last,  these  men  of  cruel  clay 
Cut  Mercy  with  a  sharp  knife  to  the  bone; 

For  they  resolved  in  some  forest  dim 

To  kill  Lorenzo,  and  there  bury  him. 

XXIII. 

So  on  a  pleasant  morning,  as  he  leant 

Into  the  sunrise  o'er  the  balustrade 
Of  the  garden-terrace,  towards  him  they  bent 

Their  footing  through  the  dews ;  and  to  him  said, 
"  You  seem  there  in  the  quiet  of  content, 

Lorenzo,  and  we  are  most  loth  to  invade 
Calm  speculation ;  but  if  you  are  wise. 
Bestride  your  steed  while  cold  is  in  the  skies. 

XXIV. 

"  To-day  we  purpose,  ay,  this  hour  we  mount 
To  spur  three  leagues  towards  the  Apennine ; 

Come  down,  we  pray  thee,  ere  the  hot  sun  count 
His  dewy  rosary  on  the  eglantine." 

Lorenzo,  courteously  as  he  was  wont, 

Bow'd  a  fair  greeting  to  these  serpents'  whine ; 

And  went  in  haste,  to  get  in  readiness. 

With  belt,  and  spur,  and  bracing  huntsman's  dress. 

XXV. 

And  as  he  to  the  court-yard  pass'd  along, 

Each  third  step  did  he  pause,  and  listen'd  oft 

If  he  could  hear  his  lady's  matin-song, 
Or  the  light  whisper  of  her  footstep  soft ; 

And  as  he  thus  over  his  passion  hung. 
He  heard  a  laugh  full  musical  aloft; 

When,  looking  up,  he  saw  her  features  bright 

Smile  through  an  in-door  lattice,  all  delight. 

XXVL 

"  Love,  Isabel ! "  said  he,  "  I  was  in  pain 

Lest  I  should  miss  to  bid  thee  a  good-morrow : 

Ah !  what  if  I  should  lose  thee,  when  so  fain 
I  am  to  stifle  all  the  heavy  sorrow 

Of  a  poor  three  hours'  absence  ?  but  we'll  gain 
Out  of  the  amorous  dark  what  day  doth  borrow 

Good-bye !  I  'II  soon  be  back." — "  Good-bye  I"  said  she 

And  as  he  went  she  chanted  merrily. 
74  573 


42 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXVII. 

So  the  two  brothers  and  their  murder'd  man 

Rode  past  lair  Florence,  to  where  Arno's  stream 

Gurgles  through  straiten'd  banks,  and  still  doth  fan 
Itself  with  dancing  bulrush,  and  the  bream 

Keeps  head  against  the  freshets.    Sick  and  wan 
The  brothers'  faces  in  the  ford  did  seem, 

Lorenzo's  flush  with  love. — They  pass'd  the  water 

Into  a  forest  quiet  for  the  slaughter. 

XXVIII. 

There  was  Lorenzo  slain  and  buried  in. 

There  in  that  forest  did  his  great  love  cease ; 

Ah !  when  a  soul  doth  thus  its  freedom  win, 
It  aches  in  loneliness — is  ill  at  peace 

As  the  break-covert  blood-hounds  of  such  sin  : 
They  dipp'd  their  swords  in  the  water,  and  did  tease 

Their  horses  homeward,  with  convulsed  spur, 

Each  richer  by  his  being  a  murderer. 

XXIX. 

They  told  their  sister  how,  with  sudden  speed, 
Lorenzo  had  ta'en  ship  for  foreign  lands, 

Because  of  some  great  urgency  and  need 
In  their  alfairs,  requiring  trusty  hands. 

Poor  girl !  put  on  thy  stifling  widow's  weed. 

And  'scape  at  once  from  Hope's  accursed  bands  ; 

To-day  thou  wilt  not  see  him,  nor  to-morrow, 

And  the  next  day  will  be  a  day  of  sorrow. 

XXX. 

She  weeps  alone  for  pleasures  not  to  be ; 

Sorely  she  W'ept  until  the  night  came  on. 
And  then,  instead  of  love,  O  misery  ! 

She  brooded  o'er  the  luxury  alone : 
His  image  in  the  dusk  she  seem'd  to  see, 

And  to  the  silence  made  a  gentle  moan. 
Spreading  her  perfect  arms  upon  the  air, 
And  on  her  couch  low  murmuring,  "Where  ?  0  where  ?" 

XXXI. 

But  Selfishness,  Love's  cousin,  held  not  long 

Its  fiery  vigil  in  her  single  breast ; 
She  fretted  for  the  golden  hour,  and  hung 

Upon  the  time  with  feverish  unrest — 
Not  long — for  soon  into  her  heart  a  throng 

Of  higher  occupants,  a  richer  zest. 
Came  tragic;  passion  not  to  be  subdued, 
And  sorrow  for  her  love  in  travels  rude. 

XXXIL 

In  the  mid-days  of  autumn,  on  their  eves 
The  breath  of  Winter  conies  from  far  away, 

And  the  sick  west  continually  bereaves 
Of  some  gold  tinge,  and  plays  a  roundelay 

Of  death  among  the  bushes  and  the  leaves. 
To  make  all  bare  before  he  dares  to  stray 

From  his  north  cavern.    So  sweet  Isabel 

By  gradual  decay  frorh  beauty  fell, 

xxxin. 

Because  Lorenzo  came  not.    Oftentimes 

She  ask'd  her  brothers,  with  an  eye  all  pale, 

Striving  to  be  itself,  what  dungeon  climes 

Could  keep  him  off  so  long  ?  They  spake  a  tale 

Time  after  time,  to  quiet  her.    Their  crimes 

Came  on  them,  like  a  smoke  from  Hinnom's  vale  ; 

And  every  night  in  dreams  they  groan'd  aloud, 

To  see  their  sister  in  her  snowy  shroud. 


XXXIV. 

And  she  had  died  in  drowsy  ignorance. 

But  for  a  thing  more  deadly  dark  than  all ; 

It  came  like  a  fierce  potion,  drunk  by  chance. 
Which  saves  a  sick  man  from  the  fealher'd  pali 

For  some  few  gasping  moments ;  like  a  lance. 
Waking  an  Indian  from  his  cloudy  hall 

With  cruel  pierce,  and  bringing  him  again 

Sense  of  the  gnawing  fire  at  heart  and  brain. 

XXXV. 

It  was  a  vision. — In  the  drowsy  gloom. 
The  dull  of  midnight,  at  her  couch's  foot 

Lorenzo  stood,  and  wept:  the  forest  tomb 

Had  niarr'd  his  glossy  hair  which  once  could  shoot 

Lustre  into  the  sun,  and  put  cold  doom 
Upon  his  lips,  and  taken  the  soft  lute 

From  his  lorn  voice,  and  past  his  loamed  ears 

Had  made  a  miry  channel  for  his  tears. 

XXXVI. 

Strange  sound  it  was,  when  the  pale  shadow  spake 
For  there  was  striving,  in  its  piteous  tongue, 

To  speak  as  when  on  earth  it  was  awake, 
And  Isabella  on  its  music  hung : 

Languor  there  was  in  it,  and  tremulous  shake. 
As  in  a  palsied  Druid's  harp  unstrung ; 

And  through  it  moan'd  a  ghostly  under-song. 

Like  hoarse  night-gusts  sepulchral  briers  among. 

XXXVII. 

Its  eyes,  though  wild,  were  still  all  dewy  bi'ight 
With  love,  and  kept  all  phantom  fear  aloof 

From  the  poor  girl  by  magic  of  their  light. 
The  while  it  did  unthread  the  horrid  woof 

Of  the  late  darken'd  time, — the  murderous  spite 
Of  pride  and  avarice, — the  dark  pine  roof 

In  the  forest, — and  the  sodden  turfed  dell. 

Where,  without  any  word,  from  stabs  he  fell. 

XXXVIII. 

Saying  moreover,  "  Isabel,  my  sweet ! 

Red  whortle-berries  droop  above  my  head. 
And  a  large  flint-stone  weighs  upon  my  feet ; 

Around  me  beeches  and  high  chestnuts  shed 
Their  leaves  and  prickly  nuts ;  a  sheep-fold  bleat 

Conies  from  beyond  the  river  to  my  bed : 
Go,  shed  one  tear  upon  my  iieather-bloom, 
And  it  shall  comfort  me  within  the  tomb. 

XXXIX. 

"  I  am  a  shadow  now,  alas  !  alas  ! 

Upon  the  skirts  of  human-nature  dwelling 
Alone :  I  chant  alone  the  holy  mass. 

While  little  sounds  of  life  are  round  me  knelling 
And  glossy  bees  at  noon  do  field  ward  pass. 

And  many  a  chapel-bell  the  hour  is  telling. 
Paining  me  through :  those  sounds  grow  strange  to  mo 
And  thou  art  distant  in  Humanity. 

XL. 
"  I  know  what  was,  I  feel  full  well  what  is, 

And  I  should  rage,  if  spirits  could  go  mad  ; 
Though  I  forget  the  taste  of  earthly  bliss. 

That  paleness  warms  my  grave,  as  though  I  had 
A  Seraph  chosen  from  the  bright  abyss 

To  be  my  spouse :  thy  paleness  makes  me  glad  • 
Thy  beauty  grows  upon  me,  and  I  feel 
A  greater  love  through  all  my  essence  steal." 
674 


ISABELLA. 


43 


XLI. 

The  Spirit  mourn'd  "  Adieti ! " — dissolved,  and  left 
The  alom  darkness  in  a  slow  turmoil ; 

As  when  of  healthful  midnight  sleep  bereft, 
Thinking  on  rugged  hours  and  fruitless  toil. 

We  put  our  eyes  into  a  pillowy  cleft, 

And  see  the  spangly  gloom  froth  up  and  boil : 

't  made  sad  Isabella's  eyelids  ache. 

And  in  the  dawn  she  started  up  awake ; 

XLII. 
*  Ha !  ha ! "  said  she,  "  I  knew  not  this  hard  life, 

I  thought  the  worst  was  simple  misery; 
I  thought  some  Fate  with  pleasure  or  with  strife 

Portion'd  us — happy  days,  or  else  to  die ; 
But  there  is  crime — a  brother's  bloody  knife  ! 

Sweet  Spirit,  thou  hast  scrhool'd  my  infancy : 
I'll  visit  thee  for  this,  and  kiss  thine  eyes. 
And  greet  thee  morn  and  even  in  the  skies." 

XLIII. 

VVlien  the  full  morning  came,  she  had  devised 
How  she  might  secret  to  the  forest  hie  ; 

How  she  might  find  the  clay,  so  dearly  prized, 
And  sing  to  it  one  latest  lullaby  ; 

How  her  short  absence  might  be  unsurmised, 
While  she  the  inmost  of  the  dream  would  try. 

Resolved,  she  took  with  her  an  aged  nurse, 

And  went  into  that  dismal  forest-hearse. 

XLIV. 
See,  as  they  creep  along  the  river-side 

How  she  doth  whisper  to  that  aged  Dame, 
And,  after  looking  round  the  champaign  wide. 

Shows  her  a  knife.—"  What  feverous  hectic  flame 
Burns  in  thee,  child  ? — What  good  can  thee  betide. 

That  thou  shouldst  smile  again  I " — The  evening 
came. 
And  they  had  found  Lorenzo's  earthy  bed  ; 
The  flint  was  there,  the  berries  at  his  head. 

XLV. 

Wlio  hath  not  loiter'd  in  a  green  church-yard. 
And  let  his  spirit,  like  a  demon-mole. 

Work  through  the  clayey  soil  and  gravel  hard. 
To  see  skull,  cofRn'd  bones,  and  funeral  stole  ; 

Pitjnng  each  form  that  hungry  Death  hath  marr'd, 
And  filling  it  once  more  with  human  soul  ? 

Ah !  this  is  holiday  to  what  was  felt 

When  Isabella  by  Lorenzo  knelt. 

XLVI. 

She  gazed  into  the  fresh-thrown  mould,  as  though. 
One  glance  did  fully  all  its  secrets  tell ; 

Clearly  she  saw,  as  other  eyes  would  know 
Pale  limbs  at  bottom  of  a  crystal  well  ; 

LTpon  the  murderous  spot  she  seem'd  to  grow, 
Like  to  a  native  lily  of  the  dell : 

Then  with  her  knife,  all  sudden,  she  began 

To  dig  more  fervently  than  misers  can. 

XLVIL 

Soon  she  turn'd  up  a  soiled  glove,  whereon 
Her  silk  had  play'd  in  purple  ))hnniasies  ; 

She  kiss'd  it  with  a  lip  more  chill  than  sione, 
And  put  it  in  her  bosom,  where  it  dries 

And  freezes  utterly  unio  the  l>one 

Those  dainties  made  to  still  an  infant's  cries : 

Then  'gan  she  work  again,  nor  stay'd  her  care, 

But  to  throw  back  at  times  her  veiling  hair. 
42*  3N 


XLVI  11. 
That  old  nurse  stood  beside  her  wondering, 

Until  her  heart  felt  pity  to  the  core 
At  sight  of  such  a  dismal  laboring. 

And  so  she  kneeled,  with  her  locks  all  hoar. 
And  put  her  lean  hands  to  the  horrid  thing  : 

Three  houre  they  labor'd  at  this  travail  sore ; 
At  last  they  felt  the  kernel  of  the  grave. 
And  Isabella  did  not  slatip  and  rave. 

XLIX. 

Ah!  wherefore  all  this  wormy  circumstance? 

Why  linger  at  the  yawning  tomb  so  long  ? 
O  for  the  gentleness  of  old  Romance, 

The  simple  plaining  of  a  minstrel's  song! 
Fair  reader,  at  the  old  tale  take  a  glance. 

For  here,  in  truth,  it  doth  not  well  belong 
To  speak : — O  turn  thee  to  the  very  tale. 
And  taste  the  music  of  that  vision  pale. 

L. 

With  duller  steel  than  the  Persean  sword 
They  cut  away  no  formless  monster's  head. 

But  one,  whose  gentleness  did  well  accord 

With  death,  as  life.    The  ancient  harps  havt  said 

Love  never  dies,  but  lives,  immortal  Lord  : 
If  Love  impersonate  was  ever  dead, 

Pale  Isabella  kiss'd  it,  and  low  moan'd. 

'Twas  love;  cold, — dead  indeed,  but  not  detlironed. 

LI. 

In  anxious  secrecy  they  took  it  home. 
And  then  the  prize  was  all  for  Isabel : 

She  calm'd  its  wild  hair  with  a  golden  comb. 
And  all  around  each  eye's  sepulchral  cell 

Pointed  each  fringed  lash ;  the  smeared  loam 
With  tears,  as  chilly  as  a  dripping  well. 

She  drench'd  away  : — and  still  she  comb'd,  and  kept 

Sighing  all  day — and  still  she  kiss'd,  and  wept. 

LII. 
Then  in  a  silken  scarf, — sweet  with  the  dews 

Of  precious  flowers  pluck'd  in  Araby, 
And  divine  liquids  come  with  odorous  ooze 

Through  the  cold  serpent-pipe  refreshfully, — 
She  wrapp'd  it  up ;  and  for  its  tomb  did  choose 

A  garden-spot,  wherein  she  laid  il  by. 
And  cover'd  it  with  mould,  and  o'er  it  set 
Sweet  Basil,  which  her  tears  kept  ever  wet. 

LIII. 

And  she  forgot  the  stars,  the  moon,  and  sun, 
And  she  forgot  the  blue  above  the  trees. 

And  she  forgot  the  dells  where  waters  run, 
And  she  forgot  the  chilly  autumn  breeze ; 

She  had  no  knowledge  when  the  day  w^.s  done, 
And  the  new  morn  she  saw  not :  but  iu  peace 

Hung  over  her  sweet  Basil  evermore, 

And  moisten'd  it  with  tears  unto  the  Cute 

LIV. 
And  so  she  ever  fed  it  with  thin  tears. 

Whence  thick,  and  green,  and  oeaatiful  it  grew 
So  that  it  smelt  more  balmy  than  us  peers 
Of  Basil-tufis  in  Florence;  for  it  drew 
Nature  besides,  and  life,  from  human  fears. 

From  the  fast-mouldering   head  there  shut  from 
view : 
So  that  the  jewel,  safely  casketed. 
Came  forth,  and  irr  perfumed  leafits  spread. 
575 


44 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


LV. 

O  Melancholy,  linger  here  awhile ! 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly ! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  from  some  sombre  isle, 

Unknown,  Lethean,  sigh  to  us — 0  sigh  ! 
Spirits  in  grief,  lift  up  your  heads,  and  smile; 

Lift  I  p  your  heads,  sweet  Spirits,  heavily, 
And  make  a  pale  light  in  your  cypress  glooms, 
Tinting  with  silver  wan  your  marble  tombs. 

LVL 

Moan  hither,  all  ye  syllables  of  woe, 

From  the  deep  throat  of  sad  Melpomene ! 

Through  bronzed  lyre  in  tragic  order  go, 
And  touch  the  strings  into  a  mystery  ; 

Sound  mournfully  upon  the  winds  and  low ; 
For  simple  Isabel  is  soon  to  be 

Among  the  dead  :  she  withers,  like  a  palm 

Cut  by  an  Indian  for  its  juicy  balm. 

LVII. 

O  leave  the  palm  to  wither  by  itself; 

Let  not  quick  Winter  chill  its  dying  hour! — 
It  may  not  be — those  Baalites  of  pelf. 

Her  brethren,  noted  the  continual  shower 
From  her  dead  eyes;  and  many  a  curious  elf, 

Among  her  kindred,  woiider'd  that  such  dower 
Of  youth  and  beauty  should  be  thrown  aside 
By  one  niark'd  out  to  be  a  Noble's  bride. 

LVIIL 

And,  furthermore,  her  brethren  wonder'd  much 
Why  she  sat  drooping  by  the  Basil  green, 

And  why  it  flourish'd,  as  by  magic  touch ; 

Greatly  they  wonder'd  what  the  thing  might  mean  : 

They  could  not  surely  give  belief  that  such 
A  very  nothing  would  have  power  to  wean 

Her  from  her  own  fair  youth,  and  pleasures  gay, 

And  even  remembrance  of  her  love's  delay. 

LIX. 

Therefore  they  w-atch'd  a  time  when  they  might  sift 
This  hidden  whim  ;  and  long  they  watch'd  in  vain ; 

For  seldom  did  she  go  to  chapel-shrift. 
And  seldom  felt  she  any  hunger-pain ; 


And  when  she  left,  she  hurried  back,  as  swift 

As  bird  on  wing  to  breast  its  eggs  again ; 
And,  patient  as  a  hen-bird,  sat  her  there 
Beside  her  Basil,  weeping  through  her  hair. 

LX. 

Yet  they  contrived  to  steal  the  Basil-pot, 

And  to  examine  it  in  secret  place  : 
The  thing  was  vile  with  green  and  livid  spot, 

And  yet  ihey  knew  it  was  Lorenzo's  face 
The  guerdon  of  their  murder  they  had  got, 

And  so  left  Florence  in  a  moment's  space, 
Never  to  turn  again. — Away  they  went. 
With  blood  Upon  their  heads,  to  banishment. 

LXI. 

0  Melancholy,  turn  thine  eyes  away ! 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly ! 
0  Echo,  Echo,  on  some  other  day, 

From  isles  Lethean,  sigh  to  us — O  sigh  ! 
Spirits  of  grief,  sing  not  your  "  Well-a-way  !" 

For  Isabel,  sweet  Isabel,  will  die  ; 
Will  die  a  death  too  lone  and  incomplete, 
Now  they  have  ta'en  away  her  Basil  sweet. 

Lxn. 

Piteous  she  look'd  on  dead  and  senseless  things, 
Asking  for  her  lost  Basil  amorously ; 

And  with  melodious  chuckle  in  the  strings 
Of  her  lorn  voice,  she  oftentimes  would  cry 

After  the  Pilgrim  in  his  wanderings. 

To  ask  him  where  her  Basil  was ;  and  why 

'T  was  hid  from  her :  "  For  cruel  't  is,"  said  she, 

"  To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me." 

Lxm. 

And  so  she  pined,  and  so  she  died  forlorn, 

Imploring  for  her  Basil  to  the  last. 
No  heart  was  there  in  Florence  but  did  mourn 

In  pity  of  her  love,  so  overcast. 
And  a  sad  ditty  of  this  story  born 

From  mouth  to  mouth  through  all  the  country  pass'd 
Still  is  the  burthen  sung — "  O  cruelty. 
To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me  !" 


Kilt  Sijr  of  St*  ^Qntf$, 


I. 

St.  Agnes'  Eve — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold  : 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers,  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he 
saith. 

n. 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man  ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meager,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees  : 


The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side,  seem  to  freeze 
Imprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails  : 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries, 
He  passeth  by ;  and  h's  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 

HI. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden  tongue 
Flatter'd  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor ; 
But  no — already  had  his  death-bell  rung ; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung; 
His  w-as  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve : 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve. 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners'  sake  to  grieve- 
57G 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


4$ 


IV. 
That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft  ,- 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide : 
The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride. 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests: 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed. 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests, 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise  on 
their  breasts. 


At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array. 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The  brain,  new  stufi^'d,  in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away, 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care. 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare. 

VI. 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  Virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey'd  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright  ; 
As,  supperlcss  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white  ; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they  desire. 

VII. 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline: 
The  music,  yearning  lilce  a  God  in  pain. 
She  scarcely  heard  :  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all :  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 
And  back  retired ;  not  cool'd  by  high  disdain. 
But  she  saw  not :  her  heart  was  otherwhere : 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the  year. 

VIII. 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short: 
The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand':  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throng'd  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  dellaiice,  hale,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink'd  with  fairy  fancy;  all  amort. 
Save  to  St.  Agnes,  and  her  lanilis  unshorn. 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  lo-niorrow  mom. 

IX. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  linger'd  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors. 
Had  come  young  Porphyrn,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.      Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Bultress'd  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedio  is  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in  sooth  such 
things  have  been 


X. 

He  ventures  in  :  let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart.  Love's  fev'rous  citadel. 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes 
Hyena  foernen,  and  hot-blooded  lords. 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  how) 
Against  his  lineage  :  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul. 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 

XT. 

Ah,  happy  chance !  the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand. 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame, 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland  : 
He  startled  her :  but  soon  she  knew  his  face. 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand. 
Saying,"  Mercy,  Porphyro !  hie  tliee  from  this  place} 
They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  bloodthiraty 
race! 

XH. 

"  Get  hence !  get  hence !  there 's  dwarfish  Hilde- 

brand  ; 
He  had  a  fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and  land: 
Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs — Alas  me!  flit! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away." — "Ah,  gossip  dear, 
We're  safe  enough;  here  in  this  arm-chair  sit, 
And  tell  me  how" — "  Good  Saints  !  not  here,  not 
here ; 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy  bier.' 

XIII. 

He  follow'd  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume. 
And  as  she  mutter'd  "  Well-a — well-a-day!" 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlit  room, 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"  O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 

XIV. 

"  St.  Agnes  !  Ah  !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve — 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days: 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
To  venture  so:  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  I — St.  Agnes'  Eve  ! 
God's  help!  my  lady  fair  the  conjuror  plays 
This  very  night:  good  angels  her  deceive! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I've  inickle  time  to  grieve." 

XV. 
Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  closed  a  wondrous  riddle-book, 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney-nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  Vvhen  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose  ;  and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold. 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 
^11 


46 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XVI. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like-  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot:  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  tliou  art : 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  play,  and  sleep,  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go ! — I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst 
seem." 

XVII. 
"  1  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro  :  "  O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer, 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space. 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen's  ears. 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd  than 
wolves  and  bears." 

XVIII. 

"  Ah  !  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  church-yard  thing. 
Whose  passing-bell  may,  ere  the  midnight,  toll ; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening. 
Were   never  miss'd." — Thus  plaining,  doth  she 

bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro  ; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing. 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 

XIX. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  sec  her  beauty  unespied. 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride. 
While  legion'd  fairies  paced  the  coverlet. 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met. 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt 

XX. 

'  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  Dame : 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night :  by  the  tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see :  no  time  to  spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience ;  kneel  in  prayer 
The  while  :  Ah  I  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed. 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 

XXI. 

So  saying  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd  ; 
The  dame  return'd,  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her  ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last. 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hush'd,  and  chaste; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain. 


XXII. 
Her  falt'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade. 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair. 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid. 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware : 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed  ; 
She  comes,  she   comes  again,  like  ring-dove  fray'd 
and  fled. 

XXIII. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 
Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died : 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide : 
No  utter'd  syllable,  or,  woe  betide  I 
But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side ; 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in  her  delL 

XXIV. 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass. 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device. 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes. 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd  wings; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries. 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of  queens 
and  kings. 

XXV. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon. 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast. 
As  down  she  Icnelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon : 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst. 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  w  ings,  for  heaven  : — Porphyro  grew  faint : 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint, 

XXVI. 

Anon  his  heart  revives :  her  vespers  done. 
Of  all  its  vTreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one  ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  boddice  ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees : 
Half  hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed. 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 

XXVII. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she  lay. 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day ; 
Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and  pain ; 
Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain. 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  he  a  bud  again. 
678 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


47 


xxviir. 

Stol'n  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress. 
And  hsten'd  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless, 
And  breathed  himself:  then  from  the  closet  crept. 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wide  wilderness. 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  slept. 

And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where,  lo ! — how  fast 
she  slept. 

XXIX. 
Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet : — 
O  for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion. 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet. 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone  : — 

The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 

XXX. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep. 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd. 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd  ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucid  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon  ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one. 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar'd  Lebanon. 

XXXI. 

These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver  :  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night. 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. — 
"  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake  ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite  : 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake. 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul  doth  ache." 

XXXII. 
Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains: — 'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  lo  melt  as  iced  stream : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies  : 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  stedfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes  ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoil'd  in  woofed  phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 
In  Provence  call'd,  "  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy ;" 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  ; — 
Wherewith  disturb'd,  she  uttur'd  a  soft  moan : 
He  ceased — she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured 
stone. 


XXXIV. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep : 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep. 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep. 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh  ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so  dreamingly. 

XXXV. 

"  Ah,  Porphyro!"  said  she,  "but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow  ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear : 
How  changed  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear ! 

0  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 

For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where  to  go." 

XXXVL 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion'd  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flush'd,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet:  meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes ;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath  set 

XXXVII. 

'Tis  dark:  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet* 
"  This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline  ! " 
'Tis  dark:  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat. 
"  No  dream,  alas  !  alas  !  and  woe  is  mine  ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and  pine. — 
Cruel  !   what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring? 

1  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine. 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing; — 

A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned  wing." 

XXXVIII. 

"My  Madeline  I  sweet  dreamer!  lovely  bride! 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 
Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil  dyed? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famish'd  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 
Tiiough  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  tiiink'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  JNladeline,  to  no  rude  infidel." 

XXXIX. 

"  Hark  !  'tis  an  elfin-.slorm  from  fairy-land 
Of  haggard  s<>eming,  but  a  boon  indeed  : 
Arise — arise!  the  morning  is  at  hand  ; — 
The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed : — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed  ; 
There  are  no  cars  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see, — 
Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead: 
Awake  !  arise  !  my  love,  and  fearless  be. 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee.' 
579 


48 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


L. 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around. 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found, — 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-dropp'd  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door ; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and  hound, 
Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar ; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 

XLI. 
They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall ; 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide, 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl. 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side  : 


The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns : 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide  : — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  foot-worn  stones , 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 

xLir. 

And  they  are  gone  :  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe. 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coflin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face  deform , 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told. 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold. 


ifiDevion*' 


BOOK  I. 


Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 

Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  morn, 

Far  from  the  fiery  noon,  and  eve's  one  star. 

Sat  gray-hair'd  Saturn,  quiet  as  a  stone, 

Still  as  the  silence  round  about  his  lair ; 

Forest  on  forest  hung  about  his  head 

Like  cloud  on  cloud.     No  stir  of  air  was  there. 

Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 

Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather'd  grass, 

But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest. 

A  stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deadened  more 

By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 

Spreading  a  shade  :  the  Naiad  'mid  her  reeds 

Press'd  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along  the  margin-sand  large  foot-marks  went, 
No  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had  stray'd. 
And  slept  there  since.     Upon  the  sodden  ground 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 
Unsceptred  ;  and  his  realmless  eyes  were  closed ; 
While  his  bow'd  head  seem'd  list'ning  to  the  Earth, 
His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 

It  seem'd  no  force  could  wake  him  from  his  place ; 
But  there  came  one,  who  with  a  kindred  hand 
Touch'd  his  wide  shoulders,  after  bending  low 
With  reverence,  lliough  to  one  who  knew  it  not. 
She  was  a  Goddess  of  the  inliint  world ; 
By  her  in  stature  the  tall  Amazon 
Had  stood  a  pigmy's  height :  she  would  have  ta'en 
Achilles  by  the  hair  and  bent  his  neck  ; 


*  If  any  apology  be  thouc;lit  necessary  for  the  appear- 
ance of  the  iinfiiiished  poem  of  Hyperion,  the  publishers 
beg  to  state  that  they  alone  are  resp<)iisit)Ie,  as  it  was  prmt- 
ed  at  their  particular  request,  and  contrary  to  the  wish  of 
the  author.  The  poem  vvas  intended  to  have  been  of 
equal  length  with  Endymion.  hut  the  reception  given  to 
Ihat  work  discouraged  the  author  from  proceeding. 


Or  with  a  finger  stay'd  Ixion's  wheel. 
Her  face  was  large  as  that  of  Memphian  sphinx, 
Pedestall'd  haply  in  a  palace-court. 
When  sages  look'd  to  Egypt  for  their  lore. 
But  oh!  how  unlike  marble  vvas  that  face: 
How  beautiful,  if  Sorrow  had  not  made 
Sorrow  more  beautiful  than  Beauty's  self. 
There  was  a  listening  fear  in  her  regard. 
As  if  calamity  had  but  began  ; 
As  if  the  vanward  clouds  of  evil  days 
Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sullen  rear 
Was  with  its  stored  thunder  laboring  up. 
One  hand  she  press'd  upon  that  aching  spot 
Where  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just  there, 
Though  an  immortal,  she  felt  cruel  pain  : 
The  other  upon  Sat\irn's  bended  neck 
She  laid,  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear 
Leaning  with  parted  lips,  some  words  she  spake 
In  solemn  tenor  and  deep  organ-tone  : 
Some  mourning  words,  which  in  our  feeble  tongu 
Would  come  in  these  like  accents  ;  O  how  frail 
To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  Gods ! 
"  Saturn,  look  up ! — though  wherefore,  poor  old  King 
I  have  no  comfort  for  thee,  no  not  one : 
I  cannot  say,  '  O  wherefore  sleepest  thou  ? 
For  heaven  is  parted  from  thee,  and  the  earth 
Knows  thee  not,  thus  afllicted,  for  a  God  ; 
And  ocean  too,  with  all  its  solemn  noise. 
Has  from  thy  sceptre  pass'd  ;  and  all  the  air 
Is  emptied  of  thine  hoary  majesty. 
Thy  thunder,  conscious  of  the  new  command. 
Rumbles  reluctant  o'er  our  fallen  house  ; 
And  thy  sharp  lightning  in  unpractised  hands 
Scorches  and  burns  our  once  serene  domain. 
O  aching  time  !  O  moments  big  as  years ! 
All  as  ye  pass  swell  out  the  monstrous  truth, 
And  press  it  so  upon  our  weary  griefs 
That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe. 
Saturn,  sleep  on  : — O  thoughtless,  why  did  I 
Thus  violate  thy  slumbrous  solitude  ? 
Why  should  I  ope  thy  melancholy  eyes  ? 
Saturn,  sleep  on !  while  at  thy  feet  I  weep." 
580 


HYPERION. 


49 


As  when,  upon  a  tranced  summer-night, 
Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty  woods. 
Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars. 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  stir, 
Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence,  and  dies  off, 
As  if  the  ebbmg  air  had  but  one  wave  : 
So  came  these  words  and  went ;  the  wliile  in  fears 
She  touch'd  her  fair  large  forehead  to  the  ground, 
Just  where  her  falling  hair  might  be  outspread 
A  soft  and  silken  mat  lor  Saturn's  feet. 
One  moon,  with  alternation  slow,  had  shed 
Her  silver  seasons  four  upon  the  night, 
And  still  these  two  were  postured  motionless, 
Like  natural  sculpture  in  cathedral  cavern  ; 
The  frozen  God  still  couchant  on  the  earth. 
And  the  sad  Goddess  weeping  at  his  feet : 
Until  at  length  old  Saturn  lifted  up 
His  faded  eyes,  and  saw  his  kingdom  gone. 
And  all  the  gloom  and  sorrow  of  the  place, 
And  that  fair  kneeling  Goddess ;  and  then  spake 
As  with  a  palsied  tongue,  and  while  his  beard 
Shook  horrid  with  such  aspen-malady  : 
"O  tender  spouse  of  gold  Hyperion, 
Thea,  I  feel  thee  ere  I  see  thy  face  ; 
Look  up,  and  let  me  see  our  doom  in  it ; 
Look  up,  and  tell  me  if  this  feeble  shape 
Is  Saturn's ;  tell  me,  if  thou  hear'st  tlie  voice 
Of  Saturn  ;  tell  me,  if  this  wrinkling  brow, 
Naked  and  bare  of  its  great  diadem, 
Peers  like  the  front  of  Saturn.     Who  had  power 
To  make  me  desolate  ?  whence  came  the  strength  ? 
How  was  it  nurtured  to  such  bursting  forth. 
While  Fate  seem'd  strangled  in  my  nervous  grasp  ? 
But  it  is  so  ;  and  I  am  smoiher'd  up. 
And  buried  from  all  godlike  exercise 
Of  influence  benign  on  planets  pale. 
Of  admonitions  to  the  winds  and  seas. 
Of  peaceful  sway  above  man's  harvesting. 
And  all  those  acts  which  Deity  supreme 
Doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in. — I  am  gone 
Away  from  my  own  bosom  :  I  have  left 
My  strong  identity,  my  real  self, 
Somewhere  between  the  throne,  and  where  I  sit 
Here  on  this  spot  of  earth.     Search,  Thea,  search ! 
Open  thine  eyes  eterne,  and  sphere  them  round 
Upon  all  space :  space  slarr'd,  and  lorn  of  light : 
Space  region'd  with  life-air :  and  barren  void  ; 
Spaces  of  fire,  and  all  the  yawn  of  hell — 
Search,  Thea,  search !  and  tell  me,  if  thou  seest 
A  certain  shape  or  shadow,  making  way 
With  wings  or  chariot  fierce  to  repossess 
A  heaven  he  lost  erewhile :  it  must — it  must 
Be  of  ripe  progress — Saturn  must  be  King. 
Yes,  there  must  be  a  golden  victory ; 
There  must   be  Gods    thrown  down,  and  trumpets 

blown 
Of  triumph  calm,  and  hymns  of  festival 
Upon  the  gold  clouds  metropolitan, 
Voices  of  soft  proclaim,  and  silver  stir 
Of  strings  in  hollow  shells ;  and  there  shall  be 
Beautiful  things  made  new,  for  the  surprise 
Of  the  sky-children  ;  I  will  give  command  : 
Thea!  Thea!  where  is  Saturn?" 

This  passion  lifted  him  upon  his  feet, 
And  made  his  hands  to  struggle  in  the  air. 


His  Druid  locks  to  shake  and  ooze  with  sweat, 

His  eyes  to  fever  out,  his  voice  to  cease. 

He  stood,  and  heard  not  Thea's  sobbing  deep ; 

A  little  time,  and  then  again  he  snatch'd 

Utterance  thus  : — "  But  cannot  I  create  ? 

Cannot  I  form  ?  Cannot  I  fashion  forth 

Another  world,  another  universe. 

To  overbear  and  crumble  this  to  naught  ? 

Where  is  another  chaos  ?  Where  ? " — That  word 

Found  way  unto  Olympus,  and  made  quake 

The  rebel  three.     Thea  was  startled  up. 

And  in  her  bearing  was  a  sort  of  hope, 

As  thus  she  quick-voiced  spake,  yet  full  of  awe. 

"  This  cheers  our  fallen  house :  come  to  our  friends 

0  Saturn !  come  away,  and  give  them  heart  ; 

1  know  the  covert,  for  thence  came  I  hither." 
Thus  brief;  then  with  beseeching  eyes  she  went 
With  backward  footing  through  the  shade  a  space  . 
He  follow'd,  and  she  turn'd  to  lead  the  way 
Through  aged  boughs,  that  yielded  like  the  mist 
Which  eagles  cleave,  upmounting  from  their  nest. 

Meanwhile  in  other  realms  big  tears  were  shed. 
More  sorrow  like  to  this,  and  such  like  woe. 
Too  huge  for  mortal  tongue  or  pen  of  scribe  : 
The  Titans  fierce,  self-hid,  or  prison-bound, 
Groan'd  for  the  old  allegiance  once  more, 
And  listen'd  in  sharp  pain  for  Saturn's  voice. 
But  one  of  the  vvliole  mammoth-brood  still  kept 
His  sov'reignly,  and  rule,  and  majesty ; — 
Blazing  Hyperion  on  his  orbed  fire 
Still  sat,  still  snuff'd  the  incense,  teeming  up 
From  man  to  the  sun's  God  ;  yet  unsecure  : 
For  as  among  us  mortals  omens  drear 
Fright  and  perplex,  so  also  shudder'd  he — 
Not  at  dog's  howl,  or  gloom-bird's  hated  screech. 
Or  the  familiar  visiting  of  one 
Upon  the  first  toll  of  his  passing-bell. 
Or  prophesyings  of  the  midnight  lamp  ; 
But  horrors,  portion'd  to  a  giant  nerve. 
Oft  made  Hyperion  ache.     His  palace  bright, 
Bastion'd  with  pyramids  of  glowing  gold. 
And  toiich'd  with  shade  of  bronzed  obelisks, 
Glared  a  blood-red  through  all  its  thousand  courts, 
y\rches,  and  domes,  and  fiery  galleries ; 
And  all  its  curtains  of  Aurorian  clouds 
Flush'd  angerly :  while  sometimes  eagles'  wings, 
Unseen  before  by  Gods  or  wondering  men, 
Darken'd  ihe  place  ;  and  neighing  steeds  were  heard. 
Not  heard  before  by  Gods  or  wondering  men. 
Also,  when  he  would  taste  the  spicy  wreaths 
Of  incense,  breathed  aloft  from  sacred  hills, 
Instead  of  sweets,  his  ample  palate  took 
Savor  of  poisonous  brass  and  metal  sick : 
And  so,  when  harbor'd  in  the  sleepy  west, 
After  the  full  completion  of  fair  day, — 
For  rest  divine  upon  exalted  couch. 
And  slumber  in  the  arms  of  melody. 
He  paced  away  the  pleasant  hours  of  ease 
With  stride  eolo.ssal,  on  from  hall  to  hall ; 
While  far  within  each  aisle  and  deep  recess. 
His  winged  minions  in  close  clusters  stood. 
Amazed  and  full  of  fear ;  like  anxious  men 
Who  on  wide  plains  gather  in  panting  troops. 
When  earthquakes  jar  their  battlements  and  towera. 
Even  now,  while  Saturn,  roused  from  icy  trance, 
75  581 


0 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Went  steo  for  step  with  Thea  through  the  woods, 
Hyperion,  leaving  twilight  in  the  rear. 
Came  slope  upon  the  tlireshold  of  the  west  ; 
Then,  as  was  wont,  his  palace-door  flew  ope 
Jn  smoothed  silence,  save  what  solemn  tubes, 
Blown  by  the  serious  Zephyrs,  gave  of  sweet 
And  wandering  sounds,  slow-breathed  melodies ; 
And  like  a  rose  in  vermeil  tint  and  shape. 
In  fragrance  soft,  and  coolness  to  the  eye, 
That  inlet  to  severe  magnificence 
Stood  full-blown,  for  the  God  to  enter  in. 

He  enter'd,  but  he  enter'd  full  of  wrath  ; 
His  flaming  robes  stream'd  out  beyond  his  heels, 
And  gave  a  roar,  as  if  of  earthly  fire, 
That  scared  away  the  meek  ethereal  Hours 
And  made  their  dove-wings  tremble.     On  he  flared, 
From  stately  nave  to  nave,  from  vault  to  vault. 
Through  bowers  of  fragrant  and  enwreathed  light, 
And  diamond-paved  lustrous  long  arcades. 
Until  he  reach'd  the  great  main  cupola ; 
There  standing  fierce  beneath,  he  stamp'd  his  foot, 
And  from  the  basements  deep  to  the  high  towers 
Jarr'd  his  own  golden  region ;  and  before 
The  quavering  thunder  thereupon  had  ceased. 
His  voice  leapt  out,  despite  of  godlike  curb. 
To  this  result :  "  O  dreams  of  day  and  night ! 
O  monstrous  forms  !  O  efllgies  of  pain  ! 
O  spectres  busy  in  a  cold,  cold  gloom ! 

0  lank-ear'd  Phantoms  of  black-weeded  pools ! 
Why  do  I  know  ye  ?  why  have  I  seen  ye  ?  why 
Is  my  eternal  essence  thus  distraught 

To  see  and  to  behold  these  horrors  new  ? 

Saturn  is  fallen,  am  I  too  to  fall  ? 

Am  I  to  leave  this  haven  of  my  rest, 

''^his  cradle  of  my  glory,  this  soft  clime, 

This  calm  luxuriance  of  blissful  light. 

These  crystalline  pavilions,  and  pure  fanes, 

Of  all  my  lucent  empire  ?  It  is  left 

Deserted,  void,  nor  any  haunt  of  mine. 

The  blaze,  the  splendor,  and  the  symmetry, 

5  cannot  see — but  darkness,  death  and  darkness. 

Even  here,  into  my  centre  of  repose, 

The  shady  visions  come  to  domineer, 

Insult,  and  blind,  and  stifle  up  my  pomp — 

Fall ! — No,  by  Tellus  anil  her  briny  robes ! 

Over  the  fiery  frontier  of  my  realms 

1  will  advance  a  terrible  right  arm 

Shall  scare  that  infant  thunderer,  rebel  Jove, 

And  bid  old  Saturn  take  his  throne  again." — 

He  spake,  and  ceased,  the  while  a  heavier  threat 

Held  struggle  with  his  throat,  but  came  not  forth  ; 

For  as  in  theatres  of  crowded  men 

Hubbub  increases  more  they  call  out  "  Plush ! " 

So  at  Hyperion's  words  the  Phantoms  pale 

Bestirr'd  themselves,  thrice  horrible  and  cold  ; 

And  from  the  mirror'd  level  where  he  stood 

A  mist  arose,  as  from  a  scummy  marsh. 

At  this,  through  all  his  bulk  an  agony 

Crept  gradual,  from  the  feet  unto  the  crown. 

Like  a  lithe  serpent  vast  and  muscular 

Making  slow  way,  with  head  and  neck  convulsed 

From  overstrained  might.     Released,  he  fled 

To  the  eastern  gates,  and  full  six  dewy  hours 

Before  the  dawn  in  season  due  should  blush, 

He  breathed  fierce  breath  against  the  sleepy  portals, 


Clear'd  them  of  heavy  vapors,  burst  them  wide 
Suddenly  on  the  ocean's  chilly  streams. 
The  planet  orb  of  fire,  whereon  he  rode 
Each  day  from  east  to  west  the  heavens  through. 
Spun  round  in  sable  curtaining  of  clouds  ; 
Not  therefore  veiled  quite,  blindfold,  and  hid, 
But  ever  and  anon  the  glancing  spheres, 
Circles,  and  arcs,  and  broad-belting  colure, 
Glow'd  through,  and  wrought  upon  the  muffling  dark 
Sweet-shaped  lightnings  from  the  nadir  deep 
Up  to  the  zenith, — hieroglyphics  old. 
Which  sages  and  keen-eyed  astrologers 
Then  living  on  the  eartii,  with  laboring  thought 
Won  from  the  gaze  of  many  centuries : 
Now  lost,  save  what  we  find  on  remnants  huge 
Of  stone,  or  marble  swart ;  their  import  gone. 
Their  wisdom  long  since  fled. — Two  wings  this  orb 
Possessed  for  glory,  two  fair  argent  wings. 
Ever  exalted  at  the  God's  approach: 
And  now,  from  forth  the  gloom  their  "plumes  immense 
Rose,  one  by  one,  till  all  outspreaded  were ; 
While  still  the  dazzling  globe  maintain'd  ecUpse, 
Awaiting  for  Hyperion's  command. 
Fain  would  he  have  commanded,  fain  took  throne 
And  bid  the  day  begin,  if  but  for  change. 
He  might  not : — No,  though  a  primeval  God: 
The  sacred  seasons  might  not  be  disturb'd. 
Therefore  the  operations  of  the  dawn 
Stay'd  in  their  birth,  even  as  here  'tis  toIJ, 
Those  silver  wings  expanded  sisterly. 
Eager  to  sail  their  orb;  the  porches  wide 
Open'd  upon  the  dusk  demesnes  of  night 
And  the  bright  Titarj,  frenzied  with  new  woes, 
Unused  to  bend,  by  hard  compulsion  bent 
His  spirit  to  the  sorrow  of  the  time ; 
And  all  along  a  dismal  rack  of  clouds. 
Upon  the  boundaries  of  day  and  night. 
He  strelch'd  himself  in  grief  and  radiance  faint 
There  as  he  lay,  the  Heaven  with  its  stars 
Look'd  down  on  him  with  pity,  and  the  voice 
Of  CobIus,  from  llie  universal  space. 
Thus  whisper'd  low  and  solemn  in  his  ear. 
"  O  brightest  of  my  children  dear,  earth-born 
And  sky-engender'd,  Son  of  Mysteries 
All  unrevealed  even  to  the  powers 
Which  met  at  thy  creating !  at  whose  joys 
And  palpitations  sweet,  and  pleasures  soft, 
I,  Ca-lus,  wonder,  how  they  came  and  whence; 
And  at  the  fruits  thereof  what  shapes  they  be. 
Distinct,  and  visible  ;  symbols  divine. 
Manifestations  of  that  beauteous  life 
Difllised  unseen  throughout  eternal  space  ; 
Of  these  new-ibrm'd  art  thou,  oh  brightest  child! 
Of  these,  thy  brethren  and  the  Goddesses  I 
There  is  sad  feud  among  ye,  and  rebellion 
Of  son  again.st  his  sire.     I  saw  him  fall, 
I  saw  my  first-born  tumbled  from  his  throne! 
To  me  his  arms  were  spread,  to  me  his  voice 
Found  way  from  forth  the  thunders  round  his  head 
Pale  wox  I,  and  in  vapors  hid  my  face. 
Art  thou,  too,  near  such  doom  ?  vague  fear  there  is 
For  I  have  seen  my  sons  most  unlike  Gods. 
Divine  ye  were  created,  and  divine 
In  sad  demeanor,  solemn,  undisturb'd. 
Unruffled,  like  high  Gods,  ye  hved  and  ruled : 
Now  I  behold  in  you,  fear,  hope,  and  wrath ; 
582 


HYPERION. 


51 


Actions  of  rage  and  passion  ;  even  as 
I  see  them,  on  the  mortal  world  beneath, 
In  men  who  die. — This  is  the  grief,  O  Son ! 
Sad  sign  of  ruin,  sudden  dismay,  and  fall ! 
Yet  do  thou  strive  ;  as  thou  art  capable, 
As  thou  canst  move  about,  an  evident  God  ; 
And  canst  oppose  to  each  malignant  hour 
Ethereal  presence  : — I  am  but  a  voice  ; 
My  life  is  but  the  life  of  winds  and  tides. 
No  more  than  winds  and  tides  can  I  avail : — 
But  thou  canst. — Be  thou  therefore  in  the  van 
Of  circumstance ;  yea,  seize  the  arrow's  barb 
Before  the  tense  string  murmur. — To  the  earth ! 
For  there  thou  wilt  find  Saturn,  and  his  woes. 
Meantime  I  will  keep  watch  on  thy  bright  sun, 
And  of  thy  seasons  be  a  careful  nurse." — 
Ere  half  this  region-whisper  had  come  down, 
Hyperion  arose,  and  on  tiie  stars 
Lifted  his  curved  lids,  and  kept  them  wide 
Until  it  ceased  ;  and  still  he  kept  them  wide: 
And  still  they  were  the  same  bright,  patient  stars. 
Then  with  a  slow  incline  of  his  broad  breast, 
Like  to  a  diver  in  the  pearly  seas. 
Forward  he  stoop'd  over  the  airy  shore. 
And  plunged  all  noiseless  into  the  deep  night. 


BOOK  II. 


Jtj.sT  at  the  self-same  beat  of  Time's  wide  wings 
Hyperion  slid  into  the  rustled  air, 
And  Saturn  gain'd  with  Thea  that  sad  place 
Where  Cybele  and  the  bruised  Titans  mourn 'd. 
It  was  a  den  where  no  insulting  light 
Could  glimmer  on  their  tears;  where  their  own  groans 
They  felt,  but  heard  not,  for  the  solid  roar 
Of  thunderous  waterfalls  and  torrents  hoarse. 
Pouring  a  constant  bulk,  uncertain  where. 
Crag  jutting  forth  to  crag,  and  rocks  that  seem'd 
Ever  as  if  just  rising  from  a  sleep, 
Forehead  to  forehead  held  their  monstrous  horns ; 
And  thus  in  thousand  hugest  phantasies 
Made  a  fit  roofing  to  this  nest  of  woe. 
Instead  of  thrones,  hard  flint  they  sat  upon, 
Couches  of  rugged  stone,  and  slaty  ridge 
Stubborn'd  with  iron.    All  were  not  assembled  : 
Some  chain'd  in  torture,  and  some  wandering. 
CcBus,  and  Gyges,  and  Briareiis, 
Typhon,  and  Dolor,  and  Porphyrion, 
With  many  more,  tlie  brawniest  in  assault, 
Were  pent  in  regions  of  lalxjrious  breath  ; 
Dungeon'd  in  opaque  element,  to  keep 
Their  clenched  teeth  still  clench'd,  and  all  their  limbs 
Lock'd  up  like  veins  of  metal,  crampt  and  screw'd  ; 
Without  a  motion,  save  of  their  big  hearts 
Heaving  in  pain,  and  horribly  convulsed 
With  sanguine,  feverous,  boiling  gurge  of  pulse. 
Mnemosyne  was  straying  in  the  world  ; 
Far  from  her  moon  had  Phoebe  wander'd  ; 
And  many  else  were  free  to  roam  abroad. 
But  for  the  main,  here  found  they  covert  drear. 
Scarce  images  of  life,  one  here,  one  there, 
43  30 


Lay  vast  and  edgeways;  like  a  dismal  cirque 
Of  Druid  stones,  upon  a  forlorn  moor. 
When  the  cliill  rain  begins  at  shut  of  eve, 
In  dull  November,  and  their  chancel  vault, 
The  Heaven  itself,  is  blinded  throughout  night. 
Each  one  ke])t  shroud,  nor  to  his  neighbor  gave 
Or  word,  or  look,  or  action  of  despair. 
Creiis  was  one  ;  his  ponderous  iron  mace 
Lay  by  him,  and  a  shatter'd  rib  of  rock 
Told  of  his  rage,  ere  he  thus  sank  and  pined, 
lapetus  another ;  in  his  grasp, 
A  serpent's  plashy  neck  ;  ils  barbed  tongue   . 
Squeezed  from  the  gorge,  and  all  its  uncurl'd  length 
Dead ;  and  because  the  creature  could  not  spit 
Its  poison  in  the  eyes  of  conquering  Jove. 
Next  Cottus :  prone  he  lay,  chin  uppermost, 
As  though  in  pain ;  for  still  upon  the  flint 
He  ground  .severe  his  skull,  with  open  mouth 
And  eyes  at  horrid  working.    Nearest  him 
Asia,  born  of  most  enormous  Caf, 
Who  cost  her  mother  Tellus  keener  pangs, 
Though  feminine,  than  any  of  her  sons  : 
More  thought  than  woe  was  in  her  dusky  face, 
For  she  was  prophesying  of  her  glory  ; 
And  in  her  wide  imagination  stood 
Palm-shaded  temples,  and  high  rival  fanes, 
By  Oxus  or  in  Ganges'  sacred  isles. 
Even  as  Hope  upon  her  anchor  leans. 
So  leant  she,  not  so  fair,  upon  a  tusk 
Shed  from  the  broadest  of  her  elephants. 
Above  her,  on  a  crag's  uneasy  shelve. 
Upon  his  elbow  raised,  all  prostrate  else, 
Shadow'd  Enceladus ;  once  tame  and  mild 
As  grazing  ox  unworried  in  the  meads ; 
Now  tiger-passion'd,  lion-lhoughted,  wroth. 
He  meditated,  plotted,  and  even  now 
Was  hurling  mountains  in  that  second  war, 
Not  long  delay'd,  that  scared  the  younger  Gods 
To  hide  themselves  in  forms  of  beast  and  bird. 
A'ot  far  hence  Atlas ;  and  beside  him  prone 
Phorcus,  the  sire  of  Gorgons.    Neighbor'd  close 
Oceanus,  and  Telhys,  in  whose  lap 
Sobb'd  Clymene  among  her  tangled  hair. 
In  midst  of  all  lay  Themis,  at  the  feet 
Of  Ops  the  queen  all  clouded  round  from  sight; 
No  shape  distinguishable,  more  than  when 
Thick  niglit  conlbunds  the  pine-tops  with  the  clouds; 
And  many  else  whose  names  may  not  be  told. 
For  when  the  Muse's  wings  are  air-ward  spread, 
Who  shall  delay  her  flight  ?  And  she  must  chant 
Of  Saturn,  and  his  guide,  who  now  had  climb'd 
With  damp  and  slippery  footing  from  a  depth 
More  horrid  still.    Above  a  sombre  cliff 
Their  heads  appear'd,  and  up  their  stature  grew 
Till  on  the  level  height  their  steps  found  ease : 
Then  Thea  spread  abroad  her  trembhng  arms 
Upon  the  precincts  of  this  nest  of  pain. 
And  sidelong  fix'd  her  eye  on  Saturn's  face  : 
There  saw  she  direst  strife ;  the  supreme  God 
At  war  with  all  the  frailty  of  grief, 
Of  rage,  of  fear,  an.victy,  revenge, 
Remorse,  spleen,  hope,  but  most  of  all  despair. 
Against  these  plagues  he  strove  in  vain ;  for  Fate 
Had  pour'd  a  mortal  oil  upon  his  head, 
A  disanointing  poison  :  so  that  Thea, 
Affrighted,  kept  her  still,  and  let  him  pass 
First  onwards  in,  among  the  fallen  tribe. 
583 


52 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


As  with  us  mortal  men,  the  laden  heart 
Is  persecuted  more,  and  fever'd  more. 
When  it  is  nighing  to  the  mournful  house 
Where  other  hearts  are  sick  of  the  same  bruise ; 
So  Saturn,  as  he  walk'd  into  the  midst, 
Felt  faint,  and  would  have  sunk  among  the  rest. 
But  that  he  met  Enceladus's  eye, 
Whose  mightiness,  and  awe  of  him,  at  once 
Came  like  an  inspiration  ;  and  he  shouted, 
"Titans,  behold  your  God!"  at  wliich  some  groan'd; 
Some  started  on  their  feet ;  some  also  shouted  ; 
Some  wept,  some  wail'd — all  bow'd  with  reverence ; 
And  Ops,  uplifting  her  black  folded  veil, 
Show'd  her  pale  cheeks,  and  all  her  forehead  wan, 
Her  eye-brows  thin  and  jet,  and  hollow  eyes. 
There  is  a  roaring  in  the  bleak-grown  pines 
When  Winter  lifts  his  voice ;  there  is  a  noise 
Among  immortals  when  a  God  gives  sign. 
With  hushing  finger,  how  he  means  to  load 
His  tongue  with  the  full  weight  of  utterless  thought, 
With  thunder,  and  with  music,  and  with  pomp : 
Such  noise  is  like  the  roar  of  bleak-grown  pines ; 
Wliich,  when  it  ceases  in  this  mounlain'd  world. 
No  other  sound  succeeds ;  but  ceasing  here. 
Among  these  fallen,  Saturn's  voice  therefrom 
Grew  up  like  organ,  that  begins  anew 
Its  strain,  when  other  harmonies,  stopt  short, 
Leave  the  dinn'd  air  vibrating  silverly. 
Thus  grew  it  up — "  Not  in  my  own  sad  breast. 
Which  is  its  own  great  judge  and  searcher  out. 
Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus : 
Not  in  the  legends  of  the  first  of  days, 
Studied  from  that  old  spirit-leaved  book 
Which  starry  Uranus  with  finger  bright 
Saved  from  the  shores  of  darkness,  when  the  waves 
Low-ebb'd  still  hid  it  up  in  shallow  gloom; — 
And  the  which  book  ye  know  I  ever  kept 
For  my  firm-based  footstool : — Ah,  infirm  ! 
Not  there,  nor  in  sign,  symbol,  or  portent 
Of  element,  earth,  water,  air,  and  fire, — 
At  war,  at  peace,  or  inter-quarrelling 
One  against  one,  or  two,  or  three,  or  all 
Each  several  one  against  the  other  three, 
As  fire  with  air  loud  warring  when  rain-floods 
Drown  both,  and  press  them  both  against  earth's  face, 
Where,  finding  sulphur,  a  quadruple  wrath 
Unhinges  the  poor  world ; — not  in  that  strife, 
Wherefrom  I  take  strange  lore,  and  read  it  deep. 
Can  I  find  reason  why  ye  should  be  thus: 
No,  nowhere  can  unriddle,  though  I  search, 
And  pore  on  Nature's  universal  scroll 
Even  to  swooning,  why  ye,  Divinities, 
The  first-born  of  all  shaped  and  palpable  Gods, 
Should  cower  beneath  what,  in  comparison. 
Is  untremendous  might.    Yet  ye  are  here, 
O'erwhelm'd,  and  spurn'd,  and  batter'd,  ye  are  here 
O  Titans,  shall  I  say  'Arise  ! ' — Ye  groan  : 
Shall  I  say  'Crouch  !' — Ye  groan.    What  can  I  then? 
O  Heaven  wide  !  0  unseen  parent  dear ! 
What  can  I?  Tell  me,  all  ye  brethren  Gods, 
How  we  can  war,  how  engine  our  great  wrath ! 

0  speak  your  counsel  now,  for  Saturn's  ear 
Is  all  a-hunger'd.    Thou,  Oceanus, 
Ponderest  high  and  deep ;  and  in  thy  face 

1  see,  astonied,  that  severe  content 

Which  comes  of  thought  and  musing:  give  us  help!" 


So  ended  Saturn ;  and  the  God  of  the  Sea, 
Sophist  and  sage,  from  no  Athenian  grove, 
But  cogitation  in  his  watery  shades, 
Arose,  with  locks  not  oozy,  and  began. 
In  murmurs,  which  his  first-endeavoring  tongue 
Caught  infant-like  from  the  far-foamed  sands. 
"  O  ye,  whom  wrath  consumes  !  who,  passion-stung 
Writhe  at  defeat,  and  nurse  your  agonies! 
Shut  up  your  senses,  stifle  up  your  ears. 
My  voice  is  not  a  bellows  unto  ire. 
Yet  listen,  ye  who  will,  whilst  I  bring  proof 
How  ye,  perforce,  must  be  content  to  stoop  : 
And  in  the  proof  much  comfort  will  I  give, 
If  ye  will  take  that  comfort  in  its  truth. 
We  fall  by  course  of  Nature's  law,  not  force 
Of  thunder,  or  of  Jove.    Great  Saturn,  thou 
Hast  sifted  well  the  atom-universe ; 
But  for  this  reason,  that  thou  art  the  King 
And  only  blind  from  sheer  supremacy. 
One  avenue  was  shaded  from  thine  eyes. 
Through  which  I  wander'd  to  eternal  truth. 
And  first,  as  thou  wast  not  the  first  of  powers. 
So  art  thou  not  the  last ;  it  cannot  be. 
Thou  art  not  the  beginning  nor  the  end. 
From  chaos  and  parental  darkness  came 
Light,  the  first-fruits  of  that  intestine  broil. 
That  sullen  ferment,  which  for  wondrous  ends 
Was  ripening  in  itself.    The  ripe  hour  came. 
And  with  it  light,  and  light,  engendering 
Upon  its  own  producer,  forthwith  touch'd 
The  whole  enormous  matter  into  life. 
Upon  that  very  hour,  our  parentage, 
The  Heavens  and  the  Earth,  were  manifest 
Then  thou  first-born,  and  we  the  giant-race, 
Found  ourselves  ruling  new  and  beauteous  realms. 
Now  comes  the  pain  of  truth,  to  whom  'tis  pain^ 
O  folly !  for  to  bear  all  naked  truths. 
And  to  envisage  circumstance,  all  calm. 
That  is  the  top  of  sovereignty.    Mark  well ! 
As  Heaven  and  Earth  are  fairer,  fairer  far 
Than  Chaos  and  blank  Darkness,  though  once  chiefs 
And  as  we  show  beyond  that  Heaven  and  Earth 
In  form  and  shape  compact  and  beautiful. 
In  will,  in  action  free,  companionship. 
And  thousand  other  signs  of  purer  life ; 
So  on  our  heels  a  fresh  perfection  treads, 
A  power  more  strong  in  beauty,  born  of  us 
And  fated  to  excel  us,  as  we  pass 
In  glory  that  old  Darkness :  nor  are  we 
Thereby  more  conquer'd  than  by  us  the  rule 
Of  shapeless  Chaos.    Say,  doth  the  dull  soil 
Quarrel  with  the  proud  forests  it  hath  fed. 
And  fecdeth  still,  more  comely  than  itself? 
Can  it  deny  the  chiefdom  of  green  groves? 
Or  shall  the  tree  be  envious  of  the  dove 
Because  it  cooeth,  and  hath  snowy  wings 
To  wander  wherewithal  and  find  its  joys  ? 
We  are  such  forest-trees,  and  our  fair  boughs 
Have  bred  forth,  not  pale  solitary  doves, 
But  eagles  golden-feather'd,  who  do  tower 
Above  us  in  their  beauty,  and  must  reign 
In  right  thereof;  for  'tis  the  eternal  law 
That  first  in  beauty  should  be  first  in  might: 
Yea,  by  that  law,  another  race  may  drive 
Our  conquerors  to  mourn  as  we  do  now. 
Have  ye  beheld  the  young  God  of  the  Seas, 
584 


HYPERION. 


53 


My  dispossessor  ?  Have  ye  seen  his  face  ? 
Have  ye  beheld  his  chariot,  foam'd  along 
By  noble-winged  creatures  ho  hath  made  I 
I  saw  him  on  the  calmed  waters  scud, 
With  such  a  glow  of  beauty  in  liis  eyes, 
That  it  enforced  me  to  bid  sad  fiirewell 
To  all  my  empire  :  farewell  sad  I  took, 
And  hither  came,  to  see  how  dolorous  fate 
Had  wrought  upon  ye ;  and  how  I  might  best 
Give  consolation  in  this  woe  extreme. 
Receive  the  truth,  and  let  it  be  your  balm." 

\\Tiether  through  pozed  conviction,  or  disdain, 
They  guarded  silence,  when  Oceanus 
Left  murmuring,  what  deepest  thought  can  tell  ? 
But  so  it  was,  none  answer'd  for  a  space, 
Save  one  whom  none  regarded,  Clymene : 
And  yet  she  answer'd  not,  only  complain'd, 
With  hectic  lips,  and  eyes  up-looking  mild, 
Thus  wording  timidly  among  the  fierce : 
"  O  Father !  I  am  here  the  simplest  voice. 
And  all  my  knowledge  is  that  joy  is  gone. 
And  this  thing  woe  crept  in  among  our  hearts. 
There  to  remain  for  ever,  as  I  fear : 
I  would  not  bode  of  evil,  if  I  thought 
So  weak  a  creature  could  turn  off  the  help 
Which  by  just  right  should  come  of  mighty  Gods  ; 
Yet  let  me  tell  my  sorrow,  let  me  tell 
Of  what  I  heard,  and  how  it  made  me  weep. 
And  know  that  we  had  parted  from  all  hope. 
I  stood  upon  a  shore,  a  pleasant  shore. 
Where  a  sweet  clime  was  breathed  from  a  land 
Of  fragrance,  quietness,  and  trees,  and  flowers 
Full  of  calm  joy  it  was,  as  I  of  grief; 
Too  full  of  joy  and  soft  delicious  warmth ; 
So  that  I  felt  a  movement  in  my  heart 
To  chide,  and  to  reproach  that  solitude 
With  songs  of  misery,  music  of  our  woes ; 
And  sat  me  down,  and  took  a  mouthed  shell 
And  murmur'd  into  it,  and  made  melody — 

0  melody  no  more !  for  vvhile  I  sang. 
And  with  poor  skill  let  pass  into  the  breeze 
The  dull  shell's  echo,  from  a  boweiy  strand 
Just  opposite,  an  island  of  the  sea. 

There  came  enchantment  with  the  shifting  wind, 
That  did  both  drown  and  keep  alive  my  ears. 

1  threw  my  shell  away  upon  the  sand. 
And  a  wave  fiU'd  it,  as  my  sense  was  fdl'd 
With  that  new  blissful  golden  melody. 

A  living  death  was  in  each  gush  of  sounds, 

Each  family  of  rapturous  hurried  notes. 

That  fell,  one  after  one,  yet  all  at  once. 

Like  pearl  beads  dropping  sudden  from  their  string 

And  then  another,  then  another  strain, 

Each  like  a  dove  leaving  its  olive  perch. 

With  music  wing'd  instead  of  silent  plumes. 

To  hover  round  my  head,  and  make  me  sick 

Of  joy  and  grief  at  once.    Grief  overcame. 

And  I  was  stopping  up  my  frantic  ears, 

When,  past  all  hindrance  of  my  trembling  hands, 

A  voice  came  sweeter,  sweeter  than  all  tune. 

And  still  it  cried,  'Apollo!  young  Apollo! 

The  morning-bright  Apollo!  young  Ajwllo!' 

I  fled,  it  folio w'd  me,  and  cried,  'Apollo!' 

O  Father,  and  O  Brethren !  had  ye  felt 

Those  pains  of  mine !  O  Saturn,  hadst  thou  felt. 


Ye  would  not  call  this  too  indulged  tongue 
Presumptuous,  in  thus  venturing  to  be  heard  ! " 


So  far  her  voice  flow'd  on,  like  tin  orous  brook 
That,  lihgering  along  a  pebbled  coast. 
Doth  fear  to  meet  the  sea :  but  sea  it  met. 
And  shudder'd  ;  for  the  overwhelming  voice 
Of  huge  Enceladus  swallow'd  it  in  wrath  : 
The  ponderous  syllables,  like  sullen  waves 
In  the  half-glutted  hollows  of  reef-rocks. 
Came  booming  thus,  while  still  upon  his  arm 
He  lean'd  ;  not  rising,  from  supreme  contempt. 
"  Or  shall  we  listen  to  the  over-wise. 
Or  to  the  over-foolish  giant,  Gods  ? 
Not  thunderbolt  on  thunderbolt,  till  all 
That  rebel  Jove's  whole  armory  were  spent, 
Not  world  on  world  upon  these  shoulders  piled, 
Could  agonize  me  more  than  baby-words 
In  midst  of  this  dethronement  horrible. 
Speak!  roar!  shout!  yell!  ye  sleepy  Titans  all. 
Do  ye  forget  the  blows,  the  buffets  vile  ? 
Are  ye  not  smitten  by  a  youngling  arm  ? 
Dost  thou  forget,  sham  Monarch  of  the  Waves, 
Thy  scalding  in  the  seas?  What!  have  I  roused 
Your  spleens  wilh  so  few  simple  words  as  these? 
O  joy !  for  now  I  see  ye  are  not  lost: 
O  joy !  for  now  1  see  a  thousand  eyes 
Wide  glaring  for  revenge!" — As  this  he  said, 
He  lifted  up  his  stature  vast;  and  stood, 
Still  without  intermission  speaking  thus : 
"  Now  ye  are  flames,  I  '11  tell  you  how  to  burn 
And  purge  the  ether  of  our  enemies  ; 
How  to  feed  fierce  the  crooked  stings  of  fire. 
And  singe  away  the  swollen  clouds  of  Jove, 
Stifling  that  puny  essence  in  its  tent. 
O  let  him  feel  the  evil  he  hath  done  ; 
For  though  I  scorn  Oceanus's  lore. 
Much  pain  have  I  tor  more  than  loss  of  realms  ■ 
The  days  of  peace  and  slumberous  calm  are  fled ; 
Those  days,  all  innocent  of  scathing  war, 
W^hen  all  the  fair  Existences  of  heaven 
Came  open-eyed  to  guess  what  we  would  speak  :- 
That  was  before  our  brows  were  taught  to  frown. 
Before  our  lips  knew  else  but  solemn  sounds; 
That  was  before  we  knew  the  winged  thing. 
Victory,  might  be  lost,  or  might  be  won. 
And  be  ye  mindful  that  Hyperion, 
Our  brightest  brother,  still  is  undisgraced — 
Hyperion,  lo  !  his  radiance  is  here  ! " 

All  eyes  were  on  Enceladus's  face, 
And  they  beheld,  while  still  Hyperion's  name 
Flew  from  his  lips  up  to  the  vaulted  rocks, 
A  palhd  gleam  across  his  features  stern  : 
Not  savage,  for  he  saw  full  many  a  God 
Wroth  as  himself    He  look'd  upon  them  all, 
And  in  each  face  he  saw  a  gleam  of  light. 
But  splendider  in  Saturn's,  whose  hoar  locks 
Shone  like  the  bubbling  foam  about  a  keel 
When  the  prow  sweeps  into  a  midnight  cove. 
In  pale  and  silver  silence  they  remain'd. 
Till  suddenly  a  splendor,  hke  the  morn. 
Pervaded  all  the  beetling  gloomy  steeps. 
All  the  sad  spaces  of  obhvion. 
And  every  gulf,  and  every  chasm  old, 
585 


54 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  every  height,  and  every  sullen  depth, 

Voiceless,  or  hoarse  with  loud  tormented  streams : 

And  all  the  everlasting  cataracts. 

And  all  the  headlong  torrents  far  and  near, 

Mantled  before  in  darkness  and  huge  shade, 

Now  saw  the  light  and  made  it  terrible. 

It  was  Hyperion  : — a  granite  peak 

His  bright  feet  touch'd,  and  there  he  stay'd  to  view 

The  misery  his  brilliance  had  betray'd 

To  the  most  hateful  seeing  of  itself 

Golden  his  hair  of  short  Numidian  curl, 

Regal  his  shape  majestic,  a  vast  shade 

In  midst  of  his  own  brightness,  like  the  bulk 

Of  Memnon's  image  at  the  set  of  sun 

To  one  who  travels  from  the  dusking  East  : 

Sighs,  too,  as  mournful  as  that  Memnon's  harp, 

He  utter'd,  while  his  hands,  contemplative, 

He  press'd  together,  and  in  silence  stood. 

Despondence  seized  again  the  fallen  Gods 

At  sight  of  the  dejected  King  of  Day, 

And  many  hid  their  faces  from  the  light : 

But  fierce  Enceladus  sent  forth  his  eyes 

Among  the  brotherhood  ;  and,  at  their  glare. 

Uprose  liipetus,  and  Cretis  too, 

And  Phorcus,  sea-born,  and  together  strode 

To  where  he  towered  on  his  eminence. 

There  those  four  shouted  forth  old  Saturn's  name ; 

Hyperion  from  the  peak  loud  answered,  "  Saturn ! " 

Saturn  sat  near  the  Mother  of  the  Gods, 

In  whose  face  was  no  joy,  though  all  the  Gods 

Gave  from  their  hollow  throats  the  name  of  "  Saturn !' 


BOOK  III. 


Thus  m  alternate  uproar  and  sad  peace. 

Amazed  were  those  Titans  utterly. 

O  leave  them.  Muse  !  O  leave  them  to  their  woes! 

For  thou  art  weak  to  sing  such  tumults  dire : 

A  solitary  sorrow  best  befits 

Thy  lips,  and  antheming  a  lonely  grief 

Leave  them,  O  Muse  !  for  thou  anon  wilt  find 

Many  a  fallen  old  Divinity 

Wandering  in  vain  about  bewilder'd  shores. 

Meantime  touch  piously  the  Delphic  harp. 

And  not  a  wind  of  heaven  but  will  breathe 

In  aid  soft  warble  from  the  Dorian  flute  ; 

For  lo !  'tis  for  the  Father  of  all  verse. 

Flush  every  thing  that  liath  a  vermeil  hue, 

Let  the  rose  glow  intense  and  warm  the  air, 

And  let  the  clouds  of  even  and  of  morn 

Float  in  voluptuous  fleeces  o'er  the  hills ; 

Let  the  red  wine  within  the  goblet  boil. 

Cold  as  a  bubbling  well ;  let  faint-lipp'd  shells, 

On  sands,  or  in  great  deeps,  vermilion  turn 

Through  all  their  labyrinths ;  and  let  the  maid 

Blush  keenly,  as  with  some  warm  kiss  surprised. 

Chief  isle  of  the  embower'd  Cyclades, 

Rejoice,  O  Delos,  with  thine  olives  green. 

And  poplars,  and  lawn-shading  palms,  and  beech, 

In  which  the  Zephyr  breathes  the  loudest  song. 

And  hazels  thick,  dark-stemm'd  beneath  the  shade  : 

Apollo  is  once  more  the  golden  theme  ! 


Where  was  he,  when  the  Giant  of  the  Sun 
Stood  bright,  amid  the  sorrow  of  his  peers? 
Together  had  he  left  his  mother  fair 
And  his  twin-sister  sleeping  in  their  bower, 
And  in  the  morning  twilight  wandcr'd  forth 
Beside  the  osiers  of  a  rivulet. 
Full  ankle-deep  in  lilies  of  the  vale. 
The  nightingale  had  ceased,  and  a  few  stars 
Were  lingering  in  the  heavens,  while  the  thrush 
Began  calm-throated.     Throughout  all  the  isle 
There  was  no  covert,  no  retired  cave 
Unhaunted  by  the  murmurous  noise  of  waves. 
Though  scarcely  heard  in  many  a  green  recess. 
He  listen'd,  and  he  wept,  and  his  bright  tears 
Went  trickling  down  the  golden  bow  he  held. 
Thus  with  half-shut  suffused  eyes  he  stood. 
While  from  beneath  some  cumbrous  boughs  hard  by 
With  solemn  step  an  awful  Goddess  came. 
And  there  was  purport  in  her  looks  for  him. 
Which  he  with  eager  guess  began  lo  read 
Perplex'd,  the  vv'hile  melodiously  he  said  : 
"  How  camest  thou  over  the  unfooted  sea  ? 
Or  hath  that  antique  mien  and  robed  form 
Moved  in  these  vales  invisible  till  now  ? 
Sure  I  have  heard  those  vestments  sweeping  o'er 
The  fallen  leaves,  when  I  have  sat  alone 
In  cool  mid  forest.    Surely  I  have  traced 
The  rustle  of  those  ample  skirts  about 
These  grassy  solitudes,  and  seen  the  flowers 
Lift  up  their  heads,  as  still  the  whisper  pass'd. 
Goddess  !  I  have  beheld  those  eyes  before, 
And  their  eternal  calm,  and  all  that  face. 
Or  I  have  dream'd." — "  Yes,"  said  the  supreme  shape 
"  Thou  hast  dream'd  of  me ;  and  awaking  up 
Didst  find  a  lyre  all  golden  by  thy  side, 
Whose  strings  touch'd  by  thy  fingers,  all  the  vast 
Unwearied  ear  of  the  whole  universe 
Listen'd  in  pain  and  pleasure  at  the  birth 
Of  such  new  tuneful  wonder.    Is't  not  strange 
That  thou  shouldst  weep,  so  gifted  ?   Tell  me,  youth 
What  sorrow  thou  canst  feel ;  for  I  am  sad 
When  thou  dost  shed  a  tear :  explain  thy  griefs 
To  one  who  in  this  lonely  isle  hath  been 
The  watcher  of  thy  sleep  and  hours  of  life, 
From  the  young  day  when  first  thy  infant  hand 
Pluck'd  witless  the  weak  flowers,  till  thine  arm 
Could  bend  that  bow  heroic  to  all  times. 
Show  thy  heart's  secret  to  an  ancient  Power 
Who  hath  forsaken  old  and  sacred  thrones 
For  prophecies  of  thee,  and  for  the  sake 
Of  loveliness  new-born." — Apollo  then, 
With  sudden  scrutiny  and  gloomless  eyes, 
Thus  answer'd,  while  his  white  melodious  throat 
Throbb'd  with  the  syllables. — "  Mnemosyne  ! 
Thy  name  is  on  my  tongue,  I  know  not  how  ; 
Why  should  I  tell  thee  what  thou  so  well  seest  ? 
Why  should  I  strive  to  show  what  from  thy  lips 
Would  come  no  mystery  ?  For  me,  dark,  dark. 
And  painful  vile  oblivion  seals  my  eyes  : 
I  strive  to  search  wherefore  I  ara  so  sad, 
Until  a  melancholy  numbs  my  limbs ; 
And  then  upon  the  grass  I  sit,  and  moan. 
Like  one  who  once  had  wings. — O  why  should  I 
Feel  cursed  and  thwarted,  when  the  liegeless  aii 
Yields  to  my  step  aspirant  ?  why  should  I 
Spurn  the  green  turf  as  hateful  to  my  feet  ? 
Goddess  benign !  point  forth  some  unknown  thing . 
Are  there  not  other  regions  than  this  isle  ? 
586 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


55 


What  are  the  stars  ?  There  is  the  sun,  the  sun ! 

And  the  most  patient  brilliance  of  the  moon ! 

And  stars  by  thousands !  Point  me  out  the  way 

To  any  one  particular  beauteous  star, 

And  I  will  Hit  into  it  with  my  lyre, 

And  make  its  silvery  splendor  pant  with  bliss. 

I  have  heard  the  cloudy  thunder:  Where  is  power? 

Whose  hand,  whose  essence,  what  divinity 

Makes  this  alarm  in  the  elements, 

While  I  here  idle  listen  on  the  sliores 

In  fearless  yet  in  aching  ignorance  ? 

O  tell  me,  lonely  Goddess !  by  tliy  harp, 

That  waileth  every  mom  and  eventide. 

Tell  nic  why  thus  I  rave,  about  these  groves  I 

Mute  thou  reniainest — Mute  ?  yet  I  can  read 

A  wondrous  lesson  in  thy  silent  face  : 

Knowledge  enormous  makes  a  God  of  me, 

Names,  deeds,  gray  legends,  dire  events,  rebellions. 

Majesties,  sovran  voices,  agonies. 

Creations,  and  destroyings,  all  at  once 

Pour  into  the  wide  hollows  of  my  brain, 


And  deify  me,  as  if  some  blithe  wine, 

Or  bright  elixir  peerless  I  liad  drunk. 

And  so  become  immortal." — Thus  the  God, 

While  his  enkindled  eyes,  with  level  glance 

Beneath  his  white  soft  temples,  stedfast  kept 

Trembling  with  light  upon  Mnemosyne. 

Soon  wild  commolions  shook  him,  and  made  flush 

All  the  immortal  fairness  of  his  limbs : 

Most  like  the  struggle  at  the  gate  of  death ; 

Or  liker  still  to  one  who  should  take  leave 

Of  pale  innnortal  death,  and  wilh  a  pang 

As  hot  as  death's  is  chill,  with  fierce  convulse 

Die  into  life  :  so  young  Apollo  anguish'd  ; 

His  very  hair,  his  golden  tresses  famed 

Kept  undulation  round  his  eager  neck. 

During  the  pain,  Mnemosyne  upheld 

Her  arms  as  one  who  prophesied. — At  length 

A  polio  shriek'd  ; — and  lo  !  from  all  his  limbs 

Celestial  ****** 


3^f.(>tcUaneous5  |Jocm!^» 


What  more  felicity  can  fall  to  creature 
Than  to  enjoy  delight  with  liberty? 

Fate  of  the  Butterfly.— SPEfisKli. 


DEDICATION. 


TO  LEIGH  HUNT,  ESQ. 
Clory  and  loveliness  have  pass'd  away  ; 

For  if  we  wander  out  in  early  morn. 

No  wreathed  incense  do  we  see  upborne 
Into  the  east  to  meet  the  smiling  day  ; 
No  crowd  of  nymphs  soft-voiced  and  yoimg  and  gay; 

In  woven  baskets  bringing  ears  of  corn, 

Roses,  and  pinks,  and  violets,  to  adorn 
The  shrine  of  Flora  in  her  early  May. 
But  there  are  left  delights  as  high  as  these; 

And  I  shall  ever  bless  my  destiny. 
That  in  a  time  when  under  pleasant  trees 

Pan  is  no  longer  sought,  I  feel  a  free, 
A  leafy  luxury,  seeing  I  could  please. 

With  these  poor  ofierings,  a  man  like  thee 


Places  of  nestling  green  for  poets  made. 

Story  of  jRimini. 

I  STOOD  tiptoe  upon  a  little  hill. 
The  air  was  cooling,  and  so  very  still. 
That  the  sweet  buds  which  with  a  modest  pride 
Pull  droopingly,  in  slanting  curve  aside. 
Their  scanty-leaved,  and  finely-tapering  stems, 
Had  not  yet  lost  their  starry  diadems 
Caught  from  the  early  sobbing  of  the  mom. 
The  clouds  were  pure  and  white  as  Hocks  new-shorn. 
And  Iresh  from  the  clear  brook ;  sweetly  they  slept 
On  the  blue  fields  of  heaven,  and  then  there  crept 
43* 


A  little  noiseless  noise  among  the  leaves. 

Born  of  the  very  sigh  that  silence  heaves : 

For  not  the  faintest  motion  could  be  seen 

Of  all  the  shades  that  slanted  o'er  the  green. 

There  was  wide  wandering  for  the  greediest  eye, 

To  peer  about  upon  variety  ; 

Far  round  the  horizon's  crystal  air  to  skim, 

-And  trace  the  dwindled  edgings  of  its  brim; 

'J'o  picture  out  the  quaint  and  curious  bending 

Of  a  fresh  woodland  alley  never-ending: 

Or  by  the  bowery  clefts,  and  leafy  shelves, 

Guess  where  the  jaunty  streams  refresh  themselves 

I  gazed  awhile,  and  felt  as  light,  and  free 

As  though  the  fanning  wings  of  Mercury 

Had  play'd  upon  my  heels  :  I  was  light-hearted, 

And  many  pleasures  to  my  vision  started  ; 

So  I  straightway  began  to  pluck  a  posy 

Of  luxuries  bright,  milky,  soft  and  rosy. 

A  bush  of  May-flowers  wilh  the  bees  about  them ; 
Ah,  sure  no  tasteful  nook  coidd  be  without  them; 
And  let  a  lush  laburnum  ovcrsweep  them. 
And  let  long  grass  grow  round  the  roots,  to  keep  them 
Moist,  cool  and  green  ;  and  shade  the  violets, 
That  they  may  bind  the  moss  in  leafy  net.s 

A  filbert-hedge  with  wild-brier  overtvvined, 
And  clumps  of  woodbine  taking  the  soft  wind 
Upon  their  summer  thrones ;  there  too  should  be 
The  frequent  chequer  of  a  youngling  tree. 
That  with  a  score  of  light  green  brethren  shoots 
From  the  quaint  mossiness  of  aged  roots : 
Round  which  is  heard  a  spring-head  of  clear  waters  - 
Babbling  so  wildly  of  its  lovely  daughters, 
587 


56 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  spreading  bluebells ;  it  may  haply  mourn 
That  such  fair  clusters  should  be  rudely  torn 
From  their  fresh  beds,  and  scattered  thoughtlessly 
By  infant  hands,  left  on  the  path  to  die. 

Open  afresh  your  round  of  starry  folds, 

Ye  ardent  marigolds! 

Dry  up  the  moisture  from  your  golden  lids, 

For  great  Apollo  bids 

That  in  these  days  j-our  praises  should  be  sung 

On  many  harps  which  he  has  lately  strung ; 

And  when  again  your  dewiness  he  kisses. 

Tell  him,  I  have  you  in  my  world  of  blisses : 

So  haply  when  I  rove  in  some  far  vale,' 

His  mighty  voice  may  come  upon  the  gale. 

Here  are  sweet  peas,  on  tiptoe  for  a  flight : 
With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white, 
And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things. 
To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings. 
Linger  avvliile  upon  some  bending  planks 
That  lean  against  a  streamlet's  rushy  banks, 
And  watch  intently  Nature's  gentle  doings : 
They  will  be  found  softer  than  ring-dove's  cooings. 
How  silent  comes  the  water  round  that  bend  ; 
Not  the  minutest  whisper  does  it  send 
To  the  o'erhanging  sallows :  blades  of  grass 
Slowly  across  the  chequer'd  shadows  pass. 
Why  you  might  read  two  sonnets,  ere  they  reach 
To  where  the  hurrying  freshnesses  aye  preach 
A  natural  sermon  o'er  their  pebbly  beds; 
Where  swarms  of  minnows  show  their  little  heads. 
Staying  their  wavy  bodies  'gainst  the  streams. 
To  taste  the  luxury  of  sunny  beams 
Temper'd  with  coolness.     How  they  ever  wrestle 
With  their  own  sweet  dehght,  and  ever  nestle 
Their  silver  bellies  on  the  pebbly  saud  ! 
If  you  but  scantily  hold  out  the  hand, 
That  very  instant  not  one  will  remain ; 
But  turn  your  eye,  and  tJiey  are  there  again. 
The  ripples  seem  right  glad  to  reach  those  cresses. 
And  cool  themselves  among  the  emerald  tresses; 
The  while  they  cool  themselves,  they  freshness  give, 
And  moisture,  that  the  bowery  green  may  live : 
So  keephig  up  an  interchange  of  favors. 
Like  good  men  in  the  truth  of  their  behaviors. 
Sometimes  goldfinches  one  by  one  will  drop 
From  low-hung  branches  :  little  space  they  stop ; 
But  sip,  and  twitter,  and  their  feathers  sleek; 
Then  off  at  once,  as  in  a  wanton  freak : 
Or  perhaps,  to  show  their  black  and  golden  wings, 
Pausing  upon  their  yellow  flutlerings. 
Were  I  in  such  a  place,  I  sure  should  pray 
That  naught  less  sweet  might  call  my  thoughts  away. 
Than  the  soft  rustle  of  a  maiden's  gown 
Fanning  away  the  dandelion's  down  : 
Than  the  light  music  of  her  nimble  toes 
Patting  against  the  sorrel  as  she  goes. 
How  she  would  start,  and  blush,  thus  to  be  caught 
Playing  in  all  her  innocence  of  thought ! 
O  let  me  lead  her  gently  o'er  the  brook, 
Watch  her  half-smiling  lips  and  downward  look; 
O  let  me  for  one  moment  touch  her  vvrist ; 
Let  me  one  moment  to  her  breathing  list ; 
And  as  she  leaves  me  may  she  often  turn 
.Her  fair  eyes  looking  through  her  locks  auburn. 


What  next  ?  A  tuft  of  evening  primroses. 

O'er  which  the  mind  may  hover  till  it  dozes ; 

O'er  which  it  well  might  take  a  pleasant  sleep. 

But  that  'tis  ever  startled  by  the  leap 

Of  buds  into  ripe  flowers  ;  or  by  the  flitting 

Of  diverse  moths,  that  aye  their  rest  are  quitting ; 

Or  by  the  moon  lifting  her  silver  rim 

Above  a  cloud,  and  with  a  gradual  swim 

Coming  into  the  blue  with  all  her  light. 

O  Maker  of  sweet  poets  !  dear  delight 

Of  this  iair  world  and  all  its  gentle  livers ; 

Spangler  of  clouds,  halo  of  crystal  rivers, 

Mingler  with  leaves,  and  dew  and  tumbling  streams 

Closer  of  lovely  eyes  to  lovely  dreams, 

Lover  of  loneliness,  and  wandering. 

Of  upcast  eye,  and  tender  pondering! 

Thee  must  I  praise  above  all  other  glories 

That  smile  us  on  to  tell  delightful  stories. 

For  what  has  made  the  sage  or  poet  write 

But  the  fair  paradise  of  Nature's  light? 

In  the  calm  grandeur  of  a  sober  line, 

We  see  the  waving  of  the  mountain  pine ; 

And  when  a  tale  is  beautifully  staid. 

We  feel  the  safety  of  a  hawthorn  glade  : 

U'hen  it  is  moving  on  luxurious  wings, 

The  soul  is  lost  in  pleasant  smotherings : 

Fair  dewy  roses  Inrush  against  our  faces, 

.\nd  flowering  laurels  spring  from  diamond  vases; 

O'er-head  we  see  the  jasmine  and  sweet-brier, 

And  bloomy  grapes  laughing  from  green  attire ; 

^VhiIe  at  our  feet,  the  voice  of  crystal  bubbles 

Cliarms  us  at  once  away  from  all  our  troubles  : 

So  that  we  feel  uplifted  from  the  world. 

Walking  upon  the  white  clouds  wreathed  and  curl'd 

So  felt  he,  who  first  told  liovv  Psyche  went 

On  the  smooth  wind  to  realms  of  wonderment ; 

What  Psyche  felt,  and  Love,  when  their  full  lips 

First  touch'd  ;  what  amorous  and  fondling  nips 

They  gave  each  other's  cheeks ;  with  all  their  sighs. 

And  how  they  kist  each  other's  tremulous  eyes : 

The  silver  lamp, — the  ravishment — the  wonder, — 

The  darkness — loneliness, — the  fearful  thunder  : 

Their  woes  gone  by,  and  both  to  heaven  up-flown. 

To  bow  for  gratitude  before  Jove's  throne. 

So  did  he  feel,  who  puU'd  the  boughs  aside. 

That  we  might  look  into  a  forest  wide. 

To  catch  a  glimpse  of  Fauns,  and  Dryades 

Coming  with  softest  rustle  through  the  trees ; 

And  garlands  woven,  of  flowers  wild  and  sweet, 

Upheld  on  ivory  wrists,  or  sporting  feet : 

Telling  us  how  fair  trembling  Syrinx  fled 

Arcadian  Pan,  with  such  a  fearful  dread. 

Poor  nymph, — poor  Pan, — how  he  did  weep,  to  find 

Naught  but  a  lovely  sighing  of  the  wind 

Along  the  reedy  stream ;  a  half-heard  strain. 

Full  of  sweet  desolation — balmy  pain. 


What  first  inspired  a  bard  of  old  to  sing 
Narcissus  pining  o'er  the  untainted  spring  ? 
In  some  delicious  ramble,  he  had  found 
A  little  space,  with  boughs  all  w  oven  round : 
And  in  the  midst  of  all,  a  clearer  pool 
Than  e'er  reflected  in  its  pleasant  cool 
The  blue  sky,  here  and  there  serenely  peeping 
Through  tendril  wreaths  fantastically  creeping. 
588 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


57 


And  on  the  bank  a  lonely  flower  he  spied, 
A  meek  and  forlorn  flower,  with  naught  of  pride, 
Drooping  its  beauty  o'er  the  watery  clearness, 
To  woo  its  own  sad  image  into  nearness : 
Deaf  to  light  Zephyrus,  it  would  not  move  ; 
But  still  would  seem  to  droop,  to  pine,  to  love. 
So  while  the  poet  stood  in  this  sweet  spot, 
Some  fainter  gleamings  o'er  his  fancy  shot ; 
Nor  was  it  long  ere  he  had  told  the  tale 
Of  young  Narcissus,  and  sad  Echo's  bale. 

Where  had  he  been,  from  whose  warm  head  out-flew 

That  sweetest  of  all  songs,  that  ever  new, 

That  aye  refreshing,  pure  deliciousness, 

Coming  ever  to  bless 

The  wanderer  by  moonlight  ?  to  him  bringing 

Shapes  from  the  invisible  world,  unearlldy  singing 

From  out  the  middle  air,  from  flowery  nests, 

And  from  the  pillowy  silkiness  that  rests 

Full  in  the  speculation  of  the  stars. 

Ah  I  surely  he  had  burst  our  mortal  bars ; 

Into  some  wondrous  region  he  had  gone. 

To  search  for  thee,  divine  Endymion ! 

He  was  a  Poet,  sure  a  lover  too, 

Who  stood  on  Latmus'  top,  what  time  there  blew 

Soft  breezes  from  the  myrtle  vale  below ; 

And  brought,  in  faintness  solemn,  sweet,  and  slow, 

A  hymn  from  Dian's  temple  ;  while  upswelling. 

The  incense  went  to  her  own  starry  dwelling. 

But  though  her  face  was  clear  as  infant's  eyes. 

Though  she  stood  smiling  o'er  the  sacrifice, 

The  poet  wept  at  her  so  piteous  fate. 

Wept  that  such  beauty  should  be  desolate  : 

So  in  fine  wrath  some  golden  sounds  he  won. 

And  gave  meek  Cynthia  her  Endymion. 

Queen  of  the  wide  air ;  thou  most  lovely  queen 
Of  all  the  brightness  that  mine  eyes  have  seen ! 
As  thou  exceedest  all  things  in  thy  shine, 
So  every  tale,  does  this  sweet  tale  of  thine. 
O  for  three  words  of  honey,  that  I  might 
Tell  but  one  wonder  of  thy  bridal  night ! 

Where  distant  ships  do  seem  to  show  their  keels, 
Phoebus  awhile  delay'd  his  mighty  wheels. 
And  turn'd  to  smile  upon  thy  bashful  eyes. 
Ere  he  his  unseen  pomp  would  solemnize. 
The  evening  weather  was  so  bright,  and  clear. 
That  men  of  health  were  of  unusual  cheer ; 
Stepping  like  Homer  at  the  trumpet's  call. 
Or  young  Apollo  on  the  pedestal : 
And  lovely  women  were  as  fair  and  W'arm, 
As  Venus  looking  sideways  in  alarm. 
The  breezes  were  ethereal,  and  pure. 
And  crept  through  half-closed  lattices  to  cure 
The  languid  sick ;  it  cool'd  their  fever'd  sleep. 
And  soothed  them  into  slumbers  full  and  deep. 
Soon  they  awoke  clear-eyed  :  nor  burnt  with  thirst- 
ing, 
Nor  with  hot  fingers,  nor  with  temples  bursting  : 
And  springing  up,  they  met  the  wond'ring  sight 
Of  their  dear  friends,  nigh  foolish  with  delight ; 
Who  feel  their  arms,  and  breasts,  and  kiss,  and  stare. 
And  on  their  placid  foreheads  part  the  hair. 
Young  men  and  maidens  at  each  other  gazed. 
With  hands  held  back,  and  motionless,  amazed 


To  see  the  brightness  in  each  other's  eyes ; 
And  so  they  stood,  fill'd  with  a  sweet  surprise, 
Until  their  tongues  were  loosed  in  poesy. 
Therefore  no  lover  did  of  anguish  die : 
But  the  soft  numbers,  in  that  moment  spoken. 
Made  silken  lies,  that  never  may  be  broken. 
Cynthia!  I  cannot  tell  the  greater  blisses 
That  foUow'd  thine,  and  thy  dear  shepherd's 
Was  there  a  poet  born  ? — But  now  no  more — 
My  wandering  spirit  must  no  further  soar. 


SPECIMEN  OF  AN  INDUCTION  TO  A  POEM. 

Lo !  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry  ; 
For  large  white  plumes  are  dancing  in  mine  eye. 
Not  like  the  formal  crest  of  latter  days. 
But  bending  in  a  thousand  graceful  ways; 
So  graceful,  that  it  seems  no  mortal  hand, 
Or  e'en  the  touch  of  Archimago's  wand. 
Could  charm  them  into  such  an  attitude. 
We  must  think  rather,  that  in  playful  mood. 
Some  mountain  breeze  had  turn'd  its  chief  deligbt 
To  show  this  wonder  of  its  gentle  might. 
Lo !  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry ; 
For  while  I  muse,  the  lance  points  slantingly 
Athwart  the  morning  air :  some  lady  sweet, 
Who  cannot  feel  for  cold  her  tender  feet, 
From  the  worn  top  of  some  old  battlement 
Hails  it  with  tears,  her  stout  defender  sent; 
And  from  her  own  pure  self  no  joy  dissembling. 
Wraps  round  her  ample  robe  with  happy  trembling. 
Sometimes  when  the  good  knight  his  rest  could  take, 
It  is  reflected,  clearly,  in  a  lake. 
With  the  young  ashen  boughs,  'gainst  which  it  rests, 
And  th'  half-seen  mossiness  of  linnets'  nests. 
Ah !  shall  I  ever  tell  its  cruelty. 
When  the  fire  flashes  from  a  warrior's  eye, 
And  his  tremendous  hand  is  grasping  it. 
And  his  dark  brow  for  very  wrath  is  knit? 
Or  when  his  spirit,  with  more  calm  intent. 
Leaps  to  the  honors  of  a  tournament. 
And  makes  the  gazers  round  about  the  ring 
Stare  at  the  grandeur  of  the  balancing? 
No,  no !  this  is  far  ofl^: — then  how  shall  I 
Revive  the  dying  tones  of  minstrelsy. 
Which  linger  yet  about  long  Gothic  arches, 
In  dark-green  ivy,  and  among  wild  larches  ? 
How  sing  the  splendor  of  the  revelries, 
When  butts  of  wine  are  drank  oflf  to  the  lees ' 
And  that  bright  lance,  against  the  fretted  wall, 
Beneath  the  shade  of  stately  banneral. 
Is  slung  with  shining  cuirass,  sword,  and  shield  ? 
Where  ye  may  see  a  spur  in  bloody  field. 
Light-footed  liamsels  move  with  gentle  paces  . 

Round  the  wide  hall,  and  show  their  happy  faces ; 
Or  stand  in  courtly  talk  by  fives  and  sevens, 
Like  those  fair  stars  that  twinkle  in  the  heavens.  • 
Yet  must  I  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry  : 
Or  wherefore  comes  that  knight  so  proudly  by  ? 
Wherefore  more  proudly  does  the  gentle  knight 
Rein  in  the  sweUing  of  his  ample  might  ? 
Spenser!  thy  brows  are  arched,  open,  kind, 
And  come  like  a  clear  sunrise  to  my  mind  ; 
And  always  does  my  heart  with  pleasure  dance 
When  I  think  on  thy  noble  countenance : 
76  589 


>8 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Where  never  yet  was  aught  more  earthly  seen 

Than  the  pure  freshness  of  thy  laurels  green. 

Therefore,  great  bard,  I  not  so  fearfully 

Call  on  tliy  gentle  spirit  to  hover  nigh 

My  daring  steps  :  or  if  thy  tender  care, 

Thus  startled  unaware, 

Be  jealous  that  the  foot  of  other  wight 

Should  madly  follow  that  bright  path  of  light 

Traced  by  thy  loved  Libertas ;  he  will  speak, 

And  tell  thee  that  my  prayer  is  very  meek ; 

That  I  will  follow  with  due  reverence, 

And  start  with  awe  at  mine  own  strange  pretence. 

Him  thou  wilt  hear ;  so  I  will  rest  in  hope 

To  see  wide  plains,  fair  trees,  and  lawny  slope : 

The  morn,  the  eve,  the  light,  the  shade,  the  flowers ; 

Clear  streams,  smooth  lakes,  and  overlooking  towers. 


CALIDORE. 

A  FRAGMENT. 

Young  Calidore  is  paddling  o'er  the  lake  ; 

His  healthful  spirit  eager  and  awake 

To  feel  the  beauty  of  a  silent  eve. 

Which  seem'd  full  loth  this  happy  world  to  leave, 

The  light  dwelt  o'er  the  scene  so  lingeringly. 

He  bares  his  forehead  to  the  cool  blue  sky. 

And  smiles  at  the  far  clearness  all  around. 

Until  his  heart  is  well-nigh  over-wound. 

And  turns  for  calmness  to  the  pleasant  green 

Of  easy  slopes,  and  shadowy  trees  that  lean 

So  elegantly  o'er  the  waters'  brim 

And  show  their  blossoms  trim. 

Scarce  can  his  clear  and  nimble  eye-sight  follow 

The  freaks,  and  darlings  of  the  black-wing'd  swallow, 

Delighting  much,  to  see  it  half  at  rest. 

Dip  so  refreshingly  its  wings  and  breast 

'Gainst  the  smooth  surface,  and  to  mark  anon. 

The  widening  circles  into  nothing  gone. 

And  now  the  sharp  keel  of  his  little  boat 
Comes  up  with  ripple  and  with  easy  float, 
And  glides  into  a  bed  of  water-lilies : 
Broad-leaved  are  they,  and  their  white  canopies 
Are  upward  turn'd  to  catch  the  heaven's  dew. 
Near  to  a  little  island's  point  they  grew ; 
Whence  Calidore  might  have  the  goodliest  view 
Of  this  sweet  spot  of  earth.     The  bowery  shore 
Went  off  in  gentle  windings  to  the  hoar 
And  light-blue  mountains :  but  no  breathing  man 
With  a  warm  heart,  and  eye  prepared  to  scan 
Nature's  clear  beauty,  could  jjass  lightly  by 
Objects  that  look'd  out  so  invitingly 
On  either  side.     These,  gentle  Calidore 
I  Greeted,  as  he  had  known  them  long  before. 

The  sidelong  view  of  swelling  leafiness. 
Which  the  glad  setting  sun  in  gold  doth  dress, 
Whence,  ever  and  anon,  the  joy  outsprings, 
And  scales  upon  the  beauty  of  its  wings. 

The  lonely  turret,  shatter'd,  and  outworn. 
Stands  venerably  proud ;  too  proud  to  mourn 
Its  long-lost  grandeur :  fir-trees  grow  around, 
Aye  dropping  their  hard  fruit  upon  the  ground. 


The  little  chapel,  with  the  cross  above 
Upholding  wreaths  of  ivy  ;  the  white  dove. 
That  on  the  windows  spreads  his  feathers  light, 
And  seems  from  purple  clouds  to  wing  its  flight. 

Green-tufted  islands  casting  their  soft  shades 

Across  the  lake  ;  sequester'd  leafy  glades. 

That  through  the  dimness  of  their  twilight  show 

Large  dock-leaves,  spiral  foxgloves,  or  the  glow 

Of  the  wild  cat's-eyes,  or  the  silvery  stems 

Of  delicate  birch-trees,  or  long  grass  which  hems 

A  little  brook.     The  youth  had  long  been  viewing 

These  pleasant  things,  and  heaven  was  bedewing 

The  mountain  flowers,  when  his  glad  senses  caught 

A  trumpet's  silver  voice.     Ah  !  it  was  fraught 

With  many  joys  for  him  :  the  warder's  ken 

Had  found  white  coursers  prancing  in  the  glen  : 

Friends  very  dear  to  him  he  soon  will  see  ; 

So  pushes  off  his  boat  most  eagerly. 

And  soon  upon  the  lake  ho  skims  along. 

Deaf  to  the  nightingale's  first  under-song ; 

Nor  minds  he  the  white  swans  that  dream  so  sweetly  , 

His  spirit  flies  before  him  so  completely. 

And  now  he  turns  a  jutting  point  of  land. 

Whence  may  be  seen  the  castle  gloomy  and  grand . 

Nor  will  a  bee  buzz  round  two  swelling  peaches. 

Before  the  point  of  his  light  shallop  reaches 

Those  marble  steps  that  through  the  water  dip : 

Now  over  them  he  goes  with  hasty  trip. 

And  scarcely  stays  to  ope  the  folding-doors  • 

Anon  he  leaps  along  the  oaken  floors 

Of  halls  and  corridors. 

Delicious  sounds !  those  little  bright-eyed  things 
That  float  about  the  air  on  azure  wings, 
Had  been  less  heartfelt  by  him  than  the  clang 
Of  clattering  hoofs ;  into  the  court  he  sprang. 
Just  as  two  noble  steeds,  and  palfreys  twain. 
Were  slanting  out  their  necks  with  loosen'd  rein ; 
While  from  beneath  the  threatening  portcullis 
They  brought  their  happy  burthens.    What  a  kiss, 
What  gentle  squeeze  he  gave  each  lady's  hand  ! 
How  tremblingly  their  delicate  ankles  spann'd ! 
Into  how  sweet  a  trance  his  soul  was  gone, 
While  whisperings  of  affection 
Made  him  delay  to  let  their  tender  feet 
Come  to  the  earth ;  with  an  incline  so  sweet 
From  their  low  palfreys  o'er  his  neck  they  bent : 
And  whether  there  were  tears  of  languishment, 
Or  that  the  evening  dew  had  pearl'd  their  tresses, 
He  feels  a  moisture  on  his  cheek,  and  blesses 
With  lips  that  tremble,  and  with  glistening  eye, 
All  the  soft  luxury 

That  nestled  in  his  arms.     A  dimpled  hand. 
Fair  as  some  wonder  out  of  fairy  land. 
Hung  from  his  shoulder  like  tiie  drooping  flowers 
Of  whitest  Cassia,  fresh  from  summer  showers  : 
And  this  he  fondled  with  his  happy  cheek. 
As  if  for  joy  he  would  no  further  seek : 
When  the  kind  voice  of  good  Sir  Clerimond 
Came  to  his  ear,  like  something  from  beyond 
His  present  being :  so  he  gently  drew 
His  w-arm  arms,  thrilling  now  with  pulses  new. 
From  their  sweet  thrall,  and  forward  gently  bending 
Thank'd  heaven  that  his  joy  was  never-ending : 
590 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


59 


While  'gainst  his  forehead  he  devoutly  press'd 
A  hand  Heaven  made  to  succor  the  distress'd ; 
A  hand  that  from  the  world's  bleak  promontory 
Had  lifted  Cahdore  for  deeds  of  Glory. 

Amid  the  pages,  and  the  torches'  glare, 

There  stood  a  knight,  patting  tlie  flowing  hair 

Of  his  proud  horse's  mane  :  he  was  withal 

A  man  of  elegance,  and  stature  tall  : 

So  that  the  waving  of  his  plumes  would  be 

High  as  the  berries  of  a  wild-ash  tree, 

Or  as  the  winged  cap  of  Mercury. 

His  armor  was  so  dexterously  wrought 

In  shape,  that  sure  no  living  man  had  thought 

It  hard,  and  heavy  steel :  but  that  indeed 

It  was  some  glorious  form,  some  splendid  weed, 

In  which  a  spirit  new  come  from  the  skies 

Might  live,  and  show  itself  to  human  eyes. 

'Tis  the  far-famed,  the  brave  Sir  Gondibert, 

Said  the  good  man  to  Calidore  alert ; 

While  the  young  warrior  with  a  step  of  grace 

Came  up, — a  courtly  smile  upon  his  face, 

And  mailed  hand  held  out,  ready  to  greet 

The  large-eyed  wonder,  and  ambitious  heat 

Of  the  aspiring  boy ;  who,  as  he  led 

Those  smiling  ladies,  often  turn'd  his  head 

To  admire  the  visor  arch'd  so  gracefully 

Over  a  knightly  brow ;  while  they  went  by 

The  lamps   that    from    the    high-roof'd   walls  were 

pendent, 
And  gave  the  steel  a  shining  quite  transcendent. 

Soon  in  a  pleasant  chamber  they  are  seated. 

The  sweet-lipp'd  ladies  have  already  greeted 

All  the  green  leaves  that  round  the  window  clamber, 

To  show  their  purple  stars,  and  bells  of  amber. 

Sir  Gondibert  has  doflTd  his  shining  steel, 

Gladdening  in  the  free  and  airy  feel 

Of  a  light  mantle;  and  while  Clerimond 

Is  looking  round  aliout  him  with  a  fond 

And  placid  eye,  young  Calidore  is  burning 

To  hear  of  knightly  deeds,  and  gallant  spurning 

Of  all  unworthiness ;  and  how  the  strong  of  arm 

Kept  off  dismay,  and  terror,  and  alarm 

From  lovely  woman :  while  brimful  of  this, 

He  gave  each  damsel's  hand  so  warm  a  kiss, 

And  had  such  manly  ardor  in  his  eye, 

That  each  at  other  look'd  half-staringly : 

And  then  their  features  started  into  smiles, 

Sweet  as  blue  heavens  o'er  enchanted  isles. 

Softly  the  breezes  from  the  forest  came, 
Softly  they  blew  aside  the  taper's  flame  ; 
Clear  was  the  song  from  Philomel's  far  tower ; 
Grateful  the  incense  from  the  lime-tree  flower; 
Mysterious,  wild,  the  far-heard  trumpet's  tone ; 
Lovely  the  moon  in  ether,  all  alone  : 
Sweet  too  the  converse  of  these  happy  mortals, 
As  that  of  busy  spirits  when  the  portals 
Are  closing  in  the  West ;  or  that  soft  humming 
We  hear  around  when  Hesperus  is  coming. 
Sweet  be  their  sleep.     ****** 


TO  SOME  LADIES 

ON  RECEIVING  A  CURIOUS  SHELL. 

What  though,  while  the  wonders  of  nature  exploring, 
I  caimot  your  light  mazy  footsteps  attend  ; 
3P 


Nor  listen  to  accents,  that  almost  adoring. 
Bless  Cynthia's  face,  the  enthusiast's  friend : 

Yet  over  the  steep,  whence  the  mountain-stream  rushes^ 
With  you,  kindest  friends,  in  idea  I  rove ; 

Mark  the  clear  tumbling  crystal,  its  passionate  gushes. 
Its  spray  that  the  wild-flower  kindly  bedews. 

Why  linger  ye  so,  the  wild  labyrinth  strolling? 

Why  breathless,  unable  your  bliss  to  declare  ? 
Ah !  you  list  to  the  nightingale's  tender  condoling, 

Responsive  to  sylphs,  in  the  moonbeamy  air. 

'T  is  mom,  and  the  flowers  with  dew  are  yet  drooping, 
I  see  you  are  treading  the  verge  of  the  sea  : 

And  now!  ah,  I  see  it — you  just  now  are  stooping 
To  pick  up  the  keepsake  intended  for  me. 

If  a  cherub,  on  pinions  of  silver  descending, 

Had  brought  me  a  gem  from  the  fretwork  of  Heaven ; 

And  smiles  with  his  star-cheering  voice  sweetly  blend- 
ing, 
The  blessings  of  Tighe  had  melodiously  given ; 

It  had  not  created  a  warmer  emotion 

Than  the   present,  fair  nymphs,  I  was  blest  with 
from  you ; 
Than  the  shell,  from  the  bright  golden  sands  of  the 
ocean. 
Which  the  emerald  waves  at  your  feet  gladly  threw. 

For,  indttfd,  'tis  a  sweet  and  peculiar  pleasure 
(And  blissful  is  he  who  such  happiness  finds). 

To  possess  but  a  span  of  the  hour  of  leisure 
In  elegant,  pure,  and  aerial  minds. 


ON  RECEIVING  A  COP\  OF  VERSES  FROM  THE 
SAME  LADIES. 

Hast  thou  from  the  caves  of  Golconda,  a  gem 
Pure  as  the  ice-drop  that  froze  on  the  motmtains? 

Bright  as  the  humming-bird's  green  diadem, 

When  it  flutters  in  sunbeams  that  shine  through  a 
fountain  ? 

Hast  thou  a  goblet  for  dark  sparkling  wine  ? 

That  goblet  right  heavy,  and  massy,  and  gold? 
And  splendidly  mark'd  with  the  story  divine 

Of  Armida  the  fair,  and  Rinaldo  the  bold  ? 

Hast  thou  a  steed  with  a  mane  richly  flowing  ? 

Hast  thou  a  sword  that  thine  enemy's  smart  is  ? 
Hast  thou  a  trumpet  rich  melodies  blowing? 

And  wear'st  thou  the  shield  of  the  famed  Brito- 
martis  ? 

What  is  it  that  hangs  from  thy  shoulder  so  brave, 
Embroider'd  with  many  a  spring-peering  flower? 

Is  it  a  scarf  that  thy  fair  lady  gave  ? 

And  hastest  thou  now  to  that  fair  lady's  bower  ? 

Ah !   courteous  Sir  Knight,  with  large  joy  thou  art 
crown'd ; 
Full  many  the  glories  that  brighten  thy  youth! 
I  will  tell  thee  my  blisses,  which  richly  abound 
In  magical  powers  to  bless  and  to  soothe. 
591 


60 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


On  this  scroll  thou  seest  written  in  characters  fair 
A  sunbeaming  tale  of  a  wreath,  and  a  chain : 

And,  warrior,  it  nurtures  the  property  rare 

Of  charming  my  mind  from  the  trammels  of  pain. 

This  canopy  mark :  'tis  the  work  of  a  fay ; 

Beneath  its  rich  shade  did  King  Oberon  languish. 
When  lovely  Titania  was  far,  far  away, 

And  cruelty  left  him  to  sorrow  and  anguish. 

There,  oft  would  he  bring  from  his  soft-sighing  lute 
Wild  strains,  to  which,  spell-bound,  the  nightin- 
gales listen'd  I 
The  wondering  spirits  of  Heaven  were  mute. 

And  tears  'mong  the  dew-drops  of  morning  oft 
glisten'd. 

In  this  little  dome,  all  those  melodies  strange. 
Soft,  plaintive,  and  melting,  for  ever  will  sigh  ; 

Nor  e'er  will  the  notes  from  their  tenderness  change, 
Nor  e'er  will  the  music  of  Oberon  die. 

So  when  I  am  in  a  voluptuous  vein, 

I  pillow  my  head  on  the  sweets  of  the  rose, 

And  list  to  the  tale  of  the  wreath,  and  the  chain. 
Till  its  echoes  depart ;  then  I  sink  to  repose. 

Adieu !  valiant  Eric  !  with  joy  thou  art  crown'd. 
Full  many  the  glories  that  brighten  thy  youth, 

I  too  have  ray  blisses,  which  richly  abound 
In  magical  powers  to  bless  and  to  soothe. 


TO 


Hadst  thou  lived  in  days  of  old, 

O  what  wonders  had  been  told 

Of  thy  lively  countenance, 

And  thy  humid  eyes  that  dance. 

In  the  midst  of  their  own  brightness. 

In  the  very  fane  of  liglitness ; 

Over  which  thine  eyebrows,  leaning. 

Picture  out  each  lovely  meaning ! 

In  a  dainty  bend  they  lie. 

Like  to  streaks  across  the  sky. 

Or  the  feathers  from  a  crow. 

Fallen  on  a  bed  of  snow. 

Of  thy  dark  hair,  that  extends 

Into  many  graceful  bends  : 

As  the  leaves  of  hellebore 

Turn  to  whence  they  sprung  before. 

And  behind  each  ample  curl 

Peeps  the  richness  of  a  pearl. 

Downward  too  flows  many  a  tress 

With  a  glossy  waviness, 

Full,  and  round  like  globes  that  rise 

From  the  censer  to  the  skies 

Through  sunny  air.     Add  too,  the  sweetness 

Of  thy  honey 'd  voice ;  the  neatness 

Of  thine  ankle  lightly  turn'd : 

With  those  beauties  scarce  discern'd, 

Kept  with  such  sweet  privacy. 

That  they  seldom  meet  the  eye 

Of  the  little  Loves  that  fly 

Round  about  with  eager  pry. 

Saving  when  with  freshening  lave. 

Thou  dipp'st  them  in  the  taintless  wave ; 


Like  twin  water-lilies,  born 

In  the  coolness  of  the  morn. 

O,  if  thou  hadst  breathed  then, 

Now  the  Muses  had  been  ten. 

Couldst  thou  wish  for  lineage  higher 

Thaji  twin-sister  of  Thalia  ? 

At  least  for  ever,  evermore 

Will  I  call  the  Graces  four, 

Hadst  thou  lived  when  chivalry 

Lifted  up  her  lance  on  high. 

Tell  me  what  thou  wouldst  have  been  ? 

Ah !  I  see  the  silver  sheen 

Of  thy  broider'd  floating  vest 

Cov'ring  half  thine  ivory  breast : 

Which,  O  Heavens !  I  should  see, 

But  that  cruel  Destiny 

Has  placed  a  golden  cuirass  there, 

Keeping  secret  what  is  fair. 

Like  sunbeams  in  a  cloudlet  nested. 

Thy  locks  in  knightly  casque  are  rested : 

O'er  which  bend  four  milky  plumes. 

Like  the  gentle  lily's  blooms 

Springing  from  a  costly  vase. 

See  with  what  a  stately  pace 

Comes  thine  alabaster  steed  ; 

Servant  of  heroic  deed  I 

O'er  his  loins,  his  trappings  glow 

Like  the  northern  lights  on  snow. 

Mount  his  back  !  thy  sword  unsheath  ! 

Sign  of  the  enchanter's  death ; 

Bane  of  every  wicked  spell ; 

Silencer  of  dragon's  yell. 

Alas !  thou  this  wilt  never  do  : 

Thou  art  an  enchantress  too. 

And  wilt  surely  never  spill 

Blood  of  those  whose  eyes  can  kill. 


TO  HOPE. 

When  by  my  solitary  hearth  I  sit, 

And  hateful  thoughts  enwrap  my  soul  in  gloom 
When  no  fair  dreams  before  my  "  minds  eye"  flit, 

And  the  bare  heath  of  life  presents  no  bloom ; 
Sweet  Hope  !  ethereal  balm  upon  me  shed, 
And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 

Whene'er  I  wander,  at  the  fall  of  night. 

Where  woven  boughs  shut  out  the  moon's  bright 
ray. 

Should  sad  Despondency  my  musings  fright. 
And  frown,  to  drive  fair  Cheerfulness  away. 

Peep  with  the  moonbeams  tln'ough  the  leafy  loof, 

And  keep  that  fiend  Despondence  far  aloof. 

Should  Disappointment,  parent  of  Despair, 
Strive  for  her  son  to  seize  my  careless  heart 

When,  like  a  cloud,  he  sits  upon  the  air. 
Preparing  on  his  spell-bound  prey  to  dart : 

Chase  him  away,  sweet  Hope,  with  visage  bright, 

And  fright  him,  as  the  morning  frightens  night ! 

Whene'er  the  fate  of  those  I  hold  most  dear 
Tells  to  my  painful  breast  a  tale  of  sorrow, 

O  bright-eyed  Hope,  my  morbid  fancy  cheer  ; 
Let  me  awhile  thy  sweetest  comforts  borrow : 

Thy  heaven-born  radiance  around  me  shed, 

And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head ! 
692 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


61 


Should  e'er  unhappy  love  my  bosom  pain, 
From  cruel  parents,  or  relentless  fair, 

O  let  me  think  it  is  not  quite  in  vain 
To  sigh  out  sonnets  to  tiie  midnight  air! 

Sweet  Hope !  ethereal  balm  upon  me  shed, 

And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 

In  the  long  vista  of  the  years  to  roll, 

Let  me  not  see  our  country's  honor  fade ! 

C  let  me  see  our  land  retain  her  soul ! 

Her  pride,  her  freedom  ;  and  not  freedom's  shade, 

From  thy  bright  eyes  unusual  brightness  shed — 

Beneath  thy  pinions  canopy  my  head ! 

Let  me  not  see  the  patriot's  high  bequest. 
Great  Liberty  !  how  great  in  plain  attire  ! 

With  the  base  purple  of  a  court  oppress'd. 
Bowing  her  head,  and  ready  to  expire  : 

But  let  me  see  tliee  stoop  from  Heaven  on  wings 

Tiiat  fill  the  skies  with  silver  glitterings ! 

And  as,  in  sparkling  majesly,  a  star 

Gilds  the  bright  summit  of  some  gloomy  cloud ; 
Brightening  the  half-veil'd  face  of  heaven  afar : 

So,  when  dark  thoughts  my  boding  spirit  shroud. 
Sweet  Hope  I  celestial  influence  round  me  shed, 
Waving  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 

February,  1815. 


IMITATION  OF  SPENSER. 


Now  Morning  from  her  orient  chamber  came, 
And  her  first  footstep  touch'd  a  verdant  hill : 
CrowTiing  its  lawny  crest  with  amber  flame. 
Silvering  the  untainted  gushes  of  its  rill ; 
Which,  pure  from  mossy  beds,  did  down  distil. 
And,  after  parting  beds  of  simple  flowers, 
By  many  streams  a  little  lake  did  fill. 
Which  round  its  marge  reflected  woven  bowers. 
And,  in  its  middle  space,  a  sky  that  never  lowers. 

There  the  kingfisher  saw  his  plumage  bright. 
Vying  with  fish  of  brilliant  dye  below  ; 
Whose  silken  fins'  and  golden  scales'  light 
Cast  upward,  through  the  waves,  a  ruby  glow : 
There  saw  the  swan  his  neck  of  arched  snow, 
And  oar'd  himself  along  with  majesty  ; 
Sparkled  his  jetty  eyes  ;  his  feet  did  show 
Beneath  the  waves  like  Afric's  ebony. 
And  on  his  back  a  fay  reclined  voluptuously. 

Ah !  could  I  tell  the  wonders  of  an  isle 
That  in  that  fairest  lake  had  placed  been, 
I  could  e'en  Dido  of  her  grief  beguile ; 
Or  rob  from  aged  Lear  his  bitter  teen  : 
For  sure  so  fair  a  place  was  never  seen 
Of  all  that  ever  charm'd  romantic  eye: 
It  seem'd  an  emerald  in  the  silver  sheen 
Of  the  bright  waters ;  or  as  when  on  high. 
Through  clouds  of  fleecy  while,  laughs  the  cerulean 
sky. 

And  all  around  it  dipp'd  luxuriously 
Slopings  of  verdure  through  the  glossy  tide, 
Which,  as  it  were  in  gentle  amity. 
Rippled  delighted  up  the  flowery  side; 


As  if  to  glean  the  ruddy  tears  it  tried, 
Which  fell  profusely  from  the  rose-tree  stem! 
Haply  it  was  the  workings  of  its  pride. 
In  strife  to  throw  upon  the  shore  a  gem 
Outvying  all  the  buds  in  Flora's  diadem. 


Woman  !  when  I  behold  thee  flippant,  vain. 

Inconstant,  childish,  proud,  and  full  of  fancies; 

Without  that  modest  softening  that  enhances 
The  downcast  eye,  repentant  of  the  pain 
That  its  mild  light  creates  to  heal  again ; 

E'en  then,  elate,  my  spirit  leaps  and  prances, 

E'en  then  my  soul  with  exultation  dances 
For  thai  to  love,  so  long,  I  've  dormant  lain : 
But  when  I  see  thee  meek,  and  kind,  and  tender 

Heavens  !  how  desperately  do  I  adore 
Thy  winning  graces ; — to  be  thy  defender 

I  holly  burn — to  be  a  Calidore — 
A  very  Red-Cross  Knight — a  stout  Leander — 

Might  I  be  loved  by  thee  like  these  of  yore. 

Light  feet,  dark  violet  eyes,  and  parted  hair ; 

Soft  dimpled  hands,  while  neck,  and  creamy  breast 

Are  things  on  which  the  dazzled  senses  rest 
Till  the  fond,  fixed  eyes,  forget  ihey  stare. 
From  such  fine  pictures.  Heavens !  I  cannot  dare 

To  turn  my  admiration,  though  unpossess'd 

They  be  of  what  is  worthy, — though  not  drest 
In  lovely  modesty,  and  virtues  rare. 
Yet  these  I  leave  as  thoughtless  as  a  lark ; 

These  lures  I  straight  forget,— e'en  ere  I  din^ 
Or  thrice  my  palate  moisten :  but  when  I  mark 

Such  charms  with  mild  intelligences  shine. 
My  ear  is  open  like  a  greedy  shark. 

To  catch  the  tunings  of  a  voice  divine. 

Ah  !  who  can  e'er  forget  so  fair  a  being  ? 

Who  can  forget  her  half-retiring  sweets  ? 

God  !  she  is  like  a  milk-white  lamb  that  bleats 
For  man's  protection.     Surely  the  All-seeing, 
Who  joys  to  see  us  with  his  gifts  agreeing. 

Will  never  give  him  pinions,  who  entreats 

Such  innocence  to  ruin, — who  vilely  cheats 
A  dove-like  bosom.     In  truth,  there  is  no  freeing 
One's  thouglits  from  such  a  beauty  ;  when  I  hear 

A  lay  that  once  I  saw  her  hand  awake. 
Her  form  seems  floating  palpable,  and  near : 

Had  I  e'er  seen  her  from  an  arbor  take 
A  dewy  flower,  oft  would  that  hand  appear. 

And  o'er  my  eyes  the  trembling  moisture  shake 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE. 

1. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk 
Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot. 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberlef*. 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 
593 


62 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


O  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  tV.at  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country-green, 

Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sun-burnt  mirth ! 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen. 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim : 


Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hnst  never  known. 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs. 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs. 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes. 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

4. 
Away  !  away !  for  I  \\i\\  fly  to  thee. 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards : 
Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Cluster'd  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays  ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light. 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy 
ways. 


I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet. 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs. 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild  ; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 
Fast-fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves; 
And  mid-May's  eldest  child. 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine. 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves 


Darkling  I  listen  ;  and,  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  vvilh  easeful  Death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 

Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain. 

While  tliou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy ! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain- 

To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

7. 
Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird  ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 


Perhaps  the  selfsame  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for 
home. 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  fairy-lands  forlorn. 


Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell     • 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 
Adieu !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf 
Adieu !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music  : — Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN. 

1. 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness  ! 

Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 
In  Tempo  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?    What  maidens  loth  ? 
What  mad  pursuit  ?  What  struggle  to  escape  ? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?   What  wild  ecstasy  ? 


Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd. 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss. 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair ! 

3. 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu ; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied. 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new  ; 
More  liappy  love !  more  happy,  happy  love  ! 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd. 
For  ever  panting  and  for  ever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above. 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloy'd, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

4. 
Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest. 
Lead's!  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest  ? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore. 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
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MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


63 


Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 
And,  little  town,  tliy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

5. 

0  Attic  shape!  Fair  attitude !  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought. 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed ; 

Thou,  silent  form  !  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity  :  Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste. 
Thou  shall  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 

"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty," — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 


ODE  TO  PSYCHE. 

0  Goddess  !  hear  these  tuneless  numbers,  wrung 
By  sweet  enforcement  and  remembrance  dear. 

And  pardon  that  thy  secrets  should  be  sung. 
Even  into  thine  own  soft-couched  ear  ; 

Surely  I  dreamt  to-day,  or  did  I  see 

The  winged  Psyche  with  aw  aken'd  eyes ! 

1  W'ander'd  in  a  forest  thoughtlessly, 

And,  on  the  sudden,  fainting  with  surprise. 
Saw  two  fair  creatures,  couched  side  by  side 

In  deepest  grass,  beneath  the  whisp'ring  roof 

Of  leaves  and  trembled  blossoms,  where  there  ran 
A  brooklet,  scarce  espied  : 
Mid  hush'd,  cool-rooted  flowers,  fragrant-eyed. 

Blue,  silver-white,  and  budded  Tyrian, 
rhey  lay  calm-breathing  on  the  bedded  grass ; 

Their  arms  embraced,  and  their  pinions  too; 

Their  lips  touch'd  not,  but  had  not  bade  adieu. 
As  if  disjoined  by  soft-handed  slumber. 
And  ready  still  past  kisses  to  outnumber 

At  tender  eye-dawn  of  Aurorean  love  : 
The  winged  boy  I  knew  ; 

But  who  wast  thou,  O  happy,  happy  dove  ? 
His  Psyche  true ! 

O  latest-bom  and  loveliest  vision  far 

Of  all  Olympus'  faded  hierarchy  I 
Fairer  than  PhcBbe's  sapphire-region'd  star, 

Or  Vesper,  amorous  glow-worm  of  the  sky ; 
Fairer  than  these,  though  temple  thou  hast  none, 

Nor  altar  heap'd  with  flowers  ; 
Nor  virgin-choir  to  make  delicious  moan 

Upon  the  midnight  hours  ; 
No  voice,  no  lute,  no  pipe,  no  incense  sweet 

From  chain-swung  censer  teeming  ; 
No  shrine,  no  grove,  no  oracle,  no  heat 

Of  pale-mouthed  prophet  dreaming. 

0  brightest !  though  too  late  for  antique  vows. 
Too,  too  late  for  the  fond  believing  lyre. 

When  holy  were  the  haunted  forest  boughs, 
Holy  the  air,  the  water,  and  the  fire  ,• 

Yet  even  in  these  days  so  far  retired 
From  happy  pieties,  thy  lucent  fans. 
Fluttering  among  the  faint  Olympians, 

1  see,  and  sing,  by  my  own  eyes  inspired. 

So  let  me  be  thy  choir,  and  make  a  moan 
Upon  the  midnight  hours ; 
44 


Thy  voice,  thy  lute,  thy  pipe,  thy  incense  sweet 

From  swinged  censer  teeming  ; 
Thy  shrine,  thy  grove,  thy  oracle,  thy  heat 

Of  pale-niouth'd  prophet  dreaming. 

Yes,  I  will  be  thy  priest,  and  build  a  fane 

In  some  untrodden  region  of  my  mind, 
Wliere  branched  thoughts,  new-grown  with  pleasint 
pain. 

Instead  of  pines  shall  murmur  in  the  wind 
Far,  far  around  shall  those  dark-cluster'd  trees 

Fledge  the  wild-ridged  mountains  steep  by  steep ; 
And  there  by  zephyrs,  streams,  and  birds,  and  bees, 

The  moss-lain  Dryads  shall  be  luU'd  to  sleep ; 
And  in  the  midst  of  this  wide  quietness 
A  rosy  sanctuary  will  I  dress 
With  the  wreathed  trellis  of  a  working  brain, 

With  buds,  and  bells,  and  stars  without  a  name. 
With  all  the  gardener  Fancy  e'er  could  feign, 

Who  breeding  flowers,  will  never  breed  the  same  ■ 
And  there  shall  be  for  thee  all  soft  delight 

That  shadowy  thought  can  win, 
A  bright  torch,  and  a  casement  ope  at  night, 

To  let  the  warm  Love  in ! 


FANCY. 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam. 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home  : 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth. 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth; 

Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 

Through  the  thoughts  still  spread  beyond  Ler 

Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door. 

She'll  dart  forth,  and  cloudward  soar. 

O  sweet  Fancy  '  let  her  loose ; 

Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 

And  the  enjoying  of  ttie  Spring 

Fades  as  does  its  blossoming ; 

Autumn's  red-lipp'd  fruitage  too, 

Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew. 

Cloys  with  tasting  :  What  do  then  ? 

Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 

The  sear  fagot  blazes  bright. 

Spirit  of  a  winter's  night; 

When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 

And  the  calved  snow  is  shuffled 

From  the  plowboy's  hea^y  shoon  ; 

When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 

In  a  dark  conspiracy 

To  banish  Hven  from  her  sky. 

Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad. 

With  a  mind  self-overaw'd. 

Fancy,  higli  commission'd  :  send  her.' 

She  has  vassals  to  attend  her : 

She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost. 

Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost; 

She  will  bring  thee,  all  together, 

All  delights  of  simimer  weather; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 

From  dev\-y  sward  or  thorny  spray; 

All  the  heaped  Autumn's  wealth. 

With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth: 

She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 

Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup, 

595 


64 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  thou  shalt  quaff  it : — thou  shalt  hear 

Distant  harvest-carols  clear ; 

Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn ; 

Sweet  birds  antheming  the  mom  : 

And,  in  the  same  moment — hark ! 

'Tis  the  early  April  lark, 

Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw. 

Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 

Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 

The  daisy  and  the  marigold  ; 

White-plumed  lilies,  and  the  first 

Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst ; 

Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 

Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May  ; 

And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 

Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 

Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 

Meager  from  its  celled  sleep  ; 

And  the  snake  all  winler-thin 

Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin  ; 

Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 

Hatching  in  the  hav\thorn-tree, 

When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 

Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest ; 

Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 

When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm ; 

Acorns  ripe  down-pattering. 

While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 


O,  sweet  Fancy !  let  her  loose  ; 
Every  thing  is  spoilt  by  use : 
Where 's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 
Too  much  gazed  at  ?  Where  's  the  maid 
Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new  ? 
Where 's  the  eye,  however  blue. 
Doth  not  weary?  Where's  the  face 
One  would  meet  in  every  place  ? 
Where 's  the  voice,  however  soft. 
One  would  hear  so  very  oft  ? 
At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 
Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth. 
Let,  then,  winged  Fancy  find 
Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind : 
Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter. 
Ere  the  God  of  Torment  taught  her 
How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide ; 
With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 
While  as  Hebe's  when  her  zone 
Slipt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 
Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet. 
While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet. 
And  Jove  grew  languid. — Break  the  mesh 
Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash ; 
Quickly  break  her  prison-string. 
And  such  joys  as  these  she  '11  bring. — 
Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam, 
Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 


ODE. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth ! 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too. 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  ? 
Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon ; 


With  the  noise  of  fountains  wondrous, 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thund'rous  ; 
With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Sealed  on  Elysian  lawns 
Browsed  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns  ; 
Underneath  large  blue-bells  tented, 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented. 
And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not ; 
Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing. 
But  divine  melodious  truth  ; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth ; 
Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you, 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying. 
Never  slumber'd,  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earih-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week; 
Of  their  sorrows  and  delights ; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites , 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame  ; 
What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim. 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day. 
Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth! 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new ! 


LINES  ON  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 

Souls  of  poets  dead  and  gone. 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  tlian  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine  ? 
Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
Of  venison  ?  O  generous  food  ! 
Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 
Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host's  sign-board  flew  away. 
Nobody  knew  whither,  till 
An  astrologer's  old  quill 
To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story, — 
Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory, 
Underneath  a  new-old  sign 
Sipping  beverage  divine. 
And  pledging  with  contented  smack 
The  Alermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern. 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 
596 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


65 


ROBIN  HOOD 


TO  A  FRIEND. 


No  !  those  days  are  gone  away, 
And  liieir  hours  are  old  and  gray, 
Ami  iheir  minutes  buried  all 
Under  the  down-trodden  pall 
Of  the  leaves  of  many  years: 
Many  times  have  Winter's  shears. 
Frozen  North,  and  chilling  East, 
Sounded  tempests  to  the  feast 
Of  the  forest's  whispering  fleeces, 
Since  men  knew  nor  rent  nor  leases. 


No,  the  bugle  sounds  no  more. 
And  the  twanging  bow  no  more ; 
Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill 
Past  the  heath  and  up  the  hill ; 
There  is  no  mid-forest  laugh, 
Where  lone  Echo  gives  the  half 
To  some  v\ighl,  amazed  to  hear 
Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear 

On  the  fairest  time  of  June 
You  may  go,  with  sun  or  moon. 
Or  the  seven  stars  to  light  you. 
Or  the  polar  ray  to  right  you ; 
But  you  never  may  behold 
Little  John,  or  Robin  bold  ; 
Never  one,  of  all  the  clan. 
Thrumming  on  an  empty  can 
Some  old  hunting  ditty,  while 
He  doth  his  green  way  beguil 
To  fair  hostess  Merriment, 
Down  beside  the  pasture  Trent; 
For  he  left  the  merry  tale 
Messenger  for  spicy  ale. 

Gone,  the  merry  morris  din ; 
Gone,  the  song  of  Gamelyn  ; 
Gone,  the  tough-belted  outlaw 
Idling  in  the  "  grene  shawe  ;" 
All  are  gone  away  and  past ! 
And  if  Robin  should  be  cast 
Sudden  from  his  tufted  grave, 
And  if  Marian  should  have 
Once  again  her  forest  days, 
She  would  weep,  and  he  would  craze ; 
He  would  swear,  for  all  his  oaks, 
Fall'n  beneath  the  dock-yard  strokes. 
Have  rotted  on  the  briny  seas; 
She  would  weep  that  her  wild  bees 
Sang  not  to  her — strange!  that  honey 
Can't  be  got  without  hard  money ! 

So  It  IS  ;  yet  let  us  sing 
Honor  to  the  old  bow-string ! 
Honor  to  the  bugle-horn  ! 
Honor  to  the  woods  unshorn . 
Honor  to  the  Lincoln  green ! 
Honor  to  the  archer  keen ! 
Honor  to  tight  htlle  John, 
And  the  horse  he  rode  upon! 
Honor  to  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Sleeping  in  the  underwood ! 


Honor  to  maid  Marian, 
And  to  all  the  Sherwood  clan  ! 
Though  their  days  have  hurried  by, 
Let  us  two  a  burden  try. 


TO  AUTUMN. 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness ! 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun ; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eves  run, 
To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees. 

And  (ill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel-shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more. 

And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees. 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease. 

For  Sunmier  has  o'er-brimm'd  their  clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  sofl-lified  by  the  winnowing  wind  ; 
Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep. 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 

Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers; 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook  ; 

Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?  Ay,  where  are  they  ? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, — 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day. 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn  ; 

Hedge-crickets  sing ;  and  now  with  treble  sof^ 

The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft; 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies 


ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY. 

No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 

Wolf's-bane,  tight-rooled,  for  its  poisonous  wine ; 
Nor  suffer  thy  pale  forehead  to  be  kiss'd 

By  nightshade,  ruby  grape  of  Proserpine ; 
Make  not  your  rosary  of  yew-berries, 

Nor  let  the  beetle,  nor  the  death-moth  be 
Your  mournful  Psyche,  nor  the  downy  owl 
A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries  ; 

For  shade  to  shade  will  come  too  drowsily. 
And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the  soul. 

But  when  the  melancholy  fit  shall  fall 

Sudden  from  heaven  like  a  weeping  cloud. 
That  fosters  the  droop-headed  flowers  all, 

And  hides  the  green  hill  in  an  April  shroud ; 
Then  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose. 
Or  on  the  raiidww  of  the  salt  sand-wave, 
Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 
Imprison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave, 
And  feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peerless  eye% 
77  597 


66 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


She  dwells  with  Beauty — Beauty  that  must  die  ; 

And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu ;  and  aching  Pleasure  nigh, 

Turning  to  poison  while  the  l>ee-mouth  sips  : 
Ay,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 

Veil'd  Melancholy  has  her  sovran  shrine, 

Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose  strenuous 
tongue 
Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate  fine  ; 
His  soul  shall  taste  the  sadness  of  her  might, 
And  be  among  her  cloudy  trophies  hung. 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY. 


As  I  lay  in  my  bed  slepe  full  unmete 
Was  unto  me,  but  why  that  I  ne  might 
Rest  I  ne  wist,  for  there  n'  .is  erthly  wight 
(As  I  suppose)  had  more  of  hertis  ese 
Than  I,  fur  I  u'  ad  sicknesse  nordisese. 
Chaucer. 


What  is  more  gentle  than  a  wind  in  summer  ? 
What  is  more  soothing  than  the  pretty  hummer 
That  stays  one  moment  in  an  open  flower, 
And  buzzes  cheerily  from  bower  to  bovver? 
What  is  more  tranquil  than  a  rausk-rose  blowing 
In  a  green  island,  far  from  all  men's  knowing  ? 
More  healthful  than  the  leafiness  of  dales? 
More  secret  than  a  nest  of  nightingales  ? 
More  serene  than  Cordelia's  countenance  ? 
More  full  of  visions  than  a  high  romance? 
What,  but  thee.  Sleep  ?  Soft  closer  of  our  eyes! 
Low  murmurer  of  tender  lullabies! 
Light  hoverer  around  our  happy  pillows ! 
Wreather  of  poppy  buds,  and  weeping  willows  I 
Silent  entangler  of  a  beauty's  tresses ! 
Most  happy  listener !  when  the  morning  blesses 
Thee  for  enlivening  all  the  cheerful  eyes 
That  glance  so  brightly  at  the  new  sunrise. 


But  what  is  higher  beyond  thought  than  thee  ? 

Fresher  than  berries  of  a  mountain-tree  ? 

More  strange,  more  beautiful,  more  smooth,  more  regal, 

Than  wings  of  swans,  than  doves,  than  dim-seen  eagle  ? 

What  is  it  ?  And  to  what  shall  I  compare  it  ? 

It  has  a  glory,  and  naught  else  can  share  it : 

The  thought  thereof  is  awful,  sweet,  and  holy, 

Chasing  away  all  worldliness  and  folly : 

Commg  somelimes  like  fearful  claps  of  thunder ; 

Or  the  low  rumblings  earth's  regions  under ; 

And  somelimes  like  a  gentle  wliispering 

Of  all  the  secrets  of  some  wondrous  thing 

That  breathes  about  us  in  the  vacant  air ; 

So  that  we  look  around  with  prying  stare. 

Perhaps  to  see  shapes  of  light,  aerial  lymning. 

And  catch  soft  floalings  from  a  faint-heard  hymning ; 

To  see  the  laurel-wreath,  on  high  suspended, 

That  is  to  crown  our  name  when  life  is  ended. 

Sometimes  it  gives  a  glory  to  the  voice, 

And  from  the  heart  up-springs,  Rejoice!  rejoice! 

Sounds  which  will  reach  the  Framer  of  all  things, 

And  die  away  in  ardent  mutterings. 

Uo  one  who  once  the  glorious  sun  has  seen, 
And  all  the  clouds,  and  felt  his  bosom  clean 


For  his  great  Maker's  presence,  but  must  know 
What  'tis  I  mean,  and  feel  his  being  glow: 
Therefore  no  insult  will  I  give  his  spirit, 
By  teUing  what  he  sees  from  native  merit. 


O  Poesy !  for  thee  I  hold  my  pen, 

That  am  not  yet  a  glorious  denizen 

Of  thy  wide  heaven — should  I  rather  kneel 

Upon  some  mountain-top  until  I  feel 

A  glowing  splendor  round  about  me  hung. 

And  echo  back  the  voice  of  thine  own  tongue  ? 

O  Poesy !  for  thee  I  grasp  my  pen 

That  am  not  yet  a  glorious  denizen 

Of  thy  wide  heaven ;  yet,  to  my  ardent  prayer, 

Yield  from  thy  sanctuary  some  clear  air, 

Smoothed  for  intoxication  by  the  breath 

Of  flowering  bays,  that  1  may  die  a  death 

Of  luxury,  and  ray  young  spirit  follow 

The  morning  sunbeams  to  the  great  Apollo, 

Like  a  fresh  sacrifice ;  or,  if  I  can  bear 

The  o'erwhelming  sweets,  'twill  bring  to  me  the  fail 

Visions  of  all  places :  a  Iwvvery  nook 

Will  be  elysium — an  eternal  book 

Whence  I  may  copy  many  a  lovely  saying 

About  the  leaves,  and  flowers — about  the  playing 

Of  nymphs  in  woods,  and  fountains ;  and  the  shade 

Keeping  a  silence  round  a  sleeping  maid  ; 

And  many  a  verse  from  so  strange  influence 

That  we  must  ever  wonder  how,  and  whence 

It  came.    Also  imaginings  will  hover 

Round  my  fire-side,  and  haply  there  discover 

Vistas  of  solemn  beauty,  where  I  'd  wander 

In  happy  silence,  like  the  clear  Meander 

Through  its  lone  vales;  and  where  I  found  a  spot 

Of  awfuller  shade,  or  an  enchanted  grot. 

Or  a  green  hill  o'erspread  with  chequer'd  dress 

Of  flowers,  and  fearful  from  its  loveliness. 

Write  on  my  tablets  all  that  was  permitted, 

All  that  was  for  our  human  senses  fitted. 

Then  the  events  of  this  wide  world  I'd  seize 

Like  a  strong  giant,  and  my  spirit  tease 

Till  all  its  shoulders  it  should  proudly  see 

Wings  to  find  out  an  immortality. 


Stop  and  consider !  life  is  but  a  day ; 
A  fragile  dew-drop  on  its  perilous  way 
From  a  tree's  summit ;  a  poor  Indian's  sleep 
While  his  boat  hastens  to  the  monstrous  steep 
Of  Montmorenci.    Why  so  sad  a  moan  ? 
Life  is  the  rose's  hope  while  yet  unblown ; 
The  reading  of  an  ever-changing  tale ; 
The  light  uplifting  of  a  maiden's  veil ; 
A  pigeon  tumbling  in  clear  summer  air ; 
A  laughing  school-boy,  without  grief  or  care, 
Riding  the  springy  branches  of  an  elm. 


O  for  ten  years,  that  I  may  overwhelm 
Myself  in  poesy !  so  I  may  do  the  deed 
That  my  own  soul  has  to  itself  decreed. 
Then  I  will  pass  the  countries  that  I  see 
In  long  perspective,  and  continually 
Taste  their  pure  fountains.    First  the  realm  I  'II  pass 
Of  Flora,  and  old  Pan  :  sleep  in  the  grass. 
Feed  upon  apples  red,  and  strawberries, 
And  choose  each  pleasure  that  my  fancy  sees ; 
598 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


m 


Catch  the  white-handed  nymphs  in  shady  places, 

To  woo  sweet  kisses  from  averted  faces, — 

Play  with  their  fingers,  touch  their  shoulders  W'hite 

Into  a  pretty  shrinking  with  a  bite 

As  hard  as  hps  can  make  it :  till  agreed, 

A  lovely  tale  of  human  life  we  '11  read. 

And  one  will  teach  a  tame  dove  how  it  best 

May  fan  the  cool  air  gently  o'er  my  rest : 

Another,  bending  o'er  her  nimble  tread, 

Will  set  a  green  robe  floating  round  her  head, 

And  still  will  dance  with  ever-varied  ease. 

Smiling  upon  the  flowers  and  the  trees : 

Another  will  entice  me  on,  and  on 

Through  almond  blossoms  and  rich  cinnamon; 

Till  in  the  bosom  of  a  leafy  world 

We  rest  in  silence,  like  two  gems  upcurl'd 

In  the  recesses  of  a  pearly  shell. 

And  can  I  ever  bid  these  joys  farewell  ? 

Yes,  I  must  pass  them  for  a  nobler  life. 

Where  I  may  find  the  agonies,  the  strife 

Of  human  hearts  :  for  lo  !  I  see  afar, 

O'er-sailing  the  blue  cragginess,  a  car 

And  steeds  with  streamy  manes — the  charioteer 

Looks  out  upon  the  winds  with  glorious  fear : 

And  now  the  numerous  tramplings  quiver  lightly 

Along  a  huge  cloud's  ridge ;  and  now  with  sprightly 

Wheel  downward  come  they  into  fresher  skies, 

Tipt  round  with  silver  from  the  sun's  bright  eyes. 

Still  downward  with  capacious  whirl  they  ghde ; 

And  now  I  see  them  on  a  green  hill-side 

In  breezy  rest  among  the  nodding  stalks. 

The  charioteer  with  wondrous  gesture  talks 

To  the  trees  and  mountains  ;  and  there  soon  appear 

Shapes  of  delight,  of  mystery,  and  fear. 

Passing  along  before  a  dusky  space 

Made  by  some  mighty  oaks :  as  they  would  chase 

Some  ever-fleeting  music,  on  they  sweep. 

Lo!  how  they  murmur,  laugh,  and  smile,  and  weep: 

Some  with  upholden  hand  and  mouth  severe; 

Some  with  their  faces  muffled  to  the  ear 

Between  their  arms ;  some  clear  in  youthful  bloom. 

Go  glad  and  smilingly  athwart  the  gloom  ; 

Some  looking  back,  and  some  with  upward  gaze ; 

Yes,  thousands  in  a  thousand  different  ways 

Flit  onward — now  a  lovely  wreath  of  girls 

Dancing  their  sleek  hair  into  tangled  curls; 

And  now  broad  wings.    Most  awfully  intent 

The  driver  of  those  steeds  is  forward  bent, 

And  seems  to  listen :  O  tiiat  I  might  know 

All  that  he  writes  with  such  a  hurrying  glow ! 

The  visions  all  are  fled — the  car  is  fled 
Into  the  light  of  heaven,  and  in  their  stead 
A  sense  of  real  things  comes  doubly  strong. 
And,  like  a  muddy  stream,  would  bear  along 
My  soul  to  nothingness:  but  I  will  strive 
Against  all  doublings,  and  will  keep  alive 
The  thought  of  that  same  chariot,  and  the  strange 
Journey  it  went. 

Is  there  so  small  a  range 
In  the  present  strength  of  manhood,  that  the  high 
Imagination  cannot  freely  fly 
As  she  was  wont  of  old  ?  prepare  her  steeds. 
Paw  up  against  the  hght,  and  do  strange  deeds 
44*  3Q 


Upon  the  clouds  ?   Has  she  not  shown  us  all  ? 

From  the  clear  space  of  ether,  to  the  small 

Breath  of  new  buds  unfolding  ?  Fro.ii  the  meaning 

Of  Jove's  large  eye-brow,  to  the  tender  greening 

Of  April  meadows  ?  Here  her  altar  shone, 

E'en  in  this  isle  ;  and  wiio  could  paragon 

The  fervid  choir  that  lifted  up  a  noise 

Of  harmony,  to  where  it  aye  will  poise  v 

lis  mighty  self  of  convoluting  sound,  '' 

Huge  as  a  planet,  and  like  that  roll  round, 

Eternally  around  a  dizzy  void  ? 

Ay,  in  those  days  the  Muses  were  nigh  cloy'd 

With  honors ;  nor  had  any  other  care 

Than  to  sing  out  and  soothe  their  wavy  hair 

Could  all  this  be  forgotten  ?    Yes,  a  schism 

Nurtured  by  foppery  and  barbarism. 

Made  great  Apollo  blush  for  this  his  land. 

Men  were  thought  wise  who  could  not  understand 

His  glories:  with  a  puling  infant's  force 

They  sway'd  about  upon  a  rocking-horse, 

And  thought  it  Pegasus.    Ah,  dismal-soul'd  ! 

The  winds  of  Heaven  blew,  the  ocean  roll'd 

Its  gathering  waves — ye  felt  it  not.    The  blue 

Bared  its  eternal  bosom,  and  the  dew 

Of  summer  night  collected  still  to  make 

The  morning  precious  :  Beauty  was  awake  ! 

Why  were  ye  not  awake  ?  But  ye  were  dead 

To  things  ye  knew  not  of, — were  closely  wed 

To  musty  laws  lined  out  with  wretched  rule 

And  compass  vile :  so  that  ye  taught  a  school 

Of  dolts  to  smooth,  inlay,  and  clip,  and  fit, 

Till,  like  the  certain  wands  of  Jacob's  wit. 

Their  verses  tallied.    Easy  was  the  task : 

A  thousand  handicraftsmen  W'ore  the  mask 

Of  Poesy.    Ill-fated,  impious  race  I 

That  blasphemed  the  bright  Lyiist  to  his  face, 

And  did  not  know  it, — no,  they  went  about. 

Holding  a  poor,  decrepit  standard  out, 

Mark'd  with  most  flimsy  mottoes,  and  in  large 

The  name  of  one  Boileau  ! 


O  ye  whose  charge 
It  is  to  hover  roiuid  our  pleasant  hills  .' 
Whose  congregated  majesty  so  fills 
My  boundly  reverence,  that  I  cannot  trace 
Your  hallow'd  names,  in  this  unholy  place. 
So  near  those  common  folk  ;  did  not  their  shames 
Aflright  you  ?  Did  our  old  lamenting  Thames 
Delight  you  !  did  ye  never  cluster  round 
Delicious  Avon,  with  a  mournful  sound. 
And  weep?  Or  did  ye  wholly  bid  adieu 
To  regions  where  no  more  the  laurel  grew  ? 
Or  did  ye  stay  to  give  a  welcoming 
To  some  lone  spirits  who  could  proudly  sing 
Their  youth  away,  and  die  ?  'T  was  even  so  : 
But  let  me  think  away  those  times  of  woe : 
Now  'tis  a  fairer  season  ;  ye  have  breathed 
Rich  benedictions  o'er  us  ;  ye  have  wreathed 
Fresh  garlands  :  for  sweet  music  has  been  heard 
In  many  places ;  some  has  been  upstirr'd 
From  out  its  crystal  dwelling  in  a  lake. 
By  a  swan's  ebon  bill ;  from  a  thick  brake. 
Nested  and  quiet  in  a  valley  mild. 
Bubbles  a  pipe  ;  fine  sounds  are  floating  wild 
About  the  earth  :  happy  are  ye  and  glad. 
599 


68 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


These. things  are,  doubtless:  yet  in  truth  we've  had 

Strange  thunders  from  the  potency  of  song ; 

Mingled  indeed  with  what  is  sweet  and  strong, 

From  majesty :  but  in  clear  truth  the  themes 

Are  ugly  cubs,  the  Poets'  Polyphemes 

Disturbing  the  grand  sea.    A  drainless  shower 

Of  light  ia  poesy;  'tis  the  supreme  of  power; 

'Tis  might  half-slumb'ring  on  its  own  right  arm. 

The  very  archings  of  her  eyelids  charm 

A  thousand  willing  agents  to  obey. 

And  still  she  governs  with  the  mildest  sway: 

But  strength  alone  though  of  the  Muses  bom 

Is  like  a  fallen  angel :  trees  uptorn, 

Darkness,  and  worms,  and  shrouds,  and  sepulchres 

Delight  it ;  for  it  feeds  upon  the  burrs 

And  thorns  of  life  ;  forgetting  the  great  end 

Of  poesy,  that  it  should  be  a  friend 

To  soothe  the  cares,  and  lift  the  thoughts  of  man. 


Yet  I  rejoice :  a  myrtle  fairer  than 

E'er  grew  in  Paphos,  from  the  bitter  weeds 

Lifts  its  sweet  head  into  the  air,  and  feeds 

A  silent  space  with  ever-sprouting  green. 

All  tenderest  birds  there  find  a  pleasant  screen, 

Creep  through  the  shade  with  jaunty  fluttering, 

Nibble  the  little  cupped  flowers,  and  sing. 

Then  let  us  clear  away  the  choking  thorns 

From  round  its  gentle  stem ;  let  the  young  fawns, 

Yeaned  in  after-times,  when  we  are  flown. 

Find  a  fresh  sward  beneath  it,  overgrown 

With  simple  flowers :  let  there  nothing  be 

More  boisterous  than  a  lover's  bended  knee  ; 

Naught  more  ungentle  than  the  placid  look 

Of  one  who  leans  upon  a  closed  book ; 

Naught  more  untranquil  than  the  grassy  slopes 

Between  two  hills.    All  hail,  delightful  hopes! 

As  she  was  wont,  th'  imagination 

Into  most  lovely  labyrinths  will  be  gone. 

And  they  shall  be  accounted  poet  kings 

Who  simply  tell  the  most  heart-easing  things. 

O  may  these  joys  be  ripe  before  I  die  ! 


Will  not  some  say  that  I  presumptuously 

Have  spoken  ?  that  from  hastening  disgrace 

'Twere  better  far  to  hide  my  foolish  face? 

That  whining  boyhood  should  with  reverence  bow 

Ere  the  dread  thunderbolt  could  reach?  How! 

If  I  do  hide  myself,  it  sure  shall  be 

In  the  very  fane,  the  light  of  Poesy : 

If  1  do  fall,  at  least  I  will  be  laid 

Beneath  the  silence  of  a  poplar  shade ; 

And  over  me  the  grass  shall  be  smoolh  shaven; 

And  there  shall  be  a  kind  memorial  graven. 

But  off;  Despondence  !  miserable  bane  ! 

They  should  not  know  thee,  who  athirst  to  gain 

A  noble  end,  are  thirsty  every  hour. 

What  though  I  am  not  wealthy  in  the  dower 

Of  spanning  wisdom";  though  I  do  not  know 

The  shiflings  of  the  mighty  winds  that  blow 

Hither  and  thilher  all  ihe  changing  thoughts 

Of  man;  though  no  great  minist'ring  reason  sorts 

Out  the  dark  mysteries  of  human  souls 

To  clear  conceiving  :  yet  there  ever  rolls 

A  vast  idea  before  me,  and  I  glean 

Therefrom  my  Hberty  ;  thence  too  I've  seen 


The  end  and  aim  of  Poesy.    'Tis  clear 

As  any  thing  most  true ;  as  that  the  year 

Is  made  of  the  four  seasons — manifest 

As  a  large  cross,  some  old  cathedral's  crest, 

Lifted  to  the  white  clouds.    Therefore  should  I 

Be  but  the  essence  of  deformity, 

A  coward,  did  my  very  eyelids  wink 

At  speaking  out  what  I  have  dared  to  think 

Ah!  rather  let  me  like  a  madman  run 

Over  some  precipice;  let  the  hot  sun 

Melt  my  Dedalian  wings,  and  drive  me  down 

Convulsed  and  headlong !  Stay  !  an  inward  frown 

Of  conscience  bids  me  be  more  calm  awhile. 

An  ocean  dim,  sprinkled  with  many  an  isle. 

Spreads  awfully  before  me.    How  much  toil ! 

How  many  days !  what  desperate  turmoil ! 

Ere  I  can  have  explored  its  widenesses. 

Ail,  what  a  task !  upon  my  bended  knees, 

I  could  unsay  those — no,  impossible 

Impossible ! 


For  sweet  relief  I'll  dwell 
On  humbler  thoughts,  and  let  this  strange  essay 
Begun  in  gentleness  die  so  away. 
E'en  now  all  tumult  from  my  bosom  fades: 
I  turn  full-hearted  to  the  friendly  aids 
That  smooth  the  path  of  honor ;  brotherhood. 
And  friendliness,  the  nurse  of  mutual  good. 
The  hearty  grasp  that  sends  a  pleasant  sonnet 
Into  the  brain  ere  one  can  think  upon  it ; 
The  silence  when  some  rhymes  are  coming  out 
And  when  they're  come,  the  very  pleasant  rout 
The  message  certain  to  be  done  to-morrow. 
'Tis  perhaps  as  well  that  it  should  be  to  borrow 
Some  precious  book  from  out  its  snug  retreat, 
To  cluster  round  it  when  we  next  shall  meet. 
Scarce  can  I  scribble  on  ;  for  lovely  aire 
Are  fluttering  round  the  room  like  doves  in  pairs 
Many  delights  of  that  glad  day  recalling. 
When  first  my  senses  caught  their  tender  falling. 
And  with  these  airs  come  forms  of  elegance 
Stooping  their  shoulders  o'er  a  horse's  prance. 
Careless,  and  grand — fingers  soft  and  round 
Parting  luxuriant  curls  ; — and  the  swift  bound 
Of  Bacchus  from  his  chariot,  when  his  eye 
Made  Ariadne's  cheek  look  blushingly. 
Thus  I  remember  all  the  pleasant  flow 
Of  words  at  opening  a  portfolio. 


Things  such  as  these  are  ever  harbingers 
To  trains  of  peaceful  images  :  the  stirs 
Of  a  swan's  neck  unseen  among  Ihe  rushes . 
A  linnet  starling  all  about  the  bushes: 
A  butterfly,  with  golden  wings  broad-parted. 
Nestling  a  rose,  convulsed  as  though  it  smarted 
With  over-pleasure — many,  many  more. 
Might  1  indulge  at  large  in  all  my  store 
Of  luxuries :  yet  I  must  not  forget 
Sleep,  quiet  with  his  poppy  coronet: 
For  what  there  may  be  worthy  in  these  rhymes 
I  partly  ow-e  to  him :  and  thus,  the  chimes 
Of  friendly  voices  had  just  given  place 
To  as  sweet  a  silence,  when  I  'gan  retrace 
The  pleasant  day,  upon  a  couch  at  ease. 
It  was  a  poet's  house  who  keeps  the  keys 
600 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Of  pleasure's  temple. — Round  about  were  hung 

The  glorious  features  of  the  bards  who  sung 

In  other  ages — cold  and  sacred  busts 

Smiled  at  each  other.     Happy  he  who  trusts 

To  clear  Futurity  his  darling  fame  ! 

Then  there  were  fauns  and  satyrs  taking  aim 

At  swelling  apples  with  a  frisky  leap, 

And  reaching  fingers  'mid  a  luscious  heap 

Of  vine-leaves.     Then  there  rose  to  view  a  fane 

Of  liney  marble,  and  thereto  a  train 

Of  nymphs  approaching  fairly  o'er  the  sward : 

One,  loveliest,  holding  her  white  hand  toward 

The  dazzling  sunrise  ;  two  sisters  sweet 

Bending  their  graceful  figures  till  they  meet 

Over  the  trippings  of  a  little  child  : 

And  some  are  hearing,  eagerly,  the  wild 

Thrilling  liquidity  of  dewy  piping. 

■See,  in  another  picture,  nymphs  are  wiping 

Cherishingly  Diana's  timorous  limbs  ; — 

A  fold  of  lawny  mantle  dabbling  swims 

At  the  bath's  edge,  and  keeps  a  gentle  motion 

With  the  subsiding  crystal :  as  when  ocean 

Heaves  calmly  its  broad  swelling  smoothness  o'er 

Its  rocky  marge,  and  balances  once  more 

The  patient  weeds ;  that  now  unshent  by  foam. 

Feel  all  about  their  undulating  home. 

Sappho's  meek  head  was  there  half  smiling  down 

At  nothing ;  just  as  though  the  earnest  frown 

Of  over-thinking  had  that  moment  gone 

From  off  her  bruw,  and  left  her  all  alone. 

Great  Alfred's  too,  with  anxious,  pitying  eyes. 
As  if  he  always  listen'd  to  the  sighs 
Of  the  goaded  world ;  and  Kosciusko's,  worn 
By  horrid  sufferance — mightily  forlorn. 

Petrarch,  out-stepping  from  the  shady  green, 

Starts  at  the  sight  of  Laura ;  nor  can  wean 

His  eyes  from  her  sweet  face.     Most  happy  they ! 

For  over  them  was  seen  a  free  display 

Of  outspread  wings,  and  from  between  them  shone 

The  face  of  Poesy  :  from  off  her  throne 

She  overlooked  tilings  that  I  scarce  could  tell, 

The  very  sense  of  where  I  was  might  well 

Keep  Sleep  aloof:  but  more  than  that  there  came 

Thought  after  thought  to  nourish  up  the  flame 

Within  my  breast ;  so  that  the  morning  light 

Surprised  me  even  from  a  sleepless  night ; 

And  up  I  rose  refresh'd,  and  glad,  and  gay, 

Resolving  to  begin  that  very  day 

These  lines ;  and  howsoever  they  be  done, 

I  leave  them  as  a  father  does  his  son. 


SONNETS. 

TO  .MY  BROTHER  GEORGE. 

Many  the  wonders  I  this  day  have  seen : 
The  sun,  when  first  he  kist  away  the  tears 
That  fill'd  the  eyes  of  Mom ; — the  laurell'd  peers 

Who  from  the  feathery  gold  of  evening  lean; — 

The  Ocean  with  its  vasiness,  its  blue  green, 

Its  ships,  its  rocks,  its  caves,  its  hopes,  its  fears, — 
Its  voice  mysterious,  which  whoso  hears 

Musi  think  on  what  will  be,  and  what  has  been. 


E'en  now,  dear  George,  while  this  for  you  I  write 
Cynthia  is  from  her  silken  curtains  peeping 

So  scantly,  that  it  seems  her  bridal  night, 
And  she  her  half-discover'd  revels  keeping. 

But  what,  without  the  social  thought  of  thee. 

Would  be  the  wonders  of  the  sky  and  sea  ? 


Had  I  a  man's  fair  form,  then  might  my  sighs 
Be  echoed  swiftly  through  that  ivory  shell 
Thine  ear,  and  find  thy  gentle  heart ;  so  well 

Would  passion  arm  me  for  the  enterprise  : 

But  ah  I  I  am  no  knight  whose  foeman  dies  ; 
No  cuirass  glistens  on  my  bosom's  swell; 
I  am  no  happy  shepherd  of  the  dell 

Whose  lips  have  trembled  with  a  maiden's  eyes. 

Yet  must  I  dote  upon  thee, — call  thee  sweet, 
Sweeter  by  far  than  Hybla's  honey'd  roses 
When  steep'd  in  dew  rich  to  intoxication. 

Ah!  I  will  taste  that  dew,  for  me  'tis  meet. 
And  when  the  moon  her  pallid  face  discloses, 
1  '11  gather  some  by  spells,  and  incantation. 


WRITTE.\  ON  THE  DAY  THAT  MR.  LEIGH  HUNT  LEFT 
PRISON. 

What  though,  for  showing  truth  to  flatter'd  state, 

Kind  Hunt  was  shut  in  prison,  yet  has  he 

In  his  immortal  spirit,  been  as  free 
As  the  sky-searching  lark,  and  as  elate. 
Minion  of  grandeur  !  think  you  he  did  wait  ? 

Think  you  he  naught  but  prison-walls  did  see. 

Till,  so  unuilling,  thou  unturn'dst  the  key? 
Ah,  no  I  far  happier,  nobler  was  his  fate! 
In  Spenser's  halls  he  stray'd,  and  bowers  fair, 

Culling  enchanlcd  flowers;  and  he  flew 
With  daring  Milton  through  the  fields  of  air ; 

To  regions  of  his  own,  his  genius  true 
Took  happy  flights.     Who  shall  his  fame  impair 

When  thou  art  dead,  and  all  thy  wretched  crew? 


How  many  bards  gild  the  lapses  of  time ! 

A  few  of  them  have  ever  been  the  food 

Of  my  delighted  fancy. — I  could  brood 
Over  their  beauties,  earthly,  or  sublime : 
And  often,  when  I  sit  me  down  to  rhyme, 

These  will  in  throngs  before  rny  mind  intrude: 

But  no  confusion,  no  disturbance  rude 
Do  they  occasion  ;  'tis  a  pleasing  chime. 
So  the  unnumber'd  sounds  that  evening  store ; 

The  songs  of  bird.s — the  whisp'ring  of  the  leaves — 
The  voice  of  waters — the  great  bell  that  heaves 

With  solemn  sound,  and  thousand  others  more. 
That  distance  of  recognizance  bereaves, 

Make  pleasing  nuisic,  and  not  wild  uproar. 


TO  A  FRIEND  WHO  SENT  ME  SOME  ROSES. 

As  late  I  rambled  in  the  happy  fields, 

What  time  ilie  skylark  shakes  the  tremulous  dew 
From  his  lush  clover  covert : — when  anew 

Adventurous  knights  take  up  their  dinted  shields : 
601 


70 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I  saw  the  sweetest  flower  wild  nature  yields, 

A  fresh-blown  musk-rose;  'twas  the  first  that  threw 
Its  sweets  upon  the  summer:  graceful  it  grew 

As  is  the  wand  that  queen  Titania  wields. 

And,  as  I  feasted  on  its  fragrancy, 

I  thought  the  garden-rose  it  far  excell'd  ; 

But  when,  O  Wells !  thy  roses  came  to  me, 

My  sense  with  their  deliciousness  was  spell'd  : 

Soft  voices  had  they,  that  with  tender  plea 

Whisper'd  of  peace,  and   truth,  and  friendliness 
unquell'd. 


TO  G.  A.  w. 

Nymph  of  the  downward  smile,  and  sidelong  glance! 

In  what  diviner  moments  of  the  day 

Art  thou  most  lovely?  when  gone  far  astray 
Into  ihe  labyrinths  of  sweet  utterance  ? 
Or  when  serenely  wand'ring  in  a  trance 

Of  sober  thought?  Or  when  starting  away. 

With  careless  robe  to  meet  the  morning  ray. 
Thou  sparest  the  flowers  in  thy  mazy  dance  ? 
Haply  'tis  when  thy  ruby  lips  part  sweetly, 

And  so  remain,  because  thou  listenest : 
But  thou  to  please  wert  nurtured  so  completely 

That  I  can  never  tell  what  mood  is  best. 
I  shall  as  soon  pronounce  whicli  Grace  more  neatly 

Trips  it  before  Apollo  than  the  rest. 


O  Solitude  ■  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell. 
Let  it  not  be  among  the  jumbled  heap 
Of  murky  buildings  :  climb  with  me  the  steep, — 

Nature's  observatory — whence  the  dell, 

■  Its  flowery  slopes,  its  river's  crystal  sviell, 
May  seem  a  span ;  let  me  Ihy  vigils  keep 
'Mongst  boughs  pavilion'd,  where  the  deer's  swift 
leap. 

Startles  the  wild  bee  from  the  fox-glove  bell. 

But  though  I'll  gladly  trace  these  scenes  with  thee. 
Yet  the  sweet  converse  of  an  innocent  mind. 

Whose  words  are  images  of  thoughts  refined. 
Is  my  soul's  pleasure;  and  it  sure  must  be 

Almost  the  highest  bliss  of  human-kind, 

When  to  thy  haunts  two  kindred  spirits  flee. 


TO  MY  BROTHERS. 

Small,  busy  flames  play  through  the  fresh-laid  coals. 

And  their  faint  cracklings  o'er  our  silence  creep 

Like  whispers  of  the  household  gods  that  keep 
A  gentle  empire  o'er  fraternal  souls. 
And  while,  for  rhymes,  I  search  around  the  poles. 

Your  eyes  are  fix'd,  as  in  poetic  sleep. 

Upon  the  lore  so  voluble  and  deep. 
That  aye  at  fall  of  night  our  care  condoles. 
This  is  your  birth-day,  Tom,  and  I  rejoice 

That  thus  it  passes  smoothly,  quietly, 
Many  such  eves  of  gently  whisp'ring  noise 

May  we  together  pa.ss,  and  calmly  try 
■  What  are  this  world's  true  joys, — ere  the  great  Voice, 

From  its  fair  face  shall  bid  our  spints  fly. 

November  18,  1816. 


Keen  fitful  gusts  are  whispering  here  and  there 

Among  the  bushes,  half  leafless  and  dry  ; 

The  stars  look  very  cold  about  the  sky, 
And  I  have  many  miles  on  foot  to  fare. 
Yet  feel  I  little  of  the  cool  bleak  air, 

Or  of  the  dead  leaves  rustling  drearily. 

Or  of  those  silver  lamps  that  burn  on  high, 
Or  of  the  distance  from  home's  pleasant  lair: 
For  I  am  brimful  of  the  friendliness 

That  in  a  little  cottage  I  have  found ; 
Of  fair-hair'd  Milton's  eloquent  distress, 

And  all  his  love  for  gentle  Lycid'  drown'd  ; 
Of  lovely  Laura  in  her  hght-green  dress. 

And  faithful  Petrarch  gloriously  crown'd. 


To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
'Tis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 
And  open  face  of  heaven, — to  breathe  a  prayer 

Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 

Who  is  more  happy,  when,  with  heart's  content, 
Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 
Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 

And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languishment  ? 

Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 
Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel, — an  eye 

Watching  the  sailing  cloudlet'sibright  career, 
He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided  by : 

E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 
That  falls  through  the  clear  ether  silently. 


ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN  S  HOMER 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold. 

And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen ; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  liad  I  been  told 

Tliat  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne : 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold : 
Then  lelt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 

When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken , 
Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 


ON  LEAVING  SOJIE  FRIENDS  AT  AN  EARLY  HOtJR 

Give  me  a  golden  pen,  and  let  me  lean 

On  heap'd-up  flowers,  in  regions  clear,  and  farj 
Bring  me  a  tablet  whiter  than  a  star. 

Or  hand  of  hvmning  angel,  when  't  is  seen 

The  silver  strings  of  heavenly  harp  atween : 
And  let  there  glide  by  many  a  pearly  car, 
Pmk  robes,  and  wavy  hair,  and  diamond  jar, 

And  half-discover'd  wings,  and  glances  keen. 

The  while  let  music  wander  round  my  ears, 
And  as  it  reaches  each  delicious  ending. 
Let  me  write  down  a  line  of  glorious  tone, 

And  full  of  many  wonders  of  the  spheres : 
For  what  a  height  my  spirit  is  contending! 
'Tis  not  content  so  soon  to  be  alone. 
602 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


71 


ADDRESSED  TO  HAYDON. 

HiGH-MiNDEDXEss,  a  jealousy  for  food, 

A  loving-kindness  for  the  great  man's  fame, 
Dwells  here  and  there  wiih  people  of  no  name. 

In  noisome  alley,  and  in  pathless  wood  : 

And  where  we  think  the  truth  least  understood, 
Oft  may  be  found  a  "  singleness  of  aim," 
That  ought  to  frighten  into  hooded  shame 

A  money-mong'ring,  pitiable  brood. 

How  glorious  this  affection  for  the  cause 
Of  stedfast  genius,  toiling  gallantly  ! 

What  when  a  stout  unbending  champion  awes 
Envy,  and  malice  to  their  native  sty  ? 

Unnumber'd  souls  breathe  out  a  still  applause, 
Proud  to  behold  him  in  his  countrj-'s  eye. 


ADDRESSED  TO  THE  SAME. 

Great  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourning : 
He  of  the  cloud,  the  cataract,  the  lake, 
Who  on  Helvellyn's  summit,  wide  awake. 

Catches  his  freshness  from  Archangel's  wing : 

He  of  the  rose,  the  violet,  the  spring, 

The  social  smile,  the  chain  for  Freedom's  sake : 
And  lo !  who.se  sted fastness  would  never  take 

A  meaner  sound  than  Raphael's  whispering. 

And  other  spirits  there  are  standing  apart 
Upon  the  forehead  of  the  age  to  come  ; 

These,  these  will  give  the  world  another  heart, 
And  other  pulses.     Hear  ye  not  the  hum 

Of  mighty  workings  ? 

Listen  awhile,  ye  nations,  and  be  dumb. 


ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead  : 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead : 

That  is  the  Grasshopper's — he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights,  for  when  tired  out  with  fun, 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never : 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost. 
The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 

December  30,  1816. 


It  tells  me  too,  that  on  a  happy  day. 

When  some  good  spirit  walks  upon  the  earth, 
Thy  name  with  Alfred's,  and  the  great  of  yore 
Gently  commingling,  gives  tremendous  birth 
To  a  loud  hymn,  that  sounds  far,  far  away 
To  where  the  great  God  lives  for  evermore. 


Happy  is  England !  I  could  be  content 

To  see  no  other  verdure  than  its  own ; 

To  feel  no  other  breezes  than  are  blown 
Through  its  tall  woods  with  high  romances  blent: 
Yet  do  I  sometimes  feel  a  languishment 

For  skies  Italian,  and  an  inward  groan 

To  sit  upon  an  Alp  as  on  a  throne. 
And  half  forget  what  world  or  worldling  meant. 
Happy  is  England,  sweet  her  artless  daughters ; 

Enough  their  simple  loveliness  for  me, 

Enough  their  whitest  arms  in  silence  clinging: 

Yet  do  I  often  warmly  burn  to  see 

Beauties  of  deeper  glance,  and  hear  their  singing, 
And  float  with  them  about  the  summer  waters. 


TO  KOSCIUSKO. 

Good  Kosciusko !  thy  great  name  alone 

Is  a  full  harvest  whence  to  reap  high  feeling ; 
It  comes  upon  us  like  the  glorious  pealing 

Of  the  wide  spheres — an  everlasting  tone. 

And  now  it  tells  me,  that  in  worlds  unknown, 
The  names  of  heroes,  burst  from  clouds  concealing. 
And  changed  to  harmonies,  for  ever  stealing 

Through  cloudless  blue,  and  round  each  silver  throne. 


THE  HUMAN  SEASONS. 

Four  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year  ; 

There  are  four  seasons  in  the  mind  of  man : 

He  has  his  lusty  Spring,  when  fancy  clear 

Takes  in  all  beauty  with  an  easy  span : 

He  has  his  Summer,  when  luxuriously 

Spring's  honey 'd  cud  of  youthful  thought  he  loves 

To  ruminate,  and  by  such  dreaming  nigh 

Is  nearest  unio  heaven  :  quiet  coves 

His  soul  has  in  its  Autumn,  when  his  wingg 

He  furleth  close ;  contented  so  to  look 

On  mists  in  idleness — to  let  fair  things 

Pass  by  unheeded  as  a  threshold  brook. 

He  has  his  winter  too  of  pale  misfeature, 

Or  else  he  would  forego  liis  mortal  nature. 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  LEANDER. 

Come  hither,  all  sweet  maidens  soberly, 
Down-looking  aye,  and  with  a  chasten'd  light 
Hid  in  the  fringes  of  your  eyelids  white, 
And  meekly  let  your  fair  hands  joined  be, 
As  if  so  gentle  that  ye  could  not  see, 
Untouch'd,  a  victim  of  your  beauty  bright. 
Sinking  away  to  his  young  spirit's  night. 
Sinking  bewilder'd  'mid  the  dreary  sea  : 
'Tis  young  Leander  toiling  to  his  death  ; 
Nigh  swooning,  he  doth  purse  his  weury  lips 
For  Hero's  cheek,  and  smiles  against  her  smile. 
0  horrid  dream !  see  how  his  body  dips 
Dead-heavy;  arms  and  shoulders  gleam  awhile: 
He's  gone  ;  up  bubbles  all  his  amorous  breath! 


TO  AILSA  ROCK. 


Hearken,  thou  craggy  ocean  pyramid  ! 
Give  answer  from  thy  voice,  the  sea-fowl's  screams* 
When  were  thy  shoulders  manded  in  huge  streams? 
When,  from  the  sun,  was  thy  broad  forehead  hid  ? 
603 


72 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


How  long  is't  since  the  mighty  power  bid 

Thee  heave  to  airy  sleep  from  fathom  dreams  ? 

Sleep  in  the  lap  of  thunder  or  sunbeams, 

Or  when  gray  clouds  are  thy  cold  cover-lid  ? 

Thou  answer's!  not,  for  thou  art  dead  asleep ! 

Thy  life  is  but  two  dead  eternities — 

The  last  in  air,  the  former  in  the  deep ; 

First  with  the  whales,  last  with  the  eagle-skies — 

Drown'd  wast  thou  till  an  earthquake  made  thee  steep, 

Another  cannot  wake  thy  giant  size. 


EPISTLES. 


Among  the  rest  a  shepherd  (though  hut  young 
Yet  hartneil  to  his  pipe)  viith  all  the  skill 
His  few  yeeres  could,  began  to  fit  his  quill. 

Britannia's  Pastorals. — Browne. 


TO  GEORGE  FELTON  MATHEW. 

Sweet  are  the  pleasures  that  to  verse  belong, 

And  doubly  sweet  a  brotherhood  in  song ; 

!Nor  can  remembrance,  Malhew  !  bring  to  view 

A  fate  more  pleasing,  a  delight  more  true 

Than  that  in  which  the  brother  poels  joy'd. 

Who,  with  combined  powers,  their  wit  employ'd 

To  raise  a  trophy  to  the  drama's  muses. 

The  thought  of  this  great  partnership  diffuses 

Over  the  genius-loving  heart,  a  feeling 

Of  all  that's  high,  and  great,  and  good,  and  healing. 

Too  partial  friend  !  fain  would  I  follow  thee 

Past  each  horizon  of  fine  poesy ; 

Fain  would  I  echo  back  each  pleasant  note 

As  o'er  Sicilian  seas,  clear  anthems  float 

'Mong  the  light-skimming  gondolas  far  parted. 

Just  when  the  sun  his  iiirewell  beam  has  darted : 

But  'tis  impossible  ;  far  different  cares 

Beckon  me  sternly  from  soft  "  Lydian  airs," 

And  hold  my  faculties  so  long  in  thrall, 

That  I  am  oft  in  doubt  whether  at  all 

I  shall  again  see  Phoebus  in  the  morning ; 

Or  flush'd  Aurora  in  tiie  roseate  dawning; 

Or  a  white  Pvaiad  in  a  rippling  stream ; 

Or  a  rapt  seraph  in  a  moonlight  beam  ; 

Or  again  witness  what  with  thee  I've  seen, 

The  dew  by  fairy  feet  swept  from  the  green, 

After  a  night  of  some  quaint  jubilee 

Which  every  elf  and  fay  had  come  to  see : 

When  bright  processions  took  their  airy  march 

Beneath  the  curved  moon's  triumphal  arch. 

But  might  I  now  each  passing  moment  give 

To  the  coy  muse,  with  me  she  would  not  live 

In  this  dark  city,  nor  would  condescend 

'Mid  contradictions  her  delights  to  lend. 

Should  e'er  the  fine-eyed  maid  to  me  be  kind, 

Ah  !  surely  it  must  be  whene'er  I  find 

Some  flowery  spot,  sequester'd,  wild,  romantic, 

That  often  must  have  seen  a  poet  frantic; 

Where  oaks,  that  erst  the  Druid  knew,  are  growing. 

And  flowers,  the  glory  of  one  day,  are  blowing; 

Where  the  dark-leaved  laburnum's  drooping  clusters 

Reflect  athwart  the  stream  their  yellow  lustres, 


And  intertwined  the  cassia's  arms  unite. 

With  its  own  drooping  buds,  but  very  white. 

Where  on  one  side  are  covert  branches  hung, 

'Mong  which  the  nightingales  have  always  sung 

In  leafy  quiet;  where  to  pry,  aloof 

Atween  the  pillars  of  the  sylvan  roof. 

Would  be  to  find  where  violet  beds  were  nestling, 

And  where  the  bee  with  cowslip  bells  was  wrestling 

There  must  be  too  a  ruin  dark,  and  gloomy. 

To  say,  "  Joy  not  too  much  in  all  that's  bloomy." 

Yet  this  is  vain — O  Mathew !  lend  thy  aid 
To  find  a  place  where  I  may  greet  the  maid — 
Where  we  may  soft  humanity  put  on, 
And  sit,  and  rhyme,  and  think  on  Chatterton ; 
And  that  warm-hearted  Shakespeare  sent  to  meet  hira 
Four  laurell'd  spirits,  heavenward  to  entreat  him 
With  reverence  would  we  speak  of  all  the  sages 
Who  have  left  streaks  of  light  athwart  their  ages  ; 
And  thou  shouldst  moralize  on  Milton's  blindness, 
And  mourn  the  fearful  deartli  of  human  kindness 
To  those  who  strove  with  the  bright  golden  wing 
Of  genius,  to  flap  away  each  sting 
Thrown  by  the  pitiless  world.     We  next  could  tell 
Of  those  who  in  the  cause  of  freedom  fell ; 
Of  our  own  Alfred,  of  Helvetian  Tell; 
Of  him  whose  name  to  every  heart's  a  solace. 
High-minded  and  unbending  William  Wallace 
While  to  the  rugged  north  our  musing  turns 
We  well  might  drop  a  tear  for  him,  and  Burns. 
Felton!  without  incitements  such  as  these, 
How  vain  for  me  the  niggard  Muse  to  tease  ! 
For  thee,  she  will  thy  every  dwelling  grace, 
And  make  "  a  sunshine  in  a  shady  place  :" 
For  thou  wast  once  a  floweret  blooming  wild, 
Close  to  the  source,  bright,  pure,  and  undefiled. 
Whence  gush  the  streams  of  song :  in  happy  houi 
Came  chaste  Diana  from  her  shady  bower. 
Just  as  the  sun  was  from  the  east  uprising ; 
And,  as  for  him  some  gift  she  was  devising. 
Beheld  thee,  pluck'd  thee,  cast  tliee  in  the  stream 
To  meet  her  glorious  brother's  greeting  beam. 
I  marvel  much  that  thou  hast  never  told 
How,  from  a  flower,  into  a  fish  of  gold 
Apollo  changed  thee  :  how  thou  next  didst  seem 
A  black-eyed  swan  upon  the  widening  stream; 
And  when  thou  first  didst  in  that  mirror  trace 
The  placid  features  of  a  human  face : 
That  thou  hast  never  told  thy  travels  strange, 
And  all  the  wonders  of  the  mazy  range 
O'er  pebbly  crystal,  and  o'er  golden  sands ; 
Kissing  thy  daily  food  from  Naiad's  pearly  hands 
November,  1815. 


TO  MY  BROTHER  GEORGE. 

FcLL  many  a  dreary  hour  have  I  past, 
My  brain  jjewilder'd,  and  my  mind  o'ercast 
With  heaviness;  in  seasons  when  I've  thought 
No  sphery  strains  by  me  could  e'er  be  caught 
From  the  blue  dome,  though  I  to  dimness  gaze 
On  the  far  depth  where  sheeted  lightning  plays, 
Or,  on  the  wavy  grass  outstretch'd  supinely. 
Pry  'mong  the  stars,  to  strive  to  think  divinely  . 
That  I  shoidd  never  hear  Apollo's  song, 
Tliough  feathery  clouds  were  floating  all  along 
604 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


73 


The  purple  west,  and,  two  bright  strealcs  between, 

The  golden  lyre  itself  were  dimly  seen: 

That  the  still  murmur  of  the  honey-bee 

Would  never  teach  a  rural  song  to  me : 

That  the  bright  glance  from  beauty's  eyelids  slanting 

Would  never  make  a  lay  of  mine  enchanting, 

Or  warm  my  breast  with  ardor  to  unfold 

Some  tale  of  love  and  arras  in  time  of  old. 


But  there  are  times,  when  those  that  love  the  bay, 

Fly  from  all  sorrov^ing  lar,  far  away ; 

A  sudden  glow  comes  on  them,  naught  they  see 

In  water,  earth,  or  air,  but  Poesy. 

It  has  been  said,  dear  George,  and  true  I  hold  it, 

(For  knightly  Spenser  to  Libertas  told  it), 

That  when  a  Poet  is  in  such  a  trance. 

In  air  he  sees  white  coursers  paw  and  prance, 

Bestridden  of  gay  knights,  in  gay  apparel. 

Who  at  each  other  till  in  playful  quarrel; 

And  what  we,  ignorantly,  sheet-lightning  call, 

Is  the  swift  opening  of  their  wide  portal. 

When  the  bright  warder  blows  his  trumpet  clear, 

Whose  tones  reach  naught  on  earth  but  poet's  ear. 

When  these  enchanted  portals  open  wide. 

And  through  the  light  the  horsemen  svviftly  glide. 

The  Poet's  eye  can  reach  those  golden  halls, 

And  view  the  glory  of  their  festivals : 

Their  ladies  fair,  that  in  the  distance  seem 

Fit  for  the  silv'ring  of  a  seraph's  dream  ; 

Their  rich  brimm'd  goblets,  that  incessant  run, 

Like  the  bright  spots  that  move  about  the  sun  : 

And  when  upheld,  the  wine  from  each  bright  jar 

Poui-s  with  the  lustre  of  a  falling  star. 

Yet  further  off,  are  dimly  seen  their  bowers. 

Of  which  no  mortal  eye  can  reach  the  flowers ; 

And  'tis  right  just,  for  well  Apollo  knows 

'Twould  make  the  Poet  quarrel  with  the  rose. 

All  that's  reveal'd  from  that  far  seat  of  blisses, 

Is,  the  clear  fountains'  interclianging  kisses, 

As  gracefully  descending,  light  and  thin. 

Like  silver  streaks  across  a  dolphin's  fin, 

When  he  up-swimmeth  from  the  coral  caves. 

And  sports  with  half  his  tail  above  the  waves. 

These  wonders  strange  he  sees,  and  many  more, 

Whose  head  is  pregnant  with  poetic  lore: 

Should  he  upon  an  evening  ramble  fare 

With  forehead  to  the  soothing  breezes  bare. 

Would  he  naught  see  but  the  dark,  silent  blue, 

With  all  its  diamonds  trembling  through  and  through  ? 

Or  the  coy  moon,  when  in  the  waviness 

Of  whitest  clouds  she  does  her  beauty  dress, 

And  staidly  paces  higher  up,  and  higher. 

Like  a  sweet  mm  in  holiday  attire  ? 

Ah,  yes  I  much  more  would  start  into  his  sights 

The  revelries,  and  mysteries  of  night  : 

And  should  I  ever  see  them,  I  will  tell  you 

Such  tales  as  needs  must  with  amazement  spell  you. 

These  aye  the  living  pleasures  of  the  bard: 

But  richer  far  posteriiy's  award. 

What  does  he  murmur  with  his  latest  breath, 

While  his  proud  eye  looks  through  the  fdm  of  death? 

•What  though  1  leave  this  dull,  and  earthly  mould, 

Yet  shall  my  spirit  lofly  converse  hold 


With  after-times. — The  patriot  shall  feel 

My  stern  alarum,  and  unsheath  his  steel ; 

Or  in  the  senate  thunder  out  my  numbers. 

To  startle  princes  from  their  easy  slumbers. 

The  sage  will  mingle  with  each  moral  theme 

My  happy  thoughts  sententious  :  he  will  teem 

With  lofty  periods  when  my  verses  fire  him. 

And  then  1  '11  stoop  from  heaven  to  inspire  him. 

Lays  have  I  left  of  such  a  dear  delight 

That  maids  will  sing  them  on  their  bridal-night. 

Gay  villagers,  upon  a  mom  of  May, 

When  they  have  tired  their  gentle  limbs  with  play 

And  form'd  a  snow-y  circle  on  the  grass. 

And  placed  in  midst  of  all  that  lovely  lass 

Who  chosen  is  their  queen, — with  her  fine  head, 

Crown'd  with  flowers  purple,  white,  and  red : 

For  there  the  lily,  and  the  musk-rose,  sighing, 

Are  emblems  true  of  hapless  lovers  dying : 

Between  her  breasts,  that  never  yet  felt  trouble, 

A  bunch  of  violets  full-blown,  and  double, 

Serenely  sleep : — she  from  a  casket  takes 

A  little  book, — and  then  a  joy  awakes 

About  each  youthful  heart, — with  stifled  cries, 

And  rubbing  of  white  hands,  and  sparkling  eyes; 

For  she's  to  read  a  tale  of  hopes,  and  fears; 

One  that  I  fosler'd  in  my  youthful  years : 

The  pearls,  that  on  each  glistening  circlet  sleep, 

Gush  ever  and  anon  with  silent  creep. 

Lured  by  the  innocent  dimples.     To  sweet  rest 

Shall  the  dear  babe,  upon  its  mother's  breast. 

Be  luU'd  with  songs  of  mine.     Fair  world,  adieu! 

Thy  dales  and  hills  arc  fading  from  my  view : 

Swiftly  I  mount,  upon  wide-spreading  pinions, 

Far  from  the  narrow  bounds  of  thy  dominions. 

Full  joy  I  feel,  while  thus  I  cleave  the  air, 

That  my  soft  verse  w'ill  charm  thy  daughters  fair, 

And  warm  thy  sons!"  Ah,  my  dear  friend  and  brother 

Could  I,  at  once,  my  mad  ambition  smother. 

For  lasting  joys  like  these,  sure  I  should  be 

Happier,  and  dearer  to  society. 

At  times,  'tis  true,  I've  felt  relief  from  pain 

Wlien  some  bright  thought  has  darted  through  my 

brain : 
Through  all  that  day  I've  felt  a  greater  pleasure 
Than  if  I  had  brought  to  light  a  hidden  treasure. 
As  to  my  sonnets,  though  none  else  should  heed  them 
I  feel  delighted,  still,  that  you  should  read  them. 
Of  late,  too,  I  have  had  much  calm  enjoyment, 
Stretch'd  on  the  grass  at  my  best-loved  employment 
Of  scribbling  lines  for  you.     These  things  I  thought 
While,  in  my  face,  the  freshest  breeze  I  caught 
E'en  now,  I  am  pillow'd  on  a  bed  of  flowers. 
That  crowns  a  loliy  cliff,  which  proudly  towers 
Above  the  ocean  waves.     The  stalks,  and  blades. 
Chequer  my  tablet  vvilh  their  quivering  shades. 
On  one  side  is  a  field  of  drooping  oats. 
Through  which  the  poppies  show  their  scarlet  coats, 
So  pert  and  useless,  that  they  bring  to  mind 
The  scarlet  coals  that  pester  human-kind. 
And  on  the  other  side,  outspread,  is  seen 
Ocean's  blue  mantle,  streak'd  with  purple  and  green  , 
Now  'tis  I  see  a  canvass'd  ship,  and  now 
Mark  the  bright  silver  curling  round  her  prow  ; 
I  see  the  lark  down-dropping  to  his  nest, 
And  the  broad-wing'd  sea-gull  never  at  rest; 
For  when  no  more  he  spreads  his  feathers  free. 
His  breast  is  dancing  on  the  restless  sea. 
78  605 


74 


KEATS'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Now  1  direct  my  eyes  into  the  West, 
Which  at  this  moment  is  in  sunbeams  drest : 
Why  westward  turn  ?  'T  was  but  to  say  adieu  ! 
'Twas  but  to  kiss  my  hand,  dear  George,  to  youl 
August,  1816. 


TO  CHARLES  COWDEN  CLARKE. 

Oft  have  you  seen  a  swan  superbly  frowning, 
And  with  proud  breast  his  own  white  shadow  crown- 
ing! 
He  slants  his  neck  beneath  the  waters  bright 
So  silently,  it  seems  a  beam  of  light 
Come  from  the  galaxy  :  anon  he  sports, — 
With  outspread  wings  the  Naiad  Zephyr  courts. 
Or  ruffles  all  the  surface  of  the  lake 
In  striving  from  its  crystal  face  to  take 
Some  diamond  water-drops,  and  them  to  treasure 
In  milky  nest,  and  sip  them  off  at  leisure. 
But  not  a  moment  can  he  there  insure  them. 
Nor  to  such  downy  rest  can  he  allure  them ; 
For  down  they  rush  as  though  they  would  be  free, 
And  drop  like  hours  into  eternity. 
Just  like  that  bird  am  I  in  loss  of  time. 
Whene'er  I  venture  on  the  stream  of  rhyme  ; 
With  shatter'd  boat,  oar  snapt,  and  canvas  rent, 
I  slowly  sail,  scarce  knowing  my  intent ; 
Still  scooping  up  the  water  with  my  fingers. 
In  which  a  trembling  diamond  never  lingers. 

By  this,  friend  Charles,  you  may  full  plainly  see 

Why  I  have  never  penn'd  a  line  to  thee : 

Because  ray  thoughts  were  never  free,  and  clear, 

And  little  fit  to  please  a  classic  ear ; 

Because  my  wine  was  of  too  poor  a  savor 

For  one  whose  palate  gladdens  in  the  flavor 

Of  sparkling  Helicon : — small  good  it  were 

To  take  liim  to  a  desert  rude  and  bare. 

Who  had  on  Baise's  shore  reclined  at  ease. 

While  Tasso's  page  was  floating  in  a  breeze 

That  gave  soft  music  from  Armida's  bowers, 

Mingled  with  fragrance  from  her  rarest  flowers : 

Small  good  to  one  who  had  by  MuUa's  stream 

Fondled  the  maidens  with  the  breasts  of  cream ; 

Who  had  beheld  Beiphoebe  in  a  brook. 

And  lovely  Una  in  a  leafy  nook, 

And  Archimago  leaning  o'er  his  book : 

Who  had  of  all  that's  sweet,  tasted,  and  seen, 

From  silv'ry  ripple,  up  to  beauty's  queen; 

From  the  sequesler'd  haunts  of  gay  Titania, 

To  the  blue  dwelling  of  divine  Urania : 

One,  who,  of  iale  had  la'en  sweet  forest  walks 

With  him  who  elegantly  chats  and  talks — 

The  wrong'd  Libertas — wlio  has  told  you  stories 

Of  laurel  chaplets,  and  Apollo's  glories; 

Of  troops  chivalrous  prancing  through  a  city, 

And  tearful  ladies,  made  for  love  and  pity: 

With  many  else  which  I  have  never  known. 

Thus  have  I  thought ;  and  days  on  days  have  flown 

Slowly,  or  rapidly — unwilling  still 

For  you  to  try  my  dull,  unlearned  quill. 

Nor  should  I  now,  but  that  I  've  known  you  long ; 

That  you  first  taught  me  all  the  sweets  of  song : 

The  grand,  the  sweet,  the  terse,  the  free,  the  fine : 

What  swell'd  with  pathos,  and  what  right  divine: 


Spenserian  vowels  that  elope  with  ease, 
And  float  along  like  birds  o'er  summer  seas : 
Mdtonian  storms,  and  more,  Miltonian  tenderness  : 
Michael  in  arms,  and  more,  meek  Eve's  fair  slender 

ness. 
Who  read  for  me  the  sonnet  swelling  loudly 
Up  to  its  climax,  and  then  dying  proudly  ? 
Who  found  for  me  the  grandeur  of  the  ode, 
Growing,  like  Atlas,  stronger  from  its  load  ? 
Who  let  me  taste  that  more  than  cordial  dram, 
The  sharp,  the  rapier-pointed  epigram  ? 
Show'd  me  that  epic  was  of  all  the  king. 
Round,  vast,  and  spanning  all,  like  Saturn's  ring? 
You  too  upheld  the  veil  from  Clio's  beauty. 
And  pointed  out  the  patriot's  stern  duty ; 
The  might  of  Alfred,  and  the  shaft  of  Tell; 
The  hand  of  Brutus,  that  so  grandly  fell 
Upon  a  tyranfs  head.     Ah!  had  I  never  seen, 
Or  known  your  kindness,  what  might  I  have  been? 
What  my  enjoyments  in  my  youthful  years, 
Bereft  of  all  that  now  my  life  endears  ? 
And  can  I  e'er  these  benefits  forget  ? 
And  can  I  e'er  repay  the  friendly  debt? 
No,  doubly  no  ; — yet  should  these  rhymings  please, 
I  shall  roll  on  the  grass  with  twofold  ease ; 
For  I  have  long  time  been  my  fancy  feeding 
With  hopes  that  you  would  one  day  think  the  reading 
Of  my  rough  verses  not  an  hour  misspent ; 
Should  it  e'er  be  so,  what  a  rich  content ! 
Some  weeks  have  pass'd  since  last  I  saw  the  spires 
In  lucent  Thames  reflected: — warm  desires 
To  see  the  sun  o'er-peep  the  eastern  dimness. 
And  morning-shadows  streaking  into  slimness 
Across  the  lawny  fields,  and  pebbly  water; 
To  mark  the  time  as  they  grow  broad  and  shorter ; 
To  feel  the  air  that  plays  about  the  hills. 
And  sips  its  freshness  fi-om  the  little  rills ; 
To  see  high,  golden  corn  wave  in  the  light 
When  Cynthia  smiles  upon  a  summer's  night, 
And  peers  among  the  cloudlets,  jet  and  white, 
As  though  she  were  reclining  in  a  bed 
Of  bean-blossoms,  in  heaven  freshly  shed. 
No  sooner  had  I  slept  into  these  pleasures. 
Than  I  began  to  think  of  rhymes  and  measures 
The  air  tliat  floated  by  me  seem'd  to  say 
"  Write  !  thou  will  never  have  a  belter  day." 
And  so  I  did.     When  many  lines  I'd  written. 
Though  wi;h  their  grace  I  was  not  over-smitten, 
Yet,  as  my  hand  was  warm,  I  thought  I  'd  better 
Trust  to  my  feelings,  and  write  you  a  letter. 
Such  an  atlempl  required  an  inspiration 
Of  a  peculiar  sort, — a  consummation  ; — 
Which,  had  I  felt,  these  scribblings  might  have  been 
Verses  from  which  the  soul  would  never  wean; 
But  many  days  have  past  since  last  my  heart 
Was  warm'd  luxuriously  by  divine  Mozart; 
By  Arne  delighted,  or  by  Handel  madden'd  ; 
Or  by  the  song  of  Erin  pierced  and  sadden'd : 
What  time  \-ou  were  before  the  music  sitting. 
And  the  rich  notes  to  each  sensation  fitting. 
Since  I  have  walk'd  with  you  through  shady  lanes 
That  freshly  terminate  in  open  plains, 
And  revell'd  in  a  chat  that  ceased  not, 
When,  at  night-fall,  among  your  books  we  got- 
No,  nor  when  supper  came,  nor  after  that, — 
Nor  when  reluctantly  I  took  my  hat ; 
606 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


75 


No,  nor  till  cordially  you  shook  my  hand 
Midway  between  our  homes; — your  accents  bland 
Still  sounded  in  my  ears,  when  I  no  more 
Could  hear  your  footsteps  touch  the  gravelly  floor. 
Sometimes  1  lost  them,  and  then  found  again ; 
You  changed  the  foot-path  for  tlie  grassy  plain. 
In  those  still  moments  I  have  wish'd  you  joys 
That  well  you  know  to  honor : — "  Life's  very  toys 
With  him,"  said  1,  "will  take  a  pleasant  charm; 
It  cannot  be  that  aught  will  work  him  harm." 
These    thoughts  now  come   o'er  me   with  all  their 

might : — 
4gain  I  shake  your  hand, — friend  Charles,  good-night. 
September,  1816. 


STANZAS. 


In  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  tree. 
Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 
Their  green  felicity : 
45  3R 


The  north  cannot  undo  them, 
With  a  sleety  whistle  tlir.ugh  them  ; 
Nor  frozen  thawiiigs  glue  them 
From  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  brook. 
Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 
Apollo's  summer  look  ; 
But  with  a  sweet  forgetting. 
They  slay  their  crystal  fretting, 
Never,  never  petting 
About  the  frozen  time. 

Ah  I  would  't  were  so  with  many 
A  gentle  girl  and  boy  ! 
But  were  there  ever  any 
Writhed  not  at  passed  joy  ? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it. 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it. 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it, 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 

607 


THE  END. 


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